Close your eyes and conjure up a vision of the river Thames; what is the picture that you see? If you are a prosaic and commercial person, whose business lies by the river side, the vision will be one of wharves and docks, of busy cranes loading and unloading; a row of bonded warehouses rising from the water's edge; lighters filled with tea lying in their shadow, tarpaulined and padlocked; ships of all sizes and shapes, worn by water and weather. And up and down, in and out, among it all you see river police on their launch, inquisitive and determined, watching everything, hearing everything, and turning up when least expected. The glories of the high Tower Bridge, and the smoky gold of the setting sun will not affect you, for your thoughts are fixed on prosaic detail. As for green fields and quiet backwaters, such things do not enter into the vision at all.

Yet for one who sees the Thames thus prosaically, a hundred see it in a gayer aspect. To many a man it is always summer there, for the river knows him not when the chill grey days draw in. He sees gay houseboats in new coats of paint, decorated with scarlet geraniums and other gaudy plants. He associates the river with "a jolly good time" with a carefully chosen house-party, with amateur tea-making and an absence of care. Nowhere else is one so free to "laze" without the rebuke even of one's own occasionally too zealous conscience.

To another the Thames simply means the Boat Race, nothing more and nothing less. Year by year he journeys up to London from his tiny vicarage in the heart of the country for that event. If the high tide necessitates it, he stands shivering on the brink in the chill whiteness of early morning. He sits on the edge of a hard wooden cart for an immense time, and, by way of keeping up his strength, eats an indigestible penny bun, a thing that it would never enter his head to do at any other time. He sees here and there one or the other of those school-fellows or university chums who have dropped out of his life for all the rest of the year. Then, after a moment's shouting, a moment's tense anxiety or bitter disappointment, according to the position of the boats, the flutter of a flag, and a thrill of something of the old enthusiasm that the unsparing poverty of his life has slowly ground out of him, he retires to his vicarage again for another year, elated or depressed according to the result of the race.

To others Henley is the embodiment of all that is joyous; the one week in the year that is worth counting. But to others, and these a vast majority of those who know the river at all, the Thames means fresh and life-giving air after a week spent within four walls. It means congenial exercise and light, and the refreshment that beauty gives, even if but half realised. It means a quiet dream with a favourite pipe in a deep backwater so overhung with trees that it resembles a green tunnel. The gentle drone of the bees sounds from the banks, there is a flash of blue sheen as a kingfisher darts by; a gentle dip and slight crackling tell of another favoured individual making his way cautiously along to the same sheltered alley; the radiant sunlight falls white upon the water through the leaves and sends shimmering reflections of dancing ripples on the sides of the punt. Such a position is as near Paradise as it is given to mortal to attain.

These are only a few of an inexhaustible variety of aspects of this glorious river, and each reader is welcome to add his own favourite to the list.

For the purposes of this book we are dealing with the Thames between Oxford and London, though as a matter of fact, tradition has it that the Thames proper does not begin until below Oxford, where it is formed by the junction of the Thame and the Isis. Tamese (Thames) means "smooth spreading water." Tam is the same root as occurs in Tamar, etc., and the "es" is the perpetually recurring word for water, e.g., Ouse, ooze, usquebagh. Isis is probably a back formation, from Tamesis. In Drayton's Polyolbion, we have the pretty allegory of the wedding of Thame and Isis, from which union is born the sturdy Thames.

In Spenser's FaËrie Queene the notion is carried one step further, and Thames, the son of Thame and Isis, is to wed with Medway, a far-fetched conceit, for the rivers do not run into each other in any part of their course.

It is strange that a river such as the Thames, which, though by no means great as regards size, has played an important part in the life of the nation, should not have inspired more writers. There is no striking poem on the Thames. The older poets, Denham, Drayton, Spenser, Cowley, Milton, and Pope, all refer to the river more or less frequently, but they have not taken it as a main theme. It is even more neglected by later poets. There are poems to special parts or scenes, such as Gray's well-known "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College"; the river colours one or two of Matthew Arnold's poems; but the great poem, which shall take it as a sole theme, is yet to come. Neither is there a good book on this river, though it is among rivers what London is among the cities of men. Yet the material is abundant, and associations are scattered thickly along the banks. No fewer than seven royal palaces have stood by the river. And of these one is still the principal home of our sovereign. Of the others, Hampton Court, chiefly reminiscent of William III., is standing. The neighbouring palace of Richmond remains but in a fragment. At London, Westminster, the home of our early and mediÆval kings, has vanished, except for the great hall and a crypt. Whitehall—the old palace—is wholly gone, though one part of the new palace projected by James I. remains. As for the old palace of Greenwich, so full of memories of the Tudors, that has been replaced by a later structure. I hesitate to name Kew in this list, so entirely unworthy is it of the name of palace, yet, as the residence of a king it should, perhaps, find a place.

From the annals of these palaces English history could be completely reconstructed from the time of Edward the Confessor to the present day.

But it is not in historical memories alone that the Thames is so rich. Poets, authors, politicians, and artists have crowded thickly on its banks from generation to generation. The lower reaches are haunted by the names of Hogarth, Cowley, Thomson; further up we come to the homes of Walpole, Pope, and Fielding. At Laleham lived Matthew Arnold. Not far from Magna Charta Island is Horton, where Milton lived. Though his home was not actually on the river, Milton must have often strolled along the banks of the Thames, and many of his poems show the impress of associations gathered from such scenery as is to be found about Ankerwyke and Runneymead:

From the records of Eton alone many a book might be compiled of the lives of men in the public eye, whose impressions were formed there by the Thames side. Indeed, had the river no other claim to notice than its connection with Eton and Oxford, through which more men who have controlled the destiny of their country and made empire have passed, than through any similar foundations in England, this alone would be cause enough to make it a worthy subject for any book.

Beside palaces and the homes of great men, castles and religious houses once stood thickly along the banks of the river. The notable monasteries of Reading, Dorchester, Chertsey, and Abingdon, etc., were widely celebrated as seats of learning in their day, and the castles of Reading, Wallingford, and Oxford were no less well known.

It is a curious law in rivers that, as a whole, the windings usually cover double the length of the direct axis, and the Thames is no exception to the rule. It sweeps in and out with a fair amount of regularity, the great bend to the south at Thames Ditton and Weybridge being reversed higher up in the great bend to the north at Bourne End and Hambleden. Naturally the sides of these indentations run north and south instead of in the usual course of east and west. From Wargrave to Henley the current is almost due north, and likewise from Surbiton to Brentford. A more apparent curve, because much smaller in radius, is that at Abingdon; here the course by the stream is about nine miles, in contrast to the two overland. The Great Western Railway is the chief river railway, but as it runs a comparatively straight course between London and Didcot, some places on the great curves are considerably off the main line, and are served by branches. After Reading it keeps very close to the river as far as Moulsford, and is not distant from it the rest of the way to Oxford, as it turns almost direct north from Didcot Junction. The Great Western Railway is ably supplemented by the London and South Western Railway, from which the lesser stations on the south of the river near to London can be reached, also the districts of Twickenham, Hampton, etc., included in the chapter called "The Londoners' Zone." Further up, Weybridge, Chertsey, Egham, and Windsor can also be reached by this railway, which cuts a curve and touches the river again at Reading.

There are many zones on the river, and each has its devotees. It is curious to notice how one crowd differs from another crowd on its "people-pestered shores." It is difficult to draw hard and fast lines, but taking the boundaries of the London County Council as the end of London, we can count above it many zones, rich in beauty, divided from each other by stretches of dulness; for, beautiful as the river is, it must be admitted parts of it are dull, though, like the patches on a fair skin, these serve but to emphasise the characteristics of the remainder. A rather dreary bit succeeds Hammersmith, though this is not without its own attractiveness, and the first real zone that we can touch upon is that from Richmond to Hampton, which runs Maidenhead hard for first place in popularity; but the Richmond and Hampton river people are largely recruited from the inhabitants, while those at Maidenhead are mostly visitors. Passing over the waterworks and embankments above Hampton, we begin another zone, much less known because less accessible, but in its own way more attractive than that of Richmond. It is pure country, with green fields, willow trees, cows grazing on the banks, many curves and doublings in the channel of the main stream, and ever varying vistas, and this continues to beyond Weybridge. About Chertsey the scenery is flat, but Laleham and Penton Hook are two places that annually delight hundreds of persons.

Between Staines and Windsor there is a fairly attractive stretch, with the park and woods of Ankerwyke on one side, and the meadows on the other. High on the south rises Cooper's Hill, and beyond Albert Bridge we see the smoothly kept turf of the Home Park.

Windsor and Eton, of course, will require a chapter to themselves. In this general description it is sufficient to say that the influence of Eton is apparent all the way to Bray. Then we start a new zone, the most popular one on the river, that from Maidenhead to Bourne End. Of the delights of this beautiful and varied section it is unnecessary here to speak. But the Maidenhead reach is spoilt for fastidious people by its too great popularity. To those who love the river for itself, the endless passing and repassing, the impossibility of finding quiet, undisturbed corners, the noise and merrymaking, even the sight of too many fellow creatures, is a burden. From this the part above Marlow is protected by being less accessible. It is too far to be reached easily from Maidenhead, and those who come by train have an awkward change at a junction; therefore the crowd finds it not. Yet the beauties are no less admirable than those of the adored Maidenhead.

At Hambleden the influence of Henley begins to be felt, and above Henley we enter on another zone. Nowhere else on the river are to be found so many fascinating spots lying in the stream; certainly, no other part offers so many tempting backwaters. This is the zone for those who love the country pure and simple, and who can put up cheerfully with the inconveniences attendant on the procuring of supplies, for the sake of the quiet, marshy meadows.

The reach includes Sonning with its two bridges, its islands, and its rose-garden; but beyond Sonning dulness is apparent once more, and with the neighbourhood of the great and smoky town of Reading, charm withers. It is not until Mapledurham that the prettiness of the river becomes again apparent, and Mapledurham is rather an oasis, for in the reach beyond it, though the great rounded chalk hills grow opal in the sunlight, and the larks sing heavenwards, the attractiveness cannot be called beauty. From Pangbourne and Whitchurch to Goring and Streatley, the river lies beneath the chalk heights, which seem to dip underground, reappearing on the other side by Streatley; and the whole of the stretch, with its rich and varied woods, its delightful islands and weirs, its pretty cottages and churches, is full of charm.

Beyond Cleeve Lock, with the single exception of Mongewell, there is again dulness, though for boating pure and simple the reach is very good. Wallingford has a trim prettiness of its own, with its clean-cut stone bridge and its drooping willow. Park-like grounds and pleasant trees succeed, Sinodun Hill looms up ahead, and one may penetrate up the Thame to Dorchester, where the willows nearly meet overhead. Day's Lock still belongs to the clean prettiness of the Wallingford stretch, which, in fact, continues all the way to Culham, notwithstanding that we pass the much admired Clifton Hampden, where the church stands high on the cliff. Culham itself is dull, but with the pretty backwater of Sutton Courtney we begin a new kind of scenery. Abingdon has something of its richness and profusion, and Nuneham Courtney woods, though not rising so abruptly as those at Clieveden, are glorious. After this we begin the famous meadows that continue more or less all the way to Oxford, and have a fascination of their own.

The best way to see the river as a whole, for those who can spare the time, is to go on Salter's steamers, which run daily, Sundays excepted, during the summer. The fare one way is 14s., exclusive of food, and the night spent en route. The trip takes two days, the steamer leaving Kingston at 9 in the morning, and reaching Henley at 7.15 in the evening. The reverse way, it leaves Oxford at 9.30, and reaches Henley, which is about half-way, at 7 in the evening.

In this rough sketch it has been shown that there is no lack of choice for those who seek their pleasure on the river, and the opportunity meets with full response. Seen in sunshine on a summer morning, especially if it be the end of the week, the river is brilliant. The dainty coloured muslins and laces, the Japanese parasols, the painted boats, the large shady hats, the sparkle where the oars meet the water, and the white sails of the sailing boats bellying in the wind, are only a few items in a sparkling picture. Fragile, yellow-white butterflies and the richer coloured red admirals hover about the banks; purple loose-strife, meadow-sweet, and snapdragon grow on the banks with many a tall gaudily coloured weed. Here and there great cedars rise among the lighter foliage, showing black against a turquoise sky; while on the water, where the wind has ruffled it, there is the "many twinkling smile" ascribed by Æschylus to the ocean. But, to those who know the Thames, this smiling aspect is not the only lovable one: they know it also after rain, when the water comes thundering over the weirs in translucent hoops of vivid green, and the boiling foam below dances like whipped cream. To walk along the sedgy banks is to leave a trail of "squish-squash" with every step. All the yellow and brown flat-leaved green things that grow thickly near the edges are barely able to keep their heads above the stream, and the long reeds bend with the current like curved swords. Every little tributary gushes gurgling to join in the mad race, and the sounds that tell of water are in our ears like the instruments in an orchestra. There are the rush, the dip, and the tinkle, as well as the deep-throated roar. Watching and listening, we feel a strange sympathy with the new life brought by the increased current; we feel as if it were flooding through our own veins, and as if we, like the squirming, wriggling things that live in the slime below the flood-curtain, were waking up anew after a long torpor.

Even in late autumn, when the slow, white mist rises from the marshy ground, and most of the birds are gone; when the eddies are full of dead leaves floating away from the wood where all their sheltered lives have been spent; when the sparkle and the gaiety and the light-heartedness are gone, and the water looks indigo and dun, with patches of quicksilver floating on it; when the great webs of the spiders that haunt the banks hang like filmy curtains of lace heavy with the moisture of the air, and the sun sinks wanly behind a bank of cloud—even then the river may be loved.

Assuredly, those who go on the river for the day only, and know it but under one aspect—that of lazy heat—lose much. In the evening time, as one steps from the long French window into the scented dusk, soft white moths flap suddenly across the strip of light, and one's feet fall silently on the velvet turf, cool with the freshness that ever is on a river margin. Down by the edge the black water hurries swiftly past with a continuous soothing gurgle. A sleepy bird moves in a startled way in a bush, and all the small things that awake in the night are stirring. One can reach down and touch the onyx water slipping between one's fingers like dream jewels; and far overhead in the rent and torn caverns of the clouds, the stars, bigger and brighter than ever they look in London, sail swiftly and silently from shelter to shelter. The plaintive cry of an owl sounds softly from the meadow across the water, and there is an indescribable sense of motion and poetry, and a thrill of expectation that would be wholly lacking in a landscape ever so beautiful, without the river.

Then there are the grey days, when sudden sheens of silver drop upon the ruffled water as it eddies round a corner, and in a moment the surface is peopled with dancing fairies, spangled and brilliant, flitting in and out in bewildering movement. Or the same cold, silver light catches the side of a ploughed field, a moment before brown, but now shot with green as all the long delicate blades are revealed. These, and a thousand other delights, cannot be known to the visitor of a day only. Under all its aspects, in all its vagaries, the river may be loved; and in the swift gliding motion there is an irresistible fascination. It gives meaning to idleness, and fills up vacancy. By the banks of the river one never can be dull.

The river is one of the greatest of our national possessions. Other rivers there are in England where one may boat on a small part, where here and there are beauty spots; but the Thames alone gives miles of bewildering choice, and can take hundreds and hundreds at once upon its flood. Now embanked and weired and locked, its waters are ideal for boating, and its fishing, with little exception, is free to all.

Shooting on the banks of the Thames is forbidden, and the birds have quickly learned to know their sanctuary. Lie still for a while in the lee of an osier-covered ait, or beneath the shelter of an overhanging willow, and that cheeky little reed-bunting will hop about so near, that, were you endowed by nature with the quickness of movement granted to a cat, you could seize it in one hand. White-throats, robins, thrushes, blackbirds, all haunt the stream, and reed warblers and sedge warblers have their haunts by the banks. The kingfisher is rapidly increasing, and makes his home quite close to the locks and weirs; the russet brown of his breast, as he sits motionless on a twig waiting his time for a dart, may now be seen by a noiseless and sharp-eyed watcher. The soft coo of the wood pigeons sounds from tall trees, and the cawing of the rooks, softened by distance into a melodious conversation, is wafted from many a rookery. The chatter of an impudent magpie may worry you, or the hoarse squawk of a jay break your rest, but they are only the discords that the great musician, Nature, knows how to introduce into her river symphony.

Hotels on the river have, in the last few years, awakened to the cry of the middle classes for air and light, and yet more air. Some of the hotels are pretty with verandahs and creeper covered walls, but others are old-fashioned—with low rooms. Yet every proprietor who can by hook or crook manage it, now runs a lawn of exquisite turf down to the water's edge, decorates it with flowers far more vivid than can be seen elsewhere, and knocks up a bungalow-like building, terribly desolate in the winter when the green mould creeps insidiously over the wooden posts, and the sail-cloth rots in the damp; but airy and commodious in the summer, when relays of fifty people or more may be seated at a time, and yet there is no satiating smell of cooked food. The boat owners have also seen fit to accommodate their convenience to the demand, and at any large builder's landing-stage, boats may now be hired to be left almost anywhere on the river, to be fetched back by the owner.

Pessimists say that the river is losing its charm, that the advent of motor cars, stirring in people a hitherto dormant love of speed, makes the slow progress of punting a weariness instead of a relaxation. But this is not greatly to be feared. The charm of a motor is one thing, the charm of the river another; and we cannot spare either. Crowds may slightly diminish, but this is no loss, rather a gain to the real river lover.

Thames gardens are peculiar. By the nature of the case they must be far more public than ordinary gardens, for the owner's reason for buying the house was that he wanted to sit on his own green turf and see the river flow endlessly past. Therefore, though he may hedge around the three land sides with high walls and impenetrable thorns, he leaves the fourth side open so that all the world may look. No one has yet been clever enough to invent a screen that shall be transparent on one side and opaque on the other, and until they do, the owners of these beautiful river lawns must sit in the full light that beats upon the river banks, and allow every passing stranger who has raked up a shilling to hire a boat, to enjoy the beauties of a garden he has not paid for. Thames lawns are celebrated, and rightly so. Not even the turf of college quads, grown for hundreds of years, can beat their turf. Thick, smooth, closely woven they are, and above all, of a pure rich green that is a delight to see, and, by way of enhancing this marvellous green, the colour which is most often to be seen with it is its complementary colour, red. Whether the effect is obtained merely by contrast I do not know, but certainly it seems as if nowhere else could be found geraniums of so rich a vermilion, roses of so glorious a crimson. In many of these river gardens, too, especially where a little stream trickles down, a light trellis arch is thrown up and covered with Rambler roses, old rose in colour, and only second to the vermilion as a complement to the green lawn.

Two of these gloriously green lawns I have particularly in mind, one at Shepperton, and one near Thames Ditton, but where they are to be seen so frequently it is invidious to particularise.

These are the private gardens of a grand sort, and no whit less beautiful, though without the same expanse of lawn, are the gardens of the lock-keepers, in which the owners take a particular pride.

Soon will the musk carnations break and swell,

Soon shall we have gold-dusted snapdragon,

Sweet-william with his homely cottage smell,

And stocks in fragrant blow;

Roses, that down the alleys shine afar,

And open, jasmine-muffled lattices.