of London is felt all the way to Hampton, linked up as it now is by trams with the metropolis. Putney and Hammersmith are part of London; Chiswick and Brentford run on continuously, and are only excluded by an arbitrary line. Kew and Richmond and Hampton are the favourite playgrounds of the Londoner, and may be reckoned as much among the “sights” as the Tower or the Zoo.

The river between Putney and Barnes is associated with the greatest event of the boating year, the University Boat Race. It is the day of the year to many a quiet country clergyman, who comes up from his rural parish for the great event, even if it takes place at some impossible hour in the early morning. The hour varies according to the tide, for the race is rowed at its height, and, in spite of inconvenience or discomfort, there is always a company of enthusiasts to line the banks. On a really favourable day, when the chances are even, the route about Mortlake is alive with people on both sides of the river. Every vantage point is occupied, and trains arriving slowly on the railway bridge deposit their freights and withdraw every few minutes. Carts are drawn up on the roadway, and filled with people, happy to get a seat at a reasonable price, while the meadows on the northern shore afford room for hundreds.

The launch of the Thames conservators comes to clear the course, hustling aside the small steamers and boats. A murmur begins and grows in intensity until the rival boats are seen rounding the corner from Hammersmith. There is a moment of intense anxiety until the rival crews are distinguished, and then a roar goes up from impulsive partisans. Close behind the boats comes the umpire’s launch, and half a dozen others, including press boats. The crew which gets first under Barnes railway bridge is generally considered to have the race in hand, but if the two boats are close this is by no means sure. The crowd prefers the slice of river between Hammersmith and Barnes Bridge, because from first to last so much can be seen of the race, but the curve hides the winning-post. Some few moments after the disappearance of the boats a rumour as to the winner comes swiftly back; but it is not till the umpire’s launch returns, and glides smoothly down the course with the flag of the victors streaming out gallantly, that the result is known with certainty.

The next zone, including Sunbury, Walton, Weybridge, right on to Windsor, is a quiet one. It has its own charm, but lacks any exceptional features of striking interest. Placid green meadows, feathery willows, peaceful cows, and sunny little unpretentious houses are the chief components of almost every view. Weybridge is perhaps the prettiest place, because of the many turnings and windings of the river near it, but Penton Hook, Laleham, Shepperton, and Walton can all claim a quiet prettiness of their own.

Windsor stands by itself, and the influence of Eton is paramount. Then from Bray right on to Marlow we get what must be by far the most popular bit of the whole river.

Bray itself is particularly pleasant, and is associated for all time with the worthy vicar, who was content to turn his coat at the bidding of the party in power sooner than lose his beloved parish. The original vicar lived in the reigns of Henry VIII and his immediate successor, and his mental somersaults were from the Catholic to Reformed Church, and back once more; but the ballad makes him live in the days of Charles II, James II, William, Anne, and George I, a period of over fifty years. As it is rather difficult to get hold of, we may quote part of it here. It runs through all the variations from—

In good King Charles’s golden days,
When loyalty no harm meant,
A zealous High Churchman was I,
And so I got preferment.
To teach my flock I never missed,
Kings were by God appointed,
And damn’d are those that do resist
Or touch the Lord’s anointed.

When royal James obtained the crown
And Popery came in fashion,
The Penal laws I hooted down
And read the Declaration.
The Church of Rome I found would fit
Full well my constitution,
And had become a Jesuit
But for the Revolution.
·····
When George in pudding-time came o’er,
And moderate men looked big, sir,
I turned a cat-in-a-pan once more
And so became a whig, sir.
And thus preferment I secured
From our new faith’s defender,
And almost every day abjured
The Pope and the Pretender.
·····
For this is law I will maintain
Until my dying day, sir.
Whatever king in England reign
I’ll still be Vicar of Bray, sir.

Maidenhead bridges, rail and road, span the river above Bray. Maidenhead is easily accessible by the Great Western Railway main line, and, with Taplow, which comes down to the river on the opposite bank, counts its devotees in thousands. Taplow village is a little distance away, but Skindle’s Hotel on that side counts largely in itself as representing Taplow. Not even the sacred Ganges itself could show a crowd more ardent or more gaily clad than this stretch of the river on a fine summer day. The rich ochres and purples of the East are outshone by the soft brilliancy of blues and pinks, the rose-reds and yellows of the gayer sex both in their garments and sunshades. And if the great day, the Sunday after Ascot, be in any way tolerable, Boulter’s Lock, all the more sought apparently because of its congestion, is a sight indeed. People come in crowds to stand on the banks and view it as a show.

But all the year round, even in winter, a few visitors may be found in the reach above Boulter’s, under the magnificent amphitheatre-like sweeps of the Cliveden woods. The cliff itself rises to a height of 140 feet and is clothed to the very summit. Oak, beech, ash, and chestnut show up against clumps of dark evergreen. The bosky masses are broken here and there by a Lombardy poplar pointing upward, and the whole is wreathed and swathed in shawls of the wild clematis, the woodbine of the older poets, otherwise traveller’s joy. Beyond the Cliveden reach is Cookham, beloved of many, with its pretty little church tower peeping over the trees, and opposite is Bourne End, near which is a wide, open reach used as a course for sailing boats. The only woods that can rival those of Cliveden are the Quarry Woods, opposite Great Marlow, and they lose in effect from not coming right down to the water but sweeping away inland. The Quarry Woods are largely beech and evergreen, and in the autumn the stems, owing to the damp atmosphere, are covered with a vivid green lichen, the thick leaves, turning the burnt red colour peculiar to beeches, not only shine overhead, but make a rich carpet for the ground. Then the woods might well be the enchanted woods of a child’s fairy tale, so glorious is their aspect. Between Marlow and Henley, as we have seen, most of the ancient historical associations cluster; within that short space are Bisham, Lady Place, Medmenham, and Greenlands, and the reach of the river is quite pretty enough to tempt people without the added glamour.

COOKHAM CHURCH

Medmenham Abbey is now a carefully composed