CHAPTER XIII.
Marlow.--Bisham Abbey.--The Medmenham Monks.--Montmorency thinks he willmurder an old Tom cat.--But eventually decides that he will let itlive.--Shameful conduct of a fox terrier at the Civil ServiceStores.--Our departure from Marlow.--An imposing procession.--The steamlaunch, useful receipts for annoying and hindering it.--We decline todrink the river.--A peaceful dog.--Strange disappearance of Harris and apie.
Marlow is one of the pleasantest river centres I know of. It is abustling, lively little town; not very picturesque on the whole, it istrue, but there are many quaint nooks and corners to be found in it,nevertheless--standing arches in the shattered bridge of Time, over whichour fancy travels back to the days when Marlow Manor owned Saxon Algarfor its lord, ere conquering William seized it to give to Queen Matilda,ere it passed to the Earls of Warwick or to worldly-wise Lord Paget, thecouncillor of four successive sovereigns.
There is lovely country round about it, too, if, after boating, you arefond of a walk, while the river itself is at its best here. Down toCookham, past the Quarry Woods and the meadows, is a lovely reach. Dearold Quarry Woods! with your narrow, climbing paths, and little windingglades, how scented to this hour you seem with memories of sunny summerdays! How haunted are your shadowy vistas with the ghosts of laughingfaces! how from your whispering leaves there softly fall the voices oflong ago!
[Picture: Bisham Abbey] From Marlow up to Sonning is even fairer yet.Grand old Bisham Abbey, whose stone walls have rung to the shouts of theKnights Templars, and which, at one time, was the home of Anne of Clevesand at another of Queen Elizabeth, is passed on the right bank just halfa mile above Marlow Bridge. Bisham Abbey is rich in melodramaticproperties. It contains a tapestry bed-chamber, and a secret room hidhigh up in the thick walls. The ghost of the Lady Holy, who beat herlittle boy to death, still walks there at night, trying to wash itsghostly hands clean in a ghostly basin.
Warwick, the king-maker, rests there, careless now about such trivialthings as earthly kings and earthly kingdoms; and Salisbury, who did goodservice at Poitiers. Just before you come to the abbey, and right on theriver's bank, is Bisham Church, and, perhaps, if any tombs are worthinspecting, they are the tombs and monuments in Bisham Church. It waswhile floating in his boat under the Bisham beeches that Shelley, who wasthen living at Marlow (you can see his house now, in West street),composed _The Revolt of Islam_.
By Hurley Weir, a little higher up, I have often thought that I couldstay a month without having sufficient time to drink in all the beauty ofthe scene. The village of Hurley, five minutes' walk from the lock, isas old a little spot as there is on the river, dating, as it does, toquote the quaint phraseology of those dim days, "from the times of KingSebert and King Offa." Just past the weir (going up) is Danes' Field,where the invading Danes once encamped, during their march toGloucestershire; and a little further still, nestling by a sweet cornerof the stream, is what is left of Medmenham Abbey.
The famous Medmenham monks, or "Hell Fire Club," as they were commonlycalled, and of whom the notorious Wilkes was a member, were a fraternitywhose motto was "Do as you please," and that invitation still stands overthe ruined doorway of the abbey. Many years before this bogus abbey,with its congregation of irreverent jesters, was founded, there stoodupon this same spot a monastery of a sterner kind, whose monks were of asomewhat different type to the revellers that were to follow them, fivehundred years afterwards.
The Cistercian monks, whose abbey stood there in the thirteenth century,wore no clothes but rough tunics and cowls, and ate no flesh, nor fish,nor eggs. They lay upon straw, and they rose at midnight to mass. Theyspent the day in labour, reading, and prayer; and over all their livesthere fell a silence as of death, for no one spoke.
A grim fraternity, passing grim lives in that sweet spot, that God hadmade so bright! Strange that Nature's voices all around them--the softsinging of the waters, the whisperings of the river grass, the music ofthe rushing wind--should not have taught them a truer meaning of lifethan this. They listened there, through the long days, in silence,waiting for a voice from heaven; and all day long and through the solemnnight it spoke to them in myriad tones, and they heard it not.
From Medmenham to sweet Hambledon Lock the river is full of peacefulbeauty, but, after it passes Greenlands, the rather uninteresting lookingriver residence of my newsagent--a quiet unassuming old gentleman, whomay often be met with about these regions, during the summer months,sculling himself along in easy vigorous style, or chatting genially tosome old lock-keeper, as he passes through--until well the other side ofHenley, it is somewhat bare and dull.
We got up tolerably early on the Monday morning at Marlow, and went for abathe before breakfast; and, coming back, Montmorency made an awful assof himself. The only subject on which Montmorency and I have any seriousdifference of opinion is cats. I like cats; Montmorency does not.
[Picture: Cat] When I meet a cat, I say, "Poor Pussy!" and stop down andtickle the side of its head; and the cat sticks up its tail in a rigid,cast-iron manner, arches its back, and wipes its nose up against mytrousers; and all is gentleness and peace. When Montmorency meets a cat,the whole street knows about it; and there is enough bad language wastedin ten seconds to last an ordinarily respectable man all his life, withcare.
I do not blame the dog (contenting myself, as a rule, with merelyclouting his head or throwing stones at him), because I take it that itis his nature. Fox-terriers are born with about four times as muchoriginal sin in them as other dogs are, and it will take years and yearsof patient effort on the part of us Christians to bring about anyappreciable reformation in the rowdiness of the fox-terrier nature.
I remember being in the lobby of the Haymarket Stores one day, and allround about me were dogs, waiting for the return of their owners, whowere shopping inside. There were a mastiff, and one or two collies, anda St. Bernard, a few retrievers and Newfoundlands, a boar-hound, a Frenchpoodle, with plenty of hair round its head, but mangy about the middle; abull-dog, a few Lowther Arcade sort of animals, about the size of rats,and a couple of Yorkshire tykes.
There they sat, patient, good, and thoughtful. A solemn peacefulnessseemed to reign in that lobby. An air of calmness and resignation--ofgentle sadness pervaded the room.
Then a sweet young lady entered, leading a meek-looking littlefox-terrier, and left him, chained up there, between the bull-dog and thepoodle. He sat and looked about him for a minute. Then he cast up hiseyes to the ceiling, and seemed, judging from his expression, to bethinking of his mother. Then he yawned. Then he looked round at theother dogs, all silent, grave, and dignified.
He looked at the bull-dog, sleeping dreamlessly on his right. He lookedat the poodle, erect and haughty, on his left. Then, without a word ofwarning, without the shadow of a provocation, he bit that poodle's nearfore-leg, and a yelp of agony rang through the quiet shades of thatlobby.
The result of his first experiment seemed highly satisfactory to him, andhe determined to go on and make things lively all round. He sprang overthe poodle and vigorously attacked a collie, and the collie woke up, andimmediately commenced a fierce and noisy contest with the poodle. ThenFoxey came back to his own place, and caught the bull-dog by the ear, andtried to throw him away; and the bull-dog, a curiously impartial animal,went for everything he could reach, including the hall-porter, which gavethat dear little terrier the opportunity to enjoy an uninterrupted fightof his own with an equally willing Yorkshire tyke.
Anyone who knows canine nature need hardly, be told that, by this time,all the other dogs in the place were fighting as if their hearths andhomes depended on the fray. The big dogs fought each otherindiscriminately; and the little dogs fought among themselves, and filledup their spare time by biting the legs of the big dogs.
The whole lobby was a perfect pandemonium, and the din was terrific. Acrowd assembled outside in the Haymarket, and asked if it was a vestrymeeting; or, if not, who was being murdered, and why? Men came withpoles an
d ropes, and tried to separate the dogs, and the police were sentfor.
And in the midst of the riot that sweet young lady returned, and snatchedup that sweet little dog of hers (he had laid the tyke up for a month,and had on the expression, now, of a new-born lamb) into her arms, andkissed him, and asked him if he was killed, and what those great nastybrutes of dogs had been doing to him; and he nestled up against her, andgazed up into her face with a look that seemed to say: "Oh, I'm so gladyou've come to take me away from this disgraceful scene!"
She said that the people at the Stores had no right to allow great savagethings like those other dogs to be put with respectable people's dogs,and that she had a great mind to summon somebody.
Such is the nature of fox-terriers; and, therefore, I do not blameMontmorency for his tendency to row with cats; but he wished he had notgiven way to it that morning.
We were, as I have said, returning from a dip, and half-way up the HighStreet a cat darted out from one of the houses in front of us, and beganto trot across the road. Montmorency gave a cry of joy--the cry of astern warrior who sees his enemy given over to his hands--the sort of cryCromwell might have uttered when the Scots came down the hill--and flewafter his prey.
His victim was a large black Tom. I never saw a larger cat, nor a moredisreputable-looking cat. It had lost half its tail, one of its ears,and a fairly appreciable proportion of its nose. It was a long,sinewy-looking animal. It had a calm, contented air about it.
Montmorency went for that poor cat at the rate of twenty miles an hour;but the cat did not hurry up--did not seem to have grasped the idea thatits life was in danger. It trotted quietly on until its would-beassassin was within a yard of it, and then it turned round and sat downin the middle of the road, and looked at Montmorency with a gentle,inquiring expression, that said:
"Yes! You want me?"
Montmorency does not lack pluck; but there was something about the lookof that cat that might have chilled the heart of the boldest dog. Hestopped abruptly, and looked back at Tom.
Neither spoke; but the conversation that one could imagine was clearly asfollows:--
THE CAT: "Can I do anything for you?"
MONTMORENCY: "No--no, thanks."
THE CAT: "Don't you mind speaking, if you really want anything, youknow."
MONTMORENCY (_backing down the High Street_): "Oh, no--not atall--certainly--don't you trouble. I--I am afraid I've made a mistake.I thought I knew you. Sorry I disturbed you."
THE CAT: "Not at all--quite a pleasure. Sure you don't want anything,now?"
MONTMORENCY (_still backing_): "Not at all, thanks--not at all--very kindof you. Good morning."
THE CAT: "Good-morning."
Then the cat rose, and continued his trot; and Montmorency, fitting whathe calls his tail carefully into its groove, came back to us, and took upan unimportant position in the rear.
To this day, if you say the word "Cats!" to Montmorency, he will visiblyshrink and look up piteously at you, as if to say:
"Please don't."
We did our marketing after breakfast, and revictualled the boat for threedays. George said we ought to take vegetables--that it was unhealthy notto eat vegetables. He said they were easy enough to cook, and that hewould see to that; so we got ten pounds of potatoes, a bushel of peas,and a few cabbages. We got a beefsteak pie, a couple of gooseberrytarts, and a leg of mutton from the hotel; and fruit, and cakes, andbread and butter, and jam, and bacon and eggs, and other things weforaged round about the town for.
Our departure from Marlow I regard as one of our greatest successes. Itwas dignified and impressive, without being ostentatious. We hadinsisted at all the shops we had been to that the things should be sentwith us then and there. None of your "Yes, sir, I will send them off atonce: the boy will be down there before you are, sir!" and then foolingabout on the landing-stage, and going back to the shop twice to have arow about them, for us. We waited while the basket was packed, and tookthe boy with us.
We went to a good many shops, adopting this principle at each one; andthe consequence was that, by the time we had finished, we had as fine acollection of boys with baskets following us around as heart coulddesire; and our final march down the middle of the High Street, to theriver, must have been as imposing a spectacle as Marlow had seen for manya long day.
The order of the procession was as follows:--
Montmorency, carrying a stick. Two disreputable-looking curs, friends of Montmorency's. George, carrying coats and rugs, and smoking a short pipe. Harris, trying to walk with easy grace, while carrying a bulged-out Gladstone bag in one hand and a bottle of lime-juice in the other. Greengrocer's boy and baker's boy, with baskets. Boots from the hotel, carrying hamper. Confectioner's boy, with basket. Grocer's boy, with basket. Long-haired dog. Cheesemonger's boy, with basket. Odd man carrying a bag. Bosom companion of odd man, with his hands in his pockets, smoking a short clay. Fruiterer's boy, with basket. Myself, carrying three hats and a pair of boots, and trying to look as if I didn't know it. Six small boys, and four stray dogs.
When we got down to the landing-stage, the boatman said:
"Let me see, sir; was yours a steam-launch or a house-boat?"
[Picture: The bring of the provisions] On our informing him it was adouble-sculling skiff, he seemed surprised.
We had a good deal of trouble with steam launches that morning. It wasjust before the Henley week, and they were going up in large numbers;some by themselves, some towing houseboats. I do hate steam launches: Isuppose every rowing man does. I never see a steam launch but I feel Ishould like to lure it to a lonely part of the river, and there, in thesilence and the solitude, strangle it.
There is a blatant bumptiousness about a steam launch that has the knackof rousing every evil instinct in my nature, and I yearn for the good olddays, when you could go about and tell people what you thought of themwith a hatchet and a bow and arrows. The expression on the face of theman who, with his hands in his pockets, stands by the stern, smoking acigar, is sufficient to excuse a breach of the peace by itself; and thelordly whistle for you to get out of the way would, I am confident,ensure a verdict of "justifiable homicide" from any jury of river men.
They used to _have_ to whistle for us to get out of their way. If I maydo so, without appearing boastful, I think I can honestly say that ourone small boat, during that week, caused more annoyance and delay andaggravation to the steam launches that we came across than all the othercraft on the river put together.
"Steam launch, coming!" one of us would cry out, on sighting the enemy inthe distance; and, in an instant, everything was got ready to receiveher. I would take the lines, and Harris and George would sit down besideme, all of us with our backs to the launch, and the boat would drift outquietly into mid-stream.
On would come the launch, whistling, and on we would go, drifting. Atabout a hundred yards off, she would start whistling like mad, and thepeople would come and lean over the side, and roar at us; but we neverheard them! Harris would be telling us an anecdote about his mother, andGeorge and I would not have missed a word of it for worlds.
Then that launch would give one final shriek of a whistle that wouldnearly burst the boiler, and she would reverse her engines, and blow offsteam, and swing round and get aground; everyone on board of it wouldrush to the bow and yell at us, and the people on the bank would standand shout to us, and all the other passing boats would stop and join in,till the whole river for miles up and down was in a state of franticcommotion. And then Harris would break off in the most interesting partof his narrative, and look up with mild surprise, and say to George:
"Why, George, bless me, if here isn
't a steam launch!"
And George would answer:
"Well, do you know, I _thought_ I heard something!"
Upon which we would get nervous and confused, and not know how to get theboat out of the way, and the people in the launch would crowd round andinstruct us:
"Pull your right--you, you idiot! back with your left. No, not_you_--the other one--leave the lines alone, can't you--now, bothtogether. NOT _that_ way. Oh, you--!"
Then they would lower a boat and come to our assistance; and, afterquarter of an hour's effort, would get us clean out of their way, so thatthey could go on; and we would thank them so much, and ask them to giveus a tow. But they never would.
Another good way we discovered of irritating the aristocratic type ofsteam launch, was to mistake them for a beanfeast, and ask them if theywere Messrs. Cubit's lot or the Bermondsey Good Templars, and could theylend us a saucepan.
Old ladies, not accustomed to the river, are always intensely nervous ofsteam launches. I remember going up once from Staines to Windsor--astretch of water peculiarly rich in these mechanical monstrosities--witha party containing three ladies of this description. It was veryexciting. At the first glimpse of every steam launch that came in view,they insisted on landing and sitting down on the bank until it was out ofsight again. They said they were very sorry, but that they owed it totheir families not to be fool-hardy.
We found ourselves short of water at Hambledon Lock; so we took our jarand went up to the lock-keeper's house to beg for some.
George was our spokesman. He put on a winning smile, and said:
"Oh, please could you spare us a little water?"
"Certainly," replied the old gentleman; "take as much as you want, andleave the rest."
"Thank you so much," murmured George, looking about him. "Where--wheredo you keep it?"
"It's always in the same place my boy," was the stolid reply: "justbehind you."
"I don't see it," said George, turning round.
"Why, bless us, where's your eyes?" was the man's comment, as he twistedGeorge round and pointed up and down the stream. "There's enough of itto see, ain't there?"
"Oh!" exclaimed George, grasping the idea; "but we can't drink the river,you know!"
"No; but you can drink _some_ of it," replied the old fellow. "It's what_I've_ drunk for the last fifteen years."
George told him that his appearance, after the course, did not seem asufficiently good advertisement for the brand; and that he would preferit out of a pump.
We got some from a cottage a little higher up. I daresay _that_ was onlyriver water, if we had known. But we did not know, so it was all right.What the eye does not see, the stomach does not get upset over.
We tried river water once, later on in the season, but it was not asuccess. We were coming down stream, and had pulled up to have tea in abackwater near Windsor. Our jar was empty, and it was a case of goingwithout our tea or taking water from the river. Harris was for chancingit. He said it must be all right if we boiled the water. He said thatthe various germs of poison present in the water would be killed by theboiling. So we filled our kettle with Thames backwater, and boiled it;and very careful we were to see that it did boil.
We had made the tea, and were just settling down comfortably to drink it,when George, with his cup half-way to his lips, paused and exclaimed:
"What's that?"
"What's what?" asked Harris and I.
"Why that!" said George, looking westward.
[Picture: The dog] Harris and I followed his gaze, and saw, coming downtowards us on the sluggish current, a dog. It was one of the quietestand peacefullest dogs I have ever seen. I never met a dog who seemedmore contented--more easy in its mind. It was floating dreamily on itsback, with its four legs stuck up straight into the air. It was what Ishould call a full-bodied dog, with a well-developed chest. On he came,serene, dignified, and calm, until he was abreast of our boat, and there,among the rushes, he eased up, and settled down cosily for the evening.
George said he didn't want any tea, and emptied his cup into the water.Harris did not feel thirsty, either, and followed suit. I had drunk halfmine, but I wished I had not.
I asked George if he thought I was likely to have typhoid.
He said: "Oh, no;" he thought I had a very good chance indeed of escapingit. Anyhow, I should know in about a fortnight, whether I had or hadnot.
We went up the backwater to Wargrave. It is a short cut, leading out ofthe right-hand bank about half a mile above Marsh Lock, and is well worthtaking, being a pretty, shady little piece of stream, besides savingnearly half a mile of distance.
Of course, its entrance is studded with posts and chains, and surroundedwith notice boards, menacing all kinds of torture, imprisonment, anddeath to everyone who dares set scull upon its waters--I wonder some ofthese riparian boors don't claim the air of the river and threateneveryone with forty shillings fine who breathes it--but the posts andchains a little skill will easily avoid; and as for the boards, youmight, if you have five minutes to spare, and there is nobody about, takeone or two of them down and throw them into the river.
Half-way up the backwater, we got out and lunched; and it was during thislunch that George and I received rather a trying shock.
Harris received a shock, too; but I do not think Harris's shock couldhave been anything like so bad as the shock that George and I had overthe business.
You see, it was in this way: we were sitting in a meadow, about ten yardsfrom the water's edge, and we had just settled down comfortably to feed.Harris had the beefsteak pie between his knees, and was carving it, andGeorge and I were waiting with our plates ready.
"Have you got a spoon there?" says Harris; "I want a spoon to help thegravy with."
The hamper was close behind us, and George and I both turned round toreach one out. We were not five seconds getting it. When we lookedround again, Harris and the pie were gone!
It was a wide, open field. There was not a tree or a bit of hedge forhundreds of yards. He could not have tumbled into the river, because wewere on the water side of him, and he would have had to climb over us todo it.
George and I gazed all about. Then we gazed at each other.
"Has he been snatched up to heaven?" I queried.
"They'd hardly have taken the pie too," said George.
There seemed weight in this objection, and we discarded the heavenlytheory.
"I suppose the truth of the matter is," suggested George, descending tothe commonplace and practicable, "that there has been an earthquake."
And then he added, with a touch of sadness in his voice: "I wish hehadn't been carving that pie."
With a sigh, we turned our eyes once more towards the spot where Harrisand the pie had last been seen on earth; and there, as our blood froze inour veins and our hair stood up on end, we saw Harris's head--and nothingbut his head--sticking bolt upright among the tall grass, the face veryred, and bearing upon it an expression of great indignation!
George was the first to recover.
"Speak!" he cried, "and tell us whether you are alive or dead--and whereis the rest of you?"
"Oh, don't be a stupid ass!" said Harris's head. "I believe you did iton purpose."
"Did what?" exclaimed George and I.
"Why, put me to sit here--darn silly trick! Here, catch hold of thepie."
[Picture: Rescuing the pie] And out of the middle of the earth, as itseemed to us, rose the pie--very much mixed up and damaged; and, afterit, scrambled Harris--tumbled, grubby, and wet.
He had been sitting, without knowing it, on the very verge of a smallgully, the long grass hiding it from view; and in leaning a little backhe had shot over, pie and all.
He said he had never felt so surprised in all his life, as when he firstfelt himself going, without being able to conjecture in the slightestwhat had happened. He thought at first that the end of the world hadcome.
Harris believes to this day that George and I pla
nned it all beforehand.Thus does unjust suspicion follow even the most blameless for, as thepoet says, "Who shall escape calumny?"
Who, indeed!
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