Miscellany 62

MISCELLANY No 62

 

RECOLLECTIONSOF A TOUR MADE IN SCOTLAND
A.D. 1803

DOROTHY WORDSWORTH

 

FIRST WEEK.

 

William and I parted from Mary on Sunday afternoon, August 14th, 1803; and William, Coleridge, and I left Keswick on Monday morning, the 15th, at twenty minutes after eleven o’clock.  The day was very hot; we walked up the hills, and along all the rough road, which made our walking half the day’s journey.  Travelled under the foot of Carrock, a mountain covered with stones on the lower part; above, it is very rocky, but sheep pasture there; we saw several where there seemed to be no grass to tempt them.  Passed the foot of Grisdale and Mosedale, both pastoral valleys, narrow, and soon terminating in the mountains—green, with scattered trees and houses, and each a beautiful stream.  At Grisdale our horse backed upon a steep bank where the road was not fenced, just above a pretty mill at the foot of the valley; and we had a second threatening of a disaster in crossing a narrow bridge between the two dales; but this was not the fault of either man or horse.  Slept at Mr. Younghusband’s public-house, Hesket Newmarket.  In the evening walked to Caldbeck Falls, a delicious spot in which to breathe out a summer’s day—limestone rocks, hanging trees, pools, and waterbreaks—caves and caldrons which have been honoured with fairy names, and no doubt continue in the fancy of the neighbourhood to resound with fairy revels.

Tuesday, August 16th.—Passed Rose Castle upon the Caldew, an ancient building of red stone with sloping gardens, an ivied gateway, velvet lawns, old garden walls, trim flower-borders with stately and luxuriant flowers.  We walked up to the house and stood some minutes watching the swallows that flew about restlessly, and flung their shadows upon the sunbright walls of the old building; the shadows glanced and twinkled, interchanged and crossed each other, expanded and shrunk up, appeared and disappeared every instant; as I observed to William and Coleridge, seeming more like living things than the birds themselves.  Dined at Carlisle; the town in a bustle with the assizes; so many strange faces known in former times and recognised, that it half seemed as if I ought to know them all, and, together with the noise, the fine ladies, etc., they put me into confusion.  This day Hatfield was condemned.

[John Hatfield was accused at Carlisle Assizes of Impersonation and Forgery, and appears also to have been a bigamist.  He was found guilty of forgery and duly condemned to death.]

  I stood at the door of the gaoler’s house, where he was; William entered the house, and Coleridge saw him; I fell into conversation with a debtor, who told me in a dry way that he was ‘far over-learned,’ and another man observed to William that we might learn from Hatfield’s fate ‘not to meddle with pen and ink.’  We gave a shilling to my companion, whom we found out to be a friend of the family, a fellow-sailor with my brother John ‘in Captain Wordsworth’s ship.’  Walked upon the city walls, which are broken down in places and crumbling away, and most disgusting from filth.  The city and neighbourhood of Carlisle disappointed me; the banks of the river quite flat, and, though the holms are rich, there is not much beauty in the vale from the want of trees—at least to the eye of a person coming from England, and, I scarcely know how, but to me the holms had not a natural look; there was something townish in their appearance, a dulness in their strong deep green.  To Longtown—not very interesting, except from the long views over the flat country; the road rough, chiefly newly mended.  Reached Longtown after sunset, a town of brick houses belonging chiefly to the Graham family.  Being in the form of a cross and not long, it had been better called Crosstown.  There are several shops, and it is not a very small place; but I could not meet with a silver thimble, and bought a halfpenny brass one.  Slept at the Graham’s Arms, a large inn.  Here, as everywhere else, the people seemed utterly insensible of the enormity of Hatfield’s offences; the ostler told William that he was quite a gentleman, paid every one genteelly, etc. etc.  He and ‘Mary’ had walked together to Gretna Green; a heavy rain came on when they were there; a returned chaise happened to pass, and the driver would have taken them up; but ‘Mr. Hope’s’ carriage was to be sent for; he did not choose to accept the chaise-driver’s offer.

Wednesday, August 17th.—Left Longtown after breakfast.  About half-a-mile from the town a guide-post and two roads, to Edinburgh and Glasgow; we took the left-hand road, to Glasgow.  Here saw a specimen of the luxuriance of the heath-plant, as it grows in Scotland; it was in the enclosed plantations—perhaps sheltered by them.  These plantations appeared to be not well grown for their age; the trees were stunted.  Afterwards the road, treeless, over a peat-moss common—the Solway Moss; here and there an earth-built hut with its peat stack, a scanty growing willow hedge round the kailgarth, perhaps the cow pasturing near,—a little lass watching it,—the dreary waste cheered by the endless singing of larks.

We enter Scotland by crossing the river Sark; on the Scotch side of the bridge the ground is unenclosed pasturage; it was very green, and scattered over with that yellow flowered plant which we call grunsel; the hills heave and swell prettily enough; cattle feeding; a few corn fields near the river.  At the top of the hill opposite is Springfield, a village built by Sir William Maxwell—a dull uniformity in the houses, as is usual when all built at one time, or belonging to one individual, each just big enough for two people to live in, and in which a family, large or small as it may happen, is crammed.  There the marriages are performed.  Further on, though almost contiguous, is Gretna Green, upon a hill and among trees.  This sounds well, but it is a dreary place; the stone houses dirty and miserable, with broken windows.  There is a pleasant view from the churchyard over Solway Firth to the Cumberland mountains.  Dined at Annan.  On our left as we travelled along appeared the Solway Firth and the mountains beyond, but the near country dreary.  Those houses by the roadside which are built of stone are comfortless and dirty; but we peeped into a clay ‘biggin’ that was very ‘canny,’ and I daresay will be as warm as a swallow’s nest in winter.  The town of Annan made me think of France and Germany; many of the houses large and gloomy, the size of them outrunning the comforts.  One thing which was like Germany pleased me: the shopkeepers express their calling by some device or painting; bread-bakers have biscuits, loaves, cakes painted on their window-shutters; blacksmiths horses’ shoes, iron tools, etc. etc.; and so on through all trades.

Reached Dumfries at about nine o’clock—market-day; met crowds of people on the road, and every one had a smile for us and our car.

[The ‘car’ was an Irish Jaunting Car.  William had appointed himself driver, but did not get on well with the horse, and spent most of the 663-mile expedition on foot leading the horse.]

 . . . .  The inn was a large house, and tolerably comfortable; Mr. Rogers and his sister, whom we had seen at our own cottage at Grasmere a few days before, had arrived there that same afternoon on their way to the Highlands; but we did not see them till the next morning, and only for about a quarter of an hour.

Thursday, August 18th.—Went to the churchyard where Burns is buried.  A bookseller accompanied us.  He showed us the outside of Burns’s house, where he had lived the last three years of his life, and where he died.  It has a mean appearance, and is in a bye situation, whitewashed; dirty about the doors, as almost all Scotch houses are; flowering plants in the windows.

Went on to visit his grave.  He lies at a corner of the churchyard, and his second son, Francis Wallace, beside him.  There is no stone to mark the spot; but a hundred guineas have been collected, to be expended on some sort of monument.  ‘There,’ said the bookseller, pointing to a pompous monument, ‘there lies Mr. Such-a-one’—I have forgotten his name,—‘a remarkably clever man; he was an attorney, and hardly ever lost a cause he undertook.  Burns made many a lampoon upon him, and there they rest, as you see.’  We looked at the grave with melancholy and painful reflections, repeating to each other his own verses:—

‘Is there a man whose judgment clear
Can others teach the course to steer,
Yet runs himself life’s mad career
         Wild as the wave?—
Here let him pause, and through a tear
         Survey this grave.
The Poor Inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow
         And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,
         And stain’d his name.’

The churchyard is full of grave-stones and expensive monuments in all sorts of fantastic shapes—obelisk-wise, pillar-wise, etc.  In speaking of Gretna Green, I forgot to mention that we visited the churchyard.  The church is like a huge house; indeed, so are all the churches, with a steeple, not a square tower or spire,—a sort of thing more like a glass-house chimney than a Church of England steeple; grave-stones in abundance, few verses, yet there were some—no texts.  Over the graves of married women the maiden name instead of that of the husband, ‘spouse’ instead of ‘wife,’ and the place of abode preceded by ‘in’ instead of ‘of.’  When our guide had left us, we turned again to Burns’s house.  Mrs. Burns was gone to spend some time by the sea-shore with her children.  We spoke to the servant-maid at the door, who invited us forward, and we sate down in the parlour.  The walls were coloured with a blue wash; on one side of the fire was a mahogany desk, opposite to the window a clock, and over the desk a print from the ‘Cotter’s Saturday Night,’ which Burns mentions in one of his letters having received as a present.  The house was cleanly and neat in the inside, the stairs of stone, scoured white, the kitchen on the right side of the passage, the parlour on the left.  In the room above the parlour the Poet died, and his son after him in the same room.  The servant told us she had lived five years with Mrs. Burns, who was now in great sorrow for the death of ‘Wallace.’  She said that Mrs. Burns’s youngest son was at Christ’s Hospital.

We were glad to leave Dumfries, which is no agreeable place to them who do not love the bustle of a town that seems to be rising up to wealth.  We could think of little else but poor Burns, and his moving about on that unpoetic ground.  In our road to Brownhill, the next stage, we passed Ellisland at a little distance on our right, his farmhouse.  We might there have had more pleasure in looking round, if we had been nearer to the spot; but there is no thought surviving in connexion with Burns’s daily life that is not heart-depressing.  Travelled through the vale of Nith, here little like a vale, it is so broad, with irregular hills rising up on each side, in outline resembling the old-fashioned valances of a bed.  There is a great deal of arable land; the corn ripe; trees here and there—plantations, clumps, coppices, and a newness in everything.  So much of the gorse and broom rooted out that you wonder why it is not all gone, and yet there seems to be almost as much gorse and broom as corn; and they grow one among another you know not how.  Crossed the Nith; the vale becomes narrow, and very pleasant; cornfields, green hills, clay cottages; the river’s bed rocky, with woody banks.  Left the Nith about a mile and a half, and reached Brownhill, a lonely inn, where we slept.  The view from the windows was pleasing, though some travellers might have been disposed to quarrel with it for its general nakedness; yet there was abundance of corn.  It is an open country—open, yet all over hills.  At a little distance were many cottages among trees, that looked very pretty.  Brownhill is about seven or eight miles from Ellisland.  I fancied to myself, while I was sitting in the parlour, that Burns might have caroused there, for most likely his rounds extended so far, and this thought gave a melancholy interest to the smoky walls.  It was as pretty a room as a thoroughly dirty one could be—a square parlour painted green, but so covered over with smoke and dirt that it looked not unlike green seen through black gauze.  There were three windows, looking three ways, a buffet ornamented with tea-cups, a superfine largeish looking-glass with gilt ornaments spreading far and wide, the glass spotted with dirt, some ordinary alehouse pictures, and above the chimney-piece a print in a much better style—as William guessed, taken from a painting by Sir Joshua Reynolds—of some lady of quality, in the character of Euphrosyne.  ‘Ay,’ said the servant girl, seeing that we looked at it, ‘there’s many travellers would give a deal for that, it’s more admired than any in the house.’  We could not but smile; for the rest were such as may be found in the basket of any Italian image and picture hawker.

William and I walked out after dinner; Coleridge was not well, and slept upon the carriage cushions.  We made our way to the cottages among the little hills and knots of wood, and then saw what a delightful country this part of Scotland might be made by planting forest trees.  The ground all over heaves and swells like a sea; but for miles there are neither trees nor hedgerows, only ‘mound’ fences and tracts; or slips of corn, potatoes, clover—with hay between, and barren land; but near the cottages many hills and hillocks covered with wood.  We passed some fine trees, and paused under the shade of one close by an old mansion that seemed from its neglected state to be inhabited by farmers.  But I must say that many of the ‘gentlemen’s’ houses which we have passed in Scotland have an air of neglect, and even of desolation.  It was a beech, in the full glory of complete and perfect growth, very tall, with one thick stem mounting to a considerable height, which was split into four ‘thighs,’ as Coleridge afterwards called them, each in size a fine tree.  Passed another mansion, now tenanted by a schoolmaster; many boys playing upon the lawn.  I cannot take leave of the country which we passed through to-day, without mentioning that we saw the Cumberland mountains within half a mile of Ellisland, Burns’s house, the last view we had of them.  Drayton has prettily described the connexion which this neighbourhood has with ours when he makes Skiddaw say—

            ‘Scurfell from the sky,
That Anadale doth crown, with a most amorous eye,
Salutes me every day, or at my pride looks grim,
Oft threatning me with clouds, as I oft threatning him.’

These lines recurred to William’s memory, and we talked of Burns, and of the prospect he must have had, perhaps from his own door, of Skiddaw and his companions, indulging ourselves in the fancy that we might have been personally known to each other, and he have looked upon those objects with more pleasure for our sakes.  We talked of Coleridge’s children and family, then at the foot of Skiddaw, and our own new-born John a few miles behind it; while the grave of Burns’s son, which we had just seen by the side of his father, and some stories heard at Dumfries respecting the dangers his surviving children were exposed to, filled us with melancholy concern, which had a kind of connexion with ourselves.  In recollection of this, William long afterwards wrote the following Address to the sons of the ill-fated poet:—

Ye now are panting up life’s hill,
’Tis twilight time of good and ill,
And more than common strength and skill
         Must ye display,
If ye would give the better will
         Its lawful sway.

Strong-bodied if ye be to bear
Intemperance with less harm, beware,
But if your Father’s wit ye share,
         Then, then indeed,
Ye Sons of Burns, for watchful care
         There will be need.

For honest men delight will take
To shew you favour for his sake,
Will flatter you, and Fool and Rake
         Your steps pursue,
And of your Father’s name will make
         A snare for you.

Let no mean hope your souls enslave,
Be independent, generous, brave;
Your Father such example gave,
         And such revere,
But be admonished by his grave,
         And think and fear.

Friday, August 19th.—Open country for a considerable way.  Passed through the village of Thornhill, built by the Duke of Queensberry; the ‘brother-houses’ so small that they might have been built to stamp a character of insolent pride on his own huge mansion of Drumlanrigg, which is full in view on the opposite side of the Nith.  This mansion is indeed very large; but to us it appeared like a gathering together of little things.  The roof is broken into a hundred pieces, cupolas, etc., in the shape of casters, conjuror’s balls, cups, and the like.  The situation would be noble if the woods had been left standing; but they have been cut down not long ago, and the hills above and below the house are quite bare.  About a mile and a half from Drumlanrigg is a turnpike gate at the top of a hill.  We left our car with the man, and turned aside into a field where we looked down upon the Nith, which runs far below in a deep and rocky channel; the banks woody; the view pleasant down the river towards Thornhill, an open country—corn fields, pastures, and scattered trees.  Returned to the turnpike house, a cold spot upon a common, black cattle feeding close to the door.  Our road led us down the hill to the side of the Nith, and we travelled along its banks for some miles.  Here were clay cottages perhaps every half or quarter of a mile.  The bed of the stream rough with rocks; banks irregular, now woody, now bare; here a patch of broom, there of corn, then of pasturage; and hills green or heathy above.  We were to have given our horse meal and water at a public-house in one of the hamlets we passed through, but missed the house, for, as is common in Scotland, it was without a sign-board.  Travelled on, still beside the Nith, till we came to a turnpike house, which stood rather high on the hill-side, and from the door we looked a long way up and down the river.  The air coldish, the wind strong.

We asked the turnpike man to let us have some meal and water.  He had no meal, but luckily we had part of a feed of corn brought from Keswick, and he procured some hay at a neighbouring house.  In the meantime I went into the house, where was an old man with a grey plaid over his shoulders, reading a newspaper.  On the shelf lay a volume of the Scotch Encyclopædia, a History of England, and some other books.  The old man was a caller by the way.  The man of the house came back, and we began to talk.  He was very intelligent; had travelled all over England, Scotland, and Ireland as a gentleman’s servant, and now lived alone in that lonesome place.  He said he was tired of his bargain, for he feared he should lose by it.  And he had indeed a troublesome office, for coal-carts without number were passing by, and the drivers seemed to do their utmost to cheat him.  There is always something peculiar in the house of a man living alone.  This was but half-furnished, yet nothing seemed wanting for his comfort, though a female who had travelled half as far would have needed fifty other things.  He had no other meat or drink in the house but oat bread and cheese—the cheese was made with the addition of seeds—and some skimmed milk.  He gave us of his bread and cheese, and milk, which proved to be sour.

We had yet ten or eleven miles to travel, and no food with us.  William lay under the wind in a corn-field below the house, being not well enough to partake of the milk and bread.  Coleridge gave our host a pamphlet, ‘The Crisis of the Sugar Colonies;’ he was well acquainted with Burns’s poems.  There was a politeness and a manly freedom in this man’s manners which pleased me very much.  He told us that he had served a gentleman, a captain in the army—he did not know who he was, for none of his relations had ever come to see him, but he used to receive many letters—that he had lived near Dumfries till they would let him stay no longer, he made such havoc with the game; his whole delight from morning till night, and the long year through, was in field sports; he would be on his feet the worst days in winter, and wade through snow up to the middle after his game.  If he had company he was in tortures till they were gone; he would then throw off his coat and put on an old jacket not worth half-a-crown.  He drank his bottle of wine every day, and two if he had better sport than usual.  Ladies sometimes came to stay with his wife, and he often carried them out in an Irish jaunting-car, and if they vexed him he would choose the dirtiest roads possible, and spoil their clothes by jumping in and out of the car, and treading upon them.  ‘But for all that’—and so he ended all—‘he was a good fellow, and a clever fellow, and he liked him well.’  He would have ten or a dozen hares in the larder at once, he half maintained his family with game, and he himself was very fond of eating of the spoil—unusual with true heart-and-soul sportsmen.

The man gave us an account of his farm where he had lived, which was so cheap and pleasant that we thought we should have liked to have had it ourselves.  Soon after leaving the turnpike house we turned up a hill to the right, the road for a little way very steep, bare hills, with sheep.

After ascending a little while we heard the murmur of a stream far below us, and saw it flowing downwards on our left, towards the Nith, and before us, between steep green hills, coming along a winding valley.  The simplicity of the prospect impressed us very much.  There was a single cottage by the brook side; the dell was not heathy, but it was impossible not to think of Peter Bell’s Highland Girl.

We now felt indeed that we were in Scotland; there was a natural peculiarity in this place.  In the scenes of the Nith it had not been the same as England, but yet not simple, naked Scotland.  The road led us down the hill, and now there was no room in the vale but for the river and the road; we had sometimes the stream to the right, sometimes to the left.  The hills were pastoral, but we did not see many sheep; green smooth turf on the left, no ferns.  On the right the heath-plant grew in abundance, of the most exquisite colour; it covered a whole hillside, or it was in streams and patches.  We travelled along the vale without appearing to ascend for some miles; all the reaches were beautiful, in exquisite proportion, the hills seeming very high from being so near to us.  It might have seemed a valley which nature had kept to herself for pensive thoughts and tender feelings, but that we were reminded at every turning of the road of something beyond by the coal-carts which were travelling towards us.  Though these carts broke in upon the tranquillity of the glen, they added much to the picturesque effect of the different views, which indeed wanted nothing, though perfectly bare, houseless, and treeless.

After some time our road took us upwards towards the end of the valley.  Now the steeps were heathy all around.  Just as we began to climb the hill we saw three boys who came down the cleft of a brow on our left; one carried a fishing-rod, and the hats of all were braided with honeysuckles; they ran after one another as wanton as the wind.  I cannot express what a character of beauty those few honeysuckles in the hats of the three boys gave to the place: what bower could they have come from?  We walked up the hill, met two well-dressed travellers, the woman barefoot.  Our little lads before they had gone far were joined by some half-dozen of their companions, all without shoes and stockings.  They told us they lived at Wanlockhead, the village above, pointing to the top of the hill; they went to school and learned Latin, Virgil, and some of them Greek, Homer, but when Coleridge began to inquire further, off they ran, poor things! I suppose afraid of being examined.

When, after a steep ascent, we had reached the top of the hill, we saw a village about half a mile before us on the side of another hill, which rose up above the spot where we were, after a descent, a sort of valley or hollow.  Nothing grew upon this ground, or the hills above or below, but heather, yet round about the village—which consisted of a great number of huts, all alike, and all thatched, with a few larger slated houses among them, and a single modern-built one of a considerable size—were a hundred patches of cultivated ground, potatoes, oats, hay, and grass.  We were struck with the sight of haycocks fastened down with aprons, sheets, pieces of sacking—as we supposed, to prevent the wind from blowing them away.  We afterwards found that this practice was very general in Scotland.  Every cottage seemed to have its little plot of ground, fenced by a ridge of earth; this plot contained two or three different divisions, kail, potatoes, oats, hay; the houses all standing in lines, or never far apart; the cultivated ground was all together also, and made a very strange appearance with its many greens among the dark brown hills, neither tree nor shrub growing; yet the grass and the potatoes looked greener than elsewhere, owing to the bareness of the neighbouring hills; it was indeed a wild and singular spot—to use a woman’s illustration, like a collection of patchwork, made of pieces as they might have chanced to have been cut by the mantua-maker, only just smoothed to fit each other, the different sorts of produce being in such a multitude of plots, and those so small and of such irregular shapes.  Add to the strangeness of the village itself, that we had been climbing upwards, though gently, for many miles, and for the last mile and a half up a steep ascent, and did not know of any village till we saw the boys who had come out to play.  The air was very cold, and one could not help thinking what it must be in winter, when those hills, now ‘red brown,’ should have their three months’ covering of snow.

The village, as we guessed, is inhabited by miners; the mines belong to the Duke of Queensberry.  The road to the village, down which the lads scampered away, was straight forward.  I must mention that we met, just after we had parted from them, another little fellow, about six years old, carrying a bundle over his shoulder; he seemed poor and half starved, and was scratching his fingers, which were

covered with the itch.  He was a miner’s son, and lived at Wanlockhead; did not go to school, but this was probably on account of his youth.  I mention him because he seemed to be a proof that there was poverty and wretchedness among these people, though we saw no other symptom of it; and afterwards we met scores of the inhabitants of this same village.  Our road turned to the right, and we saw, at the distance of less than a mile, a tall upright building of grey stone, with several men standing upon the roof, as if they were looking out over battlements.  It stood beyond the village, upon higher ground, as if presiding over it,—a kind of enchanter’s castle, which it might have been, a place where Don Quixote would have gloried in.  When we drew nearer we saw, coming out of the side of the building, a large machine or lever, in appearance like a great forge-hammer, as we supposed for raising water out of the mines.  It heaved upwards once in half a minute with a slow motion, and seemed to rest to take breath at the bottom, its motion being accompanied with a sound between a groan and ‘jike.’  There would have been something in this object very striking in any place, as it was impossible not to invest the machine with some faculty of intellect; it seemed to have made the first step from brute matter to life and purpose, showing its progress by great power.  William made a remark to this effect, and Coleridge observed that it was like a giant with one idea.  At all events, the object produced a striking effect in that place, where everything was in unison with it—particularly the building itself, which was turret-shaped, and with the figures upon it resembled much one of the fortresses in the wooden cuts of Bunyan’s ‘Holy War.’

After ascending a considerable way we began to descend

again; and now we met a team of horses dragging an immense tree to the lead mines, to repair or add to the building, and presently after we came to a cart, with another large tree, and one horse left in it, right in the middle of the highway.  We were a little out of humour, thinking we must wait till the team came back.  There were men and boys without number all staring at us; after a little consultation they set their shoulders to the cart, and with a good heave all at once they moved it, and we passed along.  These people were decently dressed, and their manners decent; there was no hooting or impudent laughter.  Leadhills, another mining village, was the place of our destination for the night; and soon after we had passed the cart we came in sight of it.  This village and the mines belong to Lord Hopetoun; it has more stone houses than Wanlockhead, one large old mansion, and a considerable number of old trees—beeches, I believe.  The trees told of the coldness of the climate; they were more brown than green—far browner than the ripe grass of the little hay-garths.  Here, as at Wanlockhead, were haycocks, hay-stacks, potato-beds, and kail-garths in every possible variety of shape, but, I suppose from the irregularity of the ground, it looked far less artificial—indeed, I should think that a painter might make several beautiful pictures in this village.  It straggles down both sides of a mountain glen.  As I have said, there is a large mansion.  There is also a stone building that looks like a school, and the houses are single, or in clusters, or rows as it may chance.

We passed a decent-looking inn, the Hopetoun Arms; but the house of Mrs. Otto, a widow, had been recommended to us with high encomiums.  We did not then understand Scotch inns, and were not quite satisfied at first with our accommodations, but all things were smoothed over by degrees; we had a fire lighted in our dirty parlour, tea came after a reasonable waiting; and the fire with the gentle aid of twilight, burnished up the room into cheerful comfort.  Coleridge was weary; but William and I walked out after tea.  We talked with one of the miners, who informed us that the building which we had supposed to be a school was a library belonging to the village.  He said they had got a book into it a few weeks ago, which had cost thirty pounds, and that they had all sorts of books.  ‘What! have you Shakespeare?’  ‘Yes, we have that,’ and we found, on further inquiry, that they had a large library, of long standing, that Lord Hopetoun had subscribed liberally to it, and that gentlemen who came with him were in the habit of making larger or smaller donations.  Each man who had the benefit of it paid a small sum monthly—I think about fourpence.

The man we talked with spoke much of the comfort and quiet in which they lived one among another; he made use of a noticeable expression, saying that they were ‘very peaceable people considering they lived so much underground;’—wages were about thirty pounds a year; they had land for potatoes, warm houses, plenty of coals, and only six hours’ work each day, so that they had leisure for reading if they chose.  He said the place was healthy, that the inhabitants lived to a great age; and indeed we saw no appearance of ill-health in their countenances; but it is not common for people working in lead mines to be healthy; and I have since heard that it is not a healthy place.  However this may be, they are unwilling to allow it; for the landlady the next morning, when I said to her ‘You have a cold climate,’ replied, ‘Ay, but it is varra halesome.’  We inquired of the man respecting the large mansion; he told us that it was built, as we might see, in the form of an H, and belonged to the Hopetouns, and they took their title from thence, and that part of it was used as a chapel.  We went close to it, and were a good deal amused with the building itself, standing forth in bold contradiction of the story which I daresay every man of Leadhills tells, and every man believes, that it is in the shape of an H; it is but half an H, and one must be very accommodating to allow it even so much, for the legs are far too short.

We visited the burying-ground, a plot of land not very small, crowded with graves, and upright grave-stones, overlooking the village and the dell.  It was now the closing in of evening.  Women and children were gathering in the linen for the night, which was bleaching by the burn-side;—the graves overgrown with grass, such as, by industrious culture, had been raised up about the houses; but there were bunches of heather here and there, and with the blue-bells that grew among the grass the small plot of ground had a beautiful and wild appearance.

William left me, and I went to a shop to purchase some thread; the woman had none that suited me; but she would send a ‘wee lad’ to the other sho In the meantime I sat with the mother, and was much pleased with her manner and conversation.  She had an excellent fire, and her cottage, though very small, looked comfortable and cleanly; but remember I saw it only by firelight.  She confirmed what the man had told us of the quiet manner in which they lived; and indeed her house and fireside seemed to need nothing to make it a cheerful happy spot, but health and good humour.  There was a bookishness, a certain formality in this woman’s language, which was very remarkable.  She had a dark complexion, dark eyes, and wore a very white cap, much over her face, which gave her the look of a French woman, and indeed afterwards the women on the roads frequently reminded us of French women, partly from the extremely white caps of the elder women, and still more perhaps from a certain gaiety and party-coloured appearance in their dress in general.  White bed-gowns are very common, and you rarely meet a young girl with either hat or cap; they buckle up their hair often in a graceful manner.

I returned to the inn, and went into the kitchen to speak with the landlady; she had made a hundred hesitations when I told her we wanted three beds.  At last she confessed she had three beds, and showed me into a parlour which looked damp and cold, but she assured me in a tone that showed she was unwilling to be questioned further, that all her beds were well aired.  I sat a while by the kitchen fire with the landlady, and began to talk to her; but, much as I had heard in her praise—for the shopkeeper had told me she was a varra discreet woman—I cannot say that her manners pleased me much.  But her servant made amends, for she was as pleasant and cheerful a lass as was ever seen; and when we asked her to do anything, she answered, ‘Oh yes,’ with a merry smile, and almost ran to get us what we wanted.  She was about sixteen years old: wore shoes and stockings, and had her hair tucked up with a comb.  The servant at Brownhill was a coarse-looking wench, barefoot and barelegged.  I examined the kitchen round about; it was crowded with furniture, drawers, cupboards, dish-covers, pictures, pans, and pots, arranged without order, except that the plates were on shelves, and the dish-covers hung in rows; these were very clean, but floors, passages, staircase, everything else dirty.  There were two beds in recesses in the wall; above one of them I noticed a shelf with some books:—it made me think of Chaucer’s Clerke of Oxenforde:—

‘Liever had he at his bed’s head
Twenty books clothed in black and red.’

They were baking oat-bread, which they cut into quarters, and half-baked over the fire, and half-toasted before it.  There was a suspiciousness about Mrs. Otto, almost like ill-nature; she was very jealous of any inquiries that might appear to be made with the faintest idea of a comparison between Leadhills and any other place, except the advantage was evidently on the side of Leadhills.  We had nice honey to breakfast.  When ready to depart, we learned that we might have seen the library, which we had not thought of till it was too late, and we were very sorry to go away without seeing it.

To be continued

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Miscellany 61

MISCELLANY No 61

Extract from Holinshed’s Chronicles (1577): II

Holinshed allows himself a very brief pause in his journey down the Thames, to describe his feeling when standing on what he believes to be the very centre of England...

Middest of England whereabouts.

In describing this riuer, this one thing (right honorable) is come vnto my mind, touching the center and nauill as it were of England. Certes there is an hillie plot of ground in Helledon parish, not far from Danberie, where a man maie stand and behold the heads of thrée notable riuers, whose waters, and those of such as fall into them, doo abundantlie serue the greatest part of England on this side of the Humber. The first of these waters is the Charwell, alreadie described. The second is the Leme that goeth westward into the fourth Auon. And the third is the head of the Nene or fift Auon it selfe, of whose courses there is no card but doth make sufficient mention; and therefore your honour maie behold in the same how they doo coast the countrie, and also measure by compasses how this plot lieth in respect of all the rest, contrarie to common iudgement, which maketh Northampton to be the middest and center of our countrie.

... and then resumes his journey...

But to go forward with my description of the Ouse, which being past Oxford goeth to Iflie, Kennington, Sanford, Rodleie, Newnham, and so to Abington, som time called Sensham, without increase, where it receiueth Ocus. the Oche, otherwise called the Coche, a little beneath S. Helens, which runneth thither of two brooklets, as I take it, whereof one commeth from Compton, out of the vale and west of the hill of the White horsse, the other from Kings Letcombe, and Wantage in Barkshire, and in one chanell, entreth into the same, vpon the right side of his course. From Abington Arun. likewise (taking the Arun withall southwest of Sutton Courtneie) it goeth by Appleford, long Wittenham, Clifton, Wittenham the lesse, & beneath Dorchester, taketh in the Thame water, from whence the Isis loseth the preheminence of the whole denomination of this riuer, and is contented to impart the same with the Thame, so that by the coniunction of these two waters Thamesis is producted, and that name continued euen vnto the sea.

Thame. Thame riuer riseth in the easterlie parts of Chilterne hils, towards Penleie parke, at a towne called Tring west of the said parke, which is seauen miles from the stone bridge, that is betweene Querendon and Ailsburie (after the course of the water) as Leland hath set downe. Running therefore by long Merston, and Puttenham, Hucket, and Bearton, it receiueth soone after a rill that commeth by Querendon from Hardwike, and yer long an other on the other side that riseth aboue Windouer in the Chilterne, and passing by Halton, Weston, Turrill, Broughton, and Ailsburie, it falleth into the Tame west of the said towne (except my memorie doo faile me.) From this confluence the Tame goeth by Ethorpe, [Page 85] the Winchingtons, Coddington, Chersleie, Notleie abbeie: and comming almost to Tame, it receiueth one water from southeast aboue the said towne, and another also from the same quarter beneath the towne; so that Tame standeth inuironed vpon thrée sides with thrée seuerall waters, as maie be easilie séene. The first of these commeth from the Chiltern east of Below or Bledlow, from whence it goeth to Hinton, Horsenden, Kingseie, Towseie, and so into the Tame. The other descendeth also from the Chilterne, and going by Chinner, Crowell, Siddenham, and Tame parke, it falleth in the end into Tame water, and then they procéed togither as one by Shabbington, Ricot parke, Dracot, Waterstoke, Milton, Cuddesdon, and Chiselton. Here also it taketh in another water from by-east, whose head commeth from Chilterne hils, not farre from Stocking church, in the waie from Oxford to London. From whence it runneth to Weston (and méeting beneath Cuxham with Watlington rill) it goeth onto Chalgraue, Stadham, and so into the Tame. From hence our streame of Thame runneth to Newenton, Draton, Dorchester (sometime a bishops see, and a noble citie) and so into the Thames, which hasteth in like sort to Bensington, Blauius. Crowmarsh, or Wallingford, where it receiueth the Blaue, descending from Blaueburg, now Blewberie, as I learne.

Thus haue I brought the Thames vnto Wallingford, situate in the vale of White horsse, that runneth a long therby. From hence it goeth by Newenham, north Stoke, south Stoke, Goring, Bassilden, Pangburne, where it meeteth with a water that commeth from about Hamsted Norris, runneth by Frizelham, Buckelburie, Stanford, Bradfeld, Tidmarsh and Pangburne. After which confluence it goeth on betweene Mapledorham and Purleie, to Cauersham, and Cauersham manour, and a little beneath receiueth the Kenet that commeth thereinto from Reading.

Cenethus. The Kenet riseth aboue Ouerton 5 or 6 miles west of Marleborow, or Marlingsborow, as some call it; & then going by Fifeld, Clatfor, Maulon, & Preshute, vnto Marleburie: it holdeth on in like order to Ramsburie, and northwest of little Cote, taketh in a water by north descending from the hilles aboue Alburne chase west of Alburne town. Thence it runneth to little Cote, Charnhamstréet, & beneth Charnhamstréet it crosseth the Bedwiine.
Chalkeburne. Bedwin, which (taking the Chalkburne rill withall) commeth from great Bedwijne, & at Hungerford also two other in one botom somewhat beneath the towne. From hence it goeth to Auington, Kinburie, Hamsted marshall, Lamburne. Euburne, Newberie; and beneath this towne, taketh in the Lamburne water that commeth by Isberie, Egerston, the Sheffords, Westford, Boxford, Donington castell, and Shaw. From Newberie it goeth to Thatcham, Alburnus. Wolhampton, Aldermaston, a little aboue which village it receiueth the Alburne, another brooke increased with sundrie rils: and thus going on to Padworth, Oston, and Michaell, it commeth at last to Reading, where (as I said) it ioineth with the Thames, and so they go forward as one by Sonning to Shiplake, and there on the east side receiue the Loddon that commeth downe thither from the south, as by his course appéereth.

Lodunus. The Loddon riseth in Hamshire betwéene west Shirburne and Wooton toward the southwest, afterward directing his course toward the northwest, thorough the Vine, it passeth at the last by Bramlie, and thorough a peece of Wiltshire, to Stradfield, Swallowfield, Arberfield, Loddon bridge, leauing a patch of Wiltshire on the right hand (as I haue béene informed.) This Loddon not far from Turges towne receiueth two waters in one bottome, whereof the westerlie called Basing water, commeth from Basingstoke, and thorough a parke vnto the aforesaid place.

The other descendeth of two heads from Mapledour well, and goeth by Skewes, Newenham, Rotherwijc, and yer it come at Hartlie, ioineth with the Basing water, from whence they go togither to Turges, where they méet with the Loddon (as I haue said alreadie.) The next streame toward Ditis vadum. the south is called Ditford brooke. It riseth not farre from Vpton, goeth Ikelus. by Gruell, and beneath Wharnborow castell receiueth the Ikell (comming from a parke of the same denomination) from whence they go togither by Maddingleie vnto Swalowfield, and so into the Loddon. In this voiage [Page 86] Elueius. also the Loddon méeteth with the Elwie or Elueie that commeth from Aldershare, not farre by west of Euersleie: and about Eluesham Ducus. likewise with another running from Dogmansfield named the Douke: and Erin. also the third not inferior to the rest comming from Erin, whose head is in Surreie, and going by Ash becommeth a limit, first betwéene Surreie and Hamshire; then betwéene Hamshire and Barkeshire, and passing by Ash, Erinleie, Blacke water, Perleie, and Finchamsted; it ioineth at last with the Ditford, before it come at Swalowfield. To conclude therefore with our Loddon, hauing receiued all these waters; and after the last confluence with them now being come to Loddon bridge, it passeth on by a part of Wiltshire to Twiford bridge, then to Wargraue, and so into the Thames that now is maruellouslie increased and growen vnto triple greatnesse (to that it was at Oxford.)

Being therefore past Shiplake and Wargraue, it runneth by Horsependon, or Harding: then to Henleie vpon Thames, where sometime a great rill voideth it selfe in the same. Then to Remenham, Greneland (going all this waie from Shiplake iust north, and now turning eastwards againe) by Medenham, Hurlie, Bisham, Marlow the greater, Marlow the lesse, it meeteth with a brooke soone after that consisteth of the water of two Vsa. rilles, whereof the one called the Vse, riseth about west Wickham, out of one of the Chilterne hilles, and goeth from thence to east Wickham or high Wickham, a pretie market towne. The other named Higden, descendeth Higden. also from those mounteines but a mile beneath west Wickham, and ioining both in one at the last, in the west end of east Wickham towne, they go togither to Wooburne, Hedsor, & so into the Thames. Some call it the Tide; and that word doo I vse in my former treatise: but to procéed. After this confluence our Thames goeth on by Cowkham, Topleie, Maidenhead, aliàs Sudlington, Braie, Dorneie, Clure, new Windsore (taking in neuerthelesse, at Eaton by the waie, the Burne which riseth out of a Moore, & commeth thither by Burnham) old Windsor, Wraiborow, and a little by east therof doth crosse the Cole, whereof I find this short description insuing.

Colus, aliàs Vere and Vertume. The Cole riseth néere vnto Flamsted, from whence it goeth to Redburn, S. Michaels, S. Albons, Aldenham, Watford, and so by More to Richmansworth, where there is a confluence of three waters, of which this Cole is the Gadus. first. The second called Gadus riseth not farre from Ashridge, an house or palace belonging to the prince: from whence it runneth to great Gaddesdin, Hemsted, betwéene Kings Langleie, and Abbots Langleie, then to Hunters, and Cashew bridges, and so to Richmanswoorth, receiuing by the waie a rill comming from Alburie by northwest, to Northchurch, Barkehamsted, and beneath Hemsted ioining with the same. The last commeth in at northwest from aboue Chesham, by Chesham it selfe, then by Chesham Bois, Latimers, Mawdlens, Cheinies, Sarret and Richmanswoorth, and so going on all in one chanell vnder the name of Cole, it runneth to Vxbridge, where it taketh in the Missenden water, from northwest, which rising aboue Missenden the greater goeth by Missenden the lesse, Hagmondesham (now Hammersham) the Vach, Chalfhunt Giles, Chalfhunt S. Peters, Denham, and then into the Cole aboue Vxbridge (as I haue said.) Soone after this our Cole doth part it selfe into two branches, neuer to ioine againe before they come at the Thames, for the greater of them goeth thorough the goodlie medows straight to Colebrooke, the other vnto two milles, a mile and a halfe east of Colebrooke, in the waie to London, leauing an Iland betwéene them of no small size and quantitie.

Vindeles. Being past the Cole, we come to the fall of the Vindeles, which riseth by northwest néere vnto Bagshot, from whence it goeth to Windlesham, Chobham, and méeting with a brooklet comming westward from Bisleie, they run togither toward Cherteseie, where when they haue met with a small rill rising north of Sonning hill in Windlesoure great parke, it falleth into the Thames on the northeast side of Cherteseie. When we were come beyond this water, it was not long yer we came vnto another on the same side, that fell into the Thames betweene Shepperton on the one side, and Veius. Oteland on the other, and is called the Waie. The Weie or the Waie rising by west, commeth from Olsted, & soone after taking the Hedleie brooke withall (which riseth in Wulmere forrest, and goeth by Hedleie [Page 87] and Frensham) hasteth by Bentleie, Farnham, Alton, Waiberleie, Elsted, Thuresbie. and so to Pepper harrow, where it ioineth with the Thuresbie water, which commeth not farre off from a village of the same denomination. From hence also it goeth to Godalming, and then toward Shawford, but yer it come there, it crosseth Craulie becke, which rising somewhere about Crawleie. the edge of Sussex short of Ridgewijc, goeth by Vacherie parke, Knoll, Craulie, Bramleie, Wonarsh, and so into the Waie. From hence then our Abbinger. riuer goeth to Shawford, and soone after (méeting with the Abbinger water that commeth by Shere, Albirie, and the chappell on the hill) it proceedeth to Guldeford, thence to Stoke, Sutton in the parke, Send, Woking, and at Newarke parke side taketh in a brooke that riseth of two heads, whereof one dooth spring betwéene two hils north of Pepper harrow, and so runneth through Henleie parke, the other aboue Purbright, and afterward ioining in one, they go foorth vnto Newarke, and being there vnited, after the confluence it goeth to Purford court, to Bifler, Waifred, Oteland, and so into the Thames.

Molts. From Oteland the Thames goeth by Walton, Sunburie, west Moulseie, Hampton, and yer it come at Hampton court on the northside, and east Moulseie on the other, it taketh in the Moule water, which giueth name vnto the two townes that stand on each side of the place, where it falleth into our streame. It riseth in Word forrest, and going by Burstow, it méeteth afterward with another gullet, conteining a small course from two seuerall heads, whereof one is also in the forrest aforenamed, the other runneth from Febush wood, and comming by Iseld, méeteth with the first aboue Horleie, and so run on in one chanell, I saie, till they ioine with the Moule water, whereof I spake before.

After this confluence in like sort, it is not long yer the Moule take in another from by north, which commeth from about Mesham on the one side, and another on the other side, running by Ocleie and Capell, and whereinto also a branch or rill commeth from a wood on the northwest part. Finallie, being thus increased with these manie rilles, it goeth by east Becheworth, west Becheworth, and ouer against the Swalow on the side of Drake hill, taking in another that cōmeth thither from Wootton by Darking and Milton, it runneth to Mickleham, Letherhed, Stoke, Cobham, Ashire parke, east Moulseie, and so into the Thames, which after this coniunction goeth on to Kingston, and there also méeteth with another becke, rising at Ewell south of Nonsuch. Certes, this rill goeth from Ewell by the old parke, then to Mauldon, & so to Kingston towne. The Thames in like maner being past Kingston, goeth to Tuddington, Petersham, Twickenham, Richmond, and Shene, where it receiueth a water on the northwest side, which comming from about Harrow on the hill, and by west of the same, goeth by Haies, Harlington, Felthan, and Thistleworth into the Thames.

The next fall of water is at Sion, néere vnto new Brainford, so that it Brane. issueth into the Thames betwéen them both. This water is called Brane, that is in the Brittish toong (as Leland saith) a frog. It riseth about Edgeworth, and commeth from thence by Kingesburie, Twiford, Periuall, Hanwell, and Austerleie. Thence we followed our riuer to old Brentford, Mortlach, Cheswijc, Barnelmes, Fulham, and Putneie, beneath which townes it crossed a becke from Wandlesworth, that riseth at Woodmans turne, and going by Easthalton, méeteth another comming from Croidon by Bedington, and so going on to Mitcham, Marton abbeie, and Wandlesworth, it is not Mariburne. long yer it fall into the Thames. Next vnto this is Mariburne rill on the other side, which commeth in by S. Iames, so that by this time we haue either brought the Thames, or the Thames conueied vs to London, where we rested for a season to take view of the seuerall tides there, of which each one differeth from other, by foure & twentie minuts, that is fortie eight in a whole daie, as I haue noted before, except the wether alter them. Being past London, and in the waie toward the sea: the first water that it méeteth withall, is the Brome on Kent side, Bromis. west of Gréenewich, whose head is Bromis in Bromleie parish, and going from thence to Lewsham, it taketh in a water from by east, and so directeth his course foorth right vnto the Thames.

The next water that it méeteth withall, is on Essex side, almost against Lée. Woolwich, and that is the Lée or Luie, whose head riseth short of Kempton in Hertfordshire, foure miles southeast of Luton, sometime [Page 88] Logus. called Logodunum or Logrodunum, & going through a péece of Brokehall parke (leauing Woodhall parke on the north, and Hatfield on the south, with another parke adioining) it goeth toward Hartford towne. But yer it Marran. come there, it receiueth a water (peraduenture the Marran) rising at northwest in Brodewater hundred, from aboue Welwin, northeast of Digeswell, and going to Hartingfeld burie, where the said confluence is within one mile of the towne. Beneath Hatfield also it receiueth the Beane. Beane (as I gesse) comming from Boxwood by Benington, Aston, Watton, and Stapleford, and a little lower, the third arme of increase from aboue Ware, which descendeth from two heads: whereof the greatest commeth from Barkewaie in Edwinster hundred, the other Sandon in Oddesey hundred, and after they be met beneath little Hornemeade, they go togither by Pulcherchurch, or Puckrich, Stonden, Thunderidge, Wadesmill, Benghoo, and so into the Lée, which from hence runneth on till it come at Ware, which was drowned by the rage of the same 1408, and so to Amwell, where on the north side it receiueth the water that commeth from little Hadham, through a péece of Singleshall parke, then by great Hadham, and so from Widford to the aforesaid towne. From hence also they go as one to old Stansted called Le Veil, branching in such wise yer it come there, that it runneth through the towne in sundrie places. Thence it goeth foorth to Abbats Stansted, beneath which it méeteth with the Sturus. Stoure, west (as I remember) of Roidon. This Sture riseth at Wenden lootes, from whence it goeth to Langleie, Clauering, Berden, Manhuden, & Birchanger (where it taketh a rill comming from Elsingham, & Stansted Mountfitchet.) Thence it hieth on to Bishops Stourford, Sabrichfoord, and beneath this towne crosseth with another from the east side of Elsingham, that goeth to Hatfield, Brodocke, Shiring, Harlo, & so into the Stoure, and from whence they go togither to Eastwic, Parmedon, and next into the Lée. These things being thus performed, the Lée runneth on beneath Hoddesdon, Broxburne, and Wormleie, where a water breaketh out by west of the maine streame, a mile lower than Wormeleie it selfe, but yet within the paroch, and is called Wormeleie locke.

It runneth also by Cheston nunrie, and out of this a little beneath the said house, breaketh an arme called the Shirelake, bicause it diuideth Eastsex and Hartford shire in sunder, and in the length of one medow called Fritheie. This lake runneth not but at great flouds, and méeteth againe with a succor of ditchwater, at a place called Hockesditch, halfe a mile from his first breaking out, and halfe a mile lower at Marsh point ioineth againe with the streame from whence it came before. Thence commeth the first arme to S. Maulie bridge (the first bridge westward vpon that riuer) vpon Waltham causie, & halfe a mile lower than Maulie bridge, at the corner of Ramnie mead, it méeteth with the kings streame & principall course of Luy, or Lee, as it is commonlie called. The second arme breaketh out of the kings streame at Halifield halfe a mile lower than Cheston nunrie, and so to the fulling mill, and two bridges by west of the kings streame, wherinto it falleth about a stones cast lower at a place called Malkins shelffe, except I was wrong informed. Cheston & Hartfordshire men doo saie, that the kings streame at Waltham dooth part Hartfordshire and Essex, but the Essex men by forrest charter doo plead their liberties to hold vnto S. Maulies bridge. On the east side also of the kings streame breaketh out but one principall arme at Halifield, three quarters of a mile aboue Waltham, & so goeth to the corne mill in Waltham, and then to the K. streame againe a little beneath the kings bridge.

From hence the Lée runneth on by south on Waltonstow till it come to Stretford Langthorne, where it brancheth partlie of it selfe, and partlie Alfred. by mans industrie for mils. Howbeit heerein the dealing of Alfred (sometimes king of England) was not of smallest force, who vnderstanding the Danes to be gotten vp with their ships into the countrie, there to kill and slaie his subiects, in the yeere of grace 896, by the conduct of this riuer: he in the meane time before they could returne, did so mightilie weaken the maine chanell, by drawing great numbers of trenches from the same; that when they purposed to come backe, there was nothing so much water left as the ships did draw: wherefore being set on ground, they were soone fired, & the aduersaries ouercome. By this policie also [Page 89] much medow ground was woone, & made firme land, whereby the countrie about was not a little inriched, as was also a part of Assyria by the like practise of Cyrus with the Ganges, at such time as he came against Babylon, which riuer before time was in maner equall with Euphrates. For he was so offended, that one of his knights whom he loued déerlie, was drowned and borne awaie with the water in his passage ouer the same, that he sware a deepe oth yer long to make it so shallow that it should not wet a woman to the knées. Which came to passe, for he caused all his armie to dig 46 new draines frō the same, wherby the vow that he had made was at the full performed. Senec. de Tra. li. 3. But to conclude with the Lee that somtime ouerflowed all those medowes, through which it passeth (as for a great waie not inferior to the Thames) and I find that being past Westham, it is not long yer it fall into that streame. One thing I read more of this riuer before the conquest, that is, how Edward the first, & sonne of Alfred, in the yeare of grace 912, builded Hartford towne: at which time also he had Wittham a towne in Essex in hand, as his sister called Aelfled repaired Oxford & London, and all this foure yeares before the building of Maldon; of some called Hertford or Herudford betweene three waters, that is, the Lée, the Benefuth, and Memmarran, or rather Penmarran: but how these waters are distinguished in these daies, as yet I cannot tell. It is possible, that the Bene may be the same which commeth by Benington, and Benghoo: which if it be so, then must the Memmarran be the same that descendeth from Whitwell, for not farre from thence is Branfield, which might in time past right well be called Marranfield, for of like inuersion of names I could shew manie examples.

Being past the Lee (whose chanell is begun to be purged 1576, with further hope to bring the same to the north side of London) we come vnto Rodon or Rodunus. the Rodon, vpon Essex side in like maner, and not verie farre (for foure miles is the most) from the fall of the Lée. This water riseth at little Canfield, from whence it goeth to great Canfield, high Roding, Eithorpe Roding, Ledon Roding, White Roding, Beauchampe Roding, Fifeld, Shelleie, high Ongar, and Cheping Ongar, where the Lauer falleth into it, that Lauer. ariseth betwixt Matching and high Lauer; and taking another rill withall comming from aboue Northweld at Cheping Ongar, they ioine (I saie) with the Rodon, after which confluence Leland coniectureth that the streame Iuelus. is called Iuell: for my part, I wot not what to say of it. But héerof I am sure, that the whole course being past Ongar, it goeth to Stansted riuers, Theidon mount, Heibridge, Chigwell, Woodford bridge, Ilford bridge, Barking, & so into the Thames.

Darwent. The Darwent méeteth with our said Thames vpon Kents side, two miles and more beneath Erith. It riseth at Tanridge, or there abouts, as I haue beene informed by Christopher Saxtons card late made of the same, and the like (I hope) he will doo in all the seuerall shires of England at the infinit charges of sir Thomas Sackford knight, & maister of the requests, whose zeale vnto his countrie héerin I cannot but remember, & so much the rather, for that he meaneth to imitate Ortelius, & somewhat beside this hath holpen me in the names of the townes, by which these riuers for the Kentish part do run. Would to God his plats were once finished for the rest! But to procéed. The Darwent therefore, rising at Tanridge, goeth on by Titseie toward Brasted, and receiuing on ech side of that towne (& seuerall bankes) a riuer or rill, it goeth on to Nockhold, Shorham, Kinsford, Horton, Darnhith, Dartford or Derwentford, Craie. & there taking in the Craie on the left hand that coms from Orpington by Marie Craie, Paules Craie, North Craie, and Craiford, it is not long yer it fall into the Thames. But after I had once passed the fall of the brooke, it is a world to sée what plentie of Serephium groweth vpon the Kentish shore, in whose description Fuichsius hath not a little halted; whilest he giueth foorth the hearbe Argentaria for Serephium, betwéene which there is no maner of likelihood. This neuerthelesse is notable in the said hearbe, that being translated into the garden, it receiueth another forme cleane different from the first, which it yéelded when it grew vpon the shore, and therevnto appeareth of more fat & foggie substance. Which maketh me to thinke that our physicians do take it for a distinct kind of wormewood, whereof controuersie ariseth among them. The next water that falleth into the Thames, is west of the Wauie Iles, a rill of no great fame, neither long course, for rising about Coringham, [Page 90] it runneth not manie miles east and by south, yer it fall into the mouth of this riuer, which I doo now describe.

I would haue spoken of one créeke that commeth in at Cliffe, and another that runneth downe from Haltsto by S. Maries: but sith I vnderstand not with what backewaters they be serued, I let them passe as not skilfull of their courses. And thus much of the riuers that fall into the Thames, wherein I haue doone what I maie, but not what I would for mine owne satisfaction, till I came from the head to Lechlade, vnto which, as in lieu of a farewell, I will ascribe that distichon which Apollonius Rhodius writeth of the Thermodon:

Huic non est aliud flumen par, nec tot in agros
Vllum dimittit riuos quot fundit vtrinque.

Midwaie. Next vnto the Thames we haue the Midwaie water, whereof I find two descriptions, the first beginneth thus. The Midwaie water is called in Latine Medeuia (as some write) bicause the course therof is midwaie in a manner betwéene London and Dorobernia, or (as we now call it) Canturburie. In British it hight Dourbrée: and thereof Rochester was sometime called Durobreuum. But in an old charter which I haue seene (conteining a donation sometime made to the monasterie of saint Andrews there by Ceadwalla) I find that the Saxons called this riuer Wedring; and also a towne standing betweene Malling and east Farleie, Wedrington; and finallie, a forrest also of the same denomination, Wedrington, now Waterdon, wherby the originall name appeareth to be fetched from this streame. It ariseth in Waterdon forrest east of Whetlin or Wedring, and ioineth with another brooke that descendeth from Ward forrest in Sussex: and after this confluence they go on togither, as one by Ashhirst, where hauing receiued also the second brooke, it hasteth to Pensherst, and there carrieth withall the Eden, that commeth from Lingfield parke. After this it goeth to the southeast part of Kent, and taketh with it Frethus. the Frith or Firth, on the northwest side, and an other little streame that commeth from the hilles betwéene Peuenburie and Horsemon on the southeast. From thence also, and not farre from Yalling it receiueth the Theise. Theise (a pretie streame that ariseth about Theise Hirst) & afterward Grane aliàs Cranus. the Gran or Crane, which hauing his head not farre from Cranbrooke, and méeting with sundrie other riuelets by the waie, whereof one branch of Theise is the last, for it parteth at the Twist, and including a pretie Iland, doth ioine with the said Midwaie, a little aboue Yalding, and then with the Lowse. Finallie at Maidstone it méeteth with another brooke, whose name I know not, and then passeth by Allington, Duton, Newhide, Halling, Cuckestane, Rochester, Chattham, Gillingham, Vpchurch, Kingsferrie, and falleth into the maine sea betwéene Shepeie and the Grane.

And thus much out of the first authour, who commendeth it also, for that in time past it did yéeld such plentie of sturgeon, as beside the kings portion, and a due vnto the archbishop of Canturburie out of the same, the deane and chapter of Rochester had no small allowance also of that commoditie: likewise for the shrimps that are taken therein, which are no lesse estéemed of in their kind, than the westerne smelts or flounders taken in the Thames, &c. The second authour describeth it after this manner, and more copiouslie than the other.

The cheefe head of this streame riseth in Waterdon forrest, from whence after it hath runne a pretie waie still within the same, east of Whetlin, it méeteth with a brooke, whose head is in Ward forrest, southwest of Greenested, which goeth to Hartfield, and so to Whetlin, and yer long ioineth with the Midwaie. After this confluence it is not long yer it take in another by west from Cowden ward, and the third aboue Pensherst, growing from two heads, whereof one is in Lingfield parke, the other west of Crawherst; and ioining aboue Edinbridge, it doth fall into the midwaie beneath Heuer towne, and Chiddingston. From Pensherst our maine streame hasteth to Ligh, Tunbridge, and Twidleie, and beneath the towne, it crosseth a water from North, whereof one head is at the Mote, another at Wroteham, the third at west Peckham, & likewise another from southest, that runneth east of Capell. Next after this it receiueth the These, whose forked head is at Theise Hirst, which descending downe toward the north, taketh in not farre from Scotnie a brooke out of the northside of Waterden forrest, whose name I find not, [Page 91] except it be the Dour. After this confluence our riuer goeth to Goldhirst, and comming to the Twist, it brancheth in such wise, that one part of it runneth into Midwaie, another into the Garan, or rather Garunus, Cranus. Cranebrooke (if my coniecture be anie thing.) The Garan (as Leland calleth it) or the Crane (as I doo take it) riseth néere to Cranebrooke, and going by Siffinghirst, it receiueth yer long one water that commeth by Fretingdon, and another that runneth from great Chard by Smerdon, and Hedcorne, crossing two rilles by the waie from by north, Hedcorne it selfe standing betwéene them both. Finallie, the Garan or Crane meeting with Midwaie south of Yalling, they on the one side, and the These on the other, leaue a pretie Iland in the middest, of foure miles in length, and two in breadth, wherein is some hillie soile, but neither towne nor village, so farre as I remember.

From Yalling forward, the Midwaie goeth to west Farlegh, east Farlegh: and yer it come at Maidstone, it interteineth a rill that riseth short of Ienham, and goeth by Ledes and Otteringden, which is verie beneficiall to clothiers in drie yéeres: for thither they conueie their clothes to be thicked at the fulling milles, sometimes ten miles for the same: there is also at Ledes great plentie of fulling earth, which is a necessarie commoditie.

Being past Maidstone, it runneth by Allington, Snodland, Halling, Cuckstane, and Rochester, where it passeth vnder a faire bridge of stone, with a verie swift course, which bridge was begun 1388 by the lord Iohn Cobham, the ladie Margaret his wife, and the valiant sir Robert Knolles, who gaue the first onset vpon that péece of worke, and therevnto builded a chappell of the Trinitie at the end therof, in testimonie of his pietie. In processe of time also one Iohn Warner of Rochester made the new coping thereof; and archbishop Warham of Canturburie the iron barres: the bishops also of that see were not slacke in their beneuolence and furtherances toward that worke, especiallie Walter Merton founder of Merton college in Oxford, who by misfortune perished by falling from the same, as he rode to surueie the workemen. Being past Rochester, this noble riuer goeth to Chatham, Gillingham, Vpchurch, and soone after branching, it imbraceth the Greene at his fall, as his two heads doo Ashdon forrest, that lieth betwéene them both.

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