At Reading lock we came up with a steam launch, belonging to some friends of
mine, and they towed us up to within about a mile of Streatley. It is very delightful
being towed up by a launch. I prefer it myself to rowing. The run would have been
more delightful still, if it had not been for a lot of wretched small boats that
were continually getting in the way of our launch, and, to avoid running down which,
we had to be continually easing and stopping. It is really most annoying, the manner
in which these rowing boats get in the way of one's launch up the river; something
ought to done to stop it.
And they are so confoundedly impertinent, too, over it. You can whistle till
you nearly burst your boiler before they will trouble themselves to hurry. I would
have one or two of them run down now and then, if I had my way, just to teach them
all a lesson.
The river becomes very lovely from a little above Reading. The railway rather
spoils it near Tilehurst, but from Mapledurham up to Streatley it is glorious. A
little above Mapledurham lock you pass Hardwick House, where Charles I. played bowls.
The neighbourhood of Pangbourne, where the quaint little Swan Inn stands, must be
as familiar to the HABITUES of the Art Exhibitions as it is to its own inhabitants.
My friends' launch cast us loose just below the grotto, and then Harris wanted
to make out that it was my turn to pull. This seemed to me most unreasonable. It
had been arranged in the morning that I should bring the boat up to three miles
above Reading. Well, here we were, ten miles above Reading! Surely it was now their
I could not get either George or Harris to see the matter in its proper light,
however; so, to save argument, I took the sculls. I had not been pulling for more
than a minute or so, when George noticed something black floating on the water,
and we drew up to it. George leant over, as we neared it, and laid hold of it. And
then he drew back with a cry, and a blanched face.
It was the dead body of a woman. It lay very lightly on the water, and the face
was sweet and calm. It was not a beautiful face; it was too prematurely aged-looking,
too thin and drawn, to be that; but it was a gentle, lovable face, in spite of its
stamp of pinch and poverty, and upon it was that look of restful peace that comes
to the faces of the sick sometimes when at last the pain has left them.
Fortunately for us Ц we having no desire to be kept hanging about coroners' courts
Ц some men on the bank had seen the body too, and now took charge of it from us.
We found out the woman's story afterwards. Of course it was the old, old vulgar
tragedy. She had loved and been deceived Ц or had deceived herself. Anyhow, she
had sinned Ц some of us do now and then Ц and her family and friends, naturally
shocked and indignant, had closed their doors against her.
Left to fight the world alone, with the millstone of her shame around her neck,
she had sunk ever lower and lower. For a while she had kept both herself and the
child on the twelve shillings a week that twelve hours' drudgery a day procured
her, paying six shillings out of it for the child, and keeping her own body and
soul together on the remainder.
Six shillings a week does not keep body and soul together very unitedly. They
want to get away from each other when there is only such a very slight bond as that
between them; and one day, I suppose, the pain and the dull monotony of it all had
stood before her eyes plainer than usual, and the mocking spectre had frightened
her. She had made one last appeal to friends, but, against the chill wall of their
respectability, the voice of the erring outcast fell unheeded; and then she had
gone to see her child Ц had held it in her arms and kissed it, in a weary, dull
sort of way, and without betraying any particular emotion of any kind, and had left
it, after putting into its hand a penny box of chocolate she had bought it, and
afterwards, with her last few shillings, had taken a ticket and come down to Goring.
It seemed that the bitterest thoughts of her life must have centred about the
wooded reaches and the bright green meadows around Goring; but women strangely hug
the knife that stabs them, and, perhaps, amidst the gall, there may have mingled
also sunny memories of sweetest hours, spent upon those shadowed deeps over which
the great trees bend their branches down so low.
She had wandered about the woods by the river's brink all day, and then, when
evening fell and the grey twilight spread its dusky robe upon the waters, she stretched
her arms out to the silent river that had known her sorrow and her joy. And the
old river had taken her into its gentle arms, and had laid her weary head upon its
bosom, and had hushed away the pain.
Thus had she sinned in all things Ц sinned in living and in dying. God help her!
and all other sinners, if any more there be.
Goring on the left bank and Streatley on the right are both or either charming
places to stay at for a few days. The reaches down to Pangbourne woo one for a sunny
sail or for a moonlight row, and the country round about is full of beauty. We had
intended to push on to Wallingford that day, but the sweet smiling face of the river
here lured us to linger for a while; and so we left our boat at the bridge, and
went up into Streatley, and lunched at the ''Bull,'' much to Montmorency's satisfaction.
They say that the hills on each ride of the stream here once joined and formed
a barrier across what is now the Thames, and that then the river ended there above
Goring in one vast lake. I am not in a position either to contradict or affirm this
statement. I simply offer it.
It is an ancient place, Streatley, dating back, like most river-side towns and
villages, to British and Saxon times. Goring is not nearly so pretty a little spot
to stop at as Streatley, if you have your choice; but it is passing fair enough
in its way, and is nearer the railway in case you want to slip off without paying
your hotel bill.
WASHING DAY. Ц FISH AND FISHERS. Ц ON THE ART OF ANGLING. Ц A CONSCIENTIOUS FLY-FISHER.
Ц A FISHY STORY.
We stayed two days at Streatley, and got our clothes washed. We had tried washing
them ourselves, in the river, under George's superintendence, and it had been a
failure. Indeed, it had been more than a failure, because we were worse off after
we had washed our clothes than we were before. Before we had washed them, they had
been very, very dirty, it is true; but they were just wearable. AFTER we had washed
them Ц well, the river between Reading and Henley was much cleaner, after we had
washed our clothes in it, than it was before. All the dirt contained in the river
between Reading and Henley, we collected, during that wash, and worked it into our
The washerwoman at Streatley said she felt she owed it to herself to charge us
just three times the usual prices for that wash. She said it had not been like washing,
it had been more in the nature of excavating.
We paid the bill without a murmur.
The neighbourhood of Streatley and Goring is a great fishing centre. There is
some excellent fishing to be had here. The river abounds in pike, roach, dace, gudgeon,
and eels, just here; and you can sit and fish for them all day.
Some people do. They never catch them. I never knew anybody catch anything, up
the Thames, except minnows and dead cats, but that has nothing to do, of course,
with fishing! The local fisherman's guide doesn't say a word about catching anything.
All it says is the place is ''a good station for fishing;'' and, from what I have
seen of the district, I am quite prepared to bear out this statement.
There is no spot in the world where you can get more fishing, or where you can
fish for a longer period. Some fishermen come here and fish for a day, and others
stop and fish for a month. You can hang on and fish for a year, if you want to:
it will be all the same.
The ANGLER'S GUIDE TO THE THAMES says that ''jack and perch are also to be had
about here,'' but there the ANGLER'S GUIDE is wrong. Jack and perch may BE about
there. Indeed, I know for a fact that they are. You can SEE them there in shoals,
when you are out for a walk along the banks: they come and stand half out of the
water with their mouths open for biscuits. And, if you go for a bathe, they crowd
round, and get in your way, and irritate you. But they are not to be ''had'' by
a bit of worm on the end of a hook, nor anything like it Ц not they!
I am not a good fisherman myself. I devoted a considerable amount of attention
to the subject at one time, and was getting on, as I thought, fairly well; but the
old hands told me that I should never be any real good at it, and advised me to
give it up. They said that I was an extremely neat thrower, and that I seemed to
have plenty of gumption for the thing, and quite enough constitutional laziness.
But they were sure I should never make anything of a fisherman. I had not got sufficient
They said that as a poet, or a shilling shocker, or a reporter, or anything of
that kind, I might be satisfactory, but that, to gain any position as a Thames angler,
would require more play of fancy, more power of invention than I appeared to possess.
Some people are under the impression that all that is required to make a good
fisherman is the ability to tell lies easily and without blushing; but this is a
mistake. Mere bald fabrication is useless; the veriest tyro can manage that. It
is in the circumstantial detail, the embellishing touches of probability, the general
air of scrupulous Ц almost of pedantic Ц veracity, that the experienced angler is
Anybody can come in and say, ''Oh, I caught fifteen dozen perch yesterday evening;''
or ''Last Monday I landed a gudgeon, weighing eighteen pounds, and measuring three
feet from the tip to the tail.''
There is no art, no skill, required for that sort of thing. It shows pluck, but
that is all.
No; your accomplished angler would scorn to tell a lie, that way. His method
is a study in itself.
He comes in quietly with his hat on, appropriates the most comfortable chair,
lights his pipe, and commences to puff in silence. He lets the youngsters brag away
for a while, and then, during a momentary lull, he removes the pipe from his mouth,
and remarks, as he knocks the ashes out against the bars:
''Well, I had a haul on Tuesday evening that it's not much good my telling anybody
''Oh! why's that?'' they ask.
''Because I don't expect anybody would believe me if I did,'' replies the old
fellow calmly, and without even a tinge of bitterness in his tone, as he refills
his pipe, and requests the landlord to bring him three of Scotch, cold.
There is a pause after this, nobody feeling sufficiently sure of himself to contradict
the old gentleman. So he has to go on by himself without any encouragement.
''No,'' he continues thoughtfully; ''I shouldn't believe it myself if anybody
told it to me, but it's a fact, for all that. I had been sitting there all the afternoon
and had caught literally nothing Ц except a few dozen dace and a score of jack;
and I was just about giving it up as a bad job when I suddenly felt a rather smart
pull at the line. I thought it was another little one, and I went to jerk it up.
Hang me, if I could move the rod! It took me half-an-hour Ц half-an-hour, sir! Ц
to land that fish; and every moment I thought the line was going to snap! I reached
him at last, and what do you think it was? A sturgeon! a forty pound sturgeon! taken
on a line, sir! Yes, you may well look surprised Ц I'll have another three of Scotch,
And then he goes on to tell of the astonishment of everybody who saw it; and
what his wife said, when he got home, and of what Joe Buggles thought about it.
I asked the landlord of an inn up the river once, if it did not injure him, sometimes,
listening to the tales that the fishermen about there told him; and he said:
''Oh, no; not now, sir. It did used to knock me over a bit at first, but, lor
love you! me and the missus we listens to `em all day now. It's what you're used
to, you know. It's what you're used to.''
I knew a young man once, he was a most conscientious fellow, and, when he took
to fly-fishing, he determined never to exaggerate his hauls by more than twenty-five
''When I have caught forty fish,'' said he, ''then I will tell people that I
have caught fifty, and so on. But I will not lie any more than that, because it
is sinful to lie.''
But the twenty-five per cent. plan did not work well at all. He never was able
to use it. The greatest number of fish he ever caught in one day was three, and
you can't add twenty-five per cent. to three Ц at least, not in fish.
So he increased his percentage to thirty-three-and-a-third; but that, again,
was awkward, when he had only caught one or two; so, to simplify matters, he made
up his mind to just double the quantity.
He stuck to this arrangement for a couple of months, and then he grew dissatisfied
with it. Nobody believed him when he told them that he only doubled, and he, therefore,
gained no credit that way whatever, while his moderation put him at a disadvantage
among the other anglers. When he had really caught three small fish, and said he
had caught six, it used to make him quite jealous to hear a man, whom he knew for
a fact had only caught one, going about telling people he had landed two dozen.
So, eventually, he made one final arrangement with himself, which he has religiously
held to ever since, and that was to count each fish that he caught as ten, and to
assume ten to begin with. For example, if he did not catch any fish at all, then
he said he had caught ten fish Ц you could never catch less than ten fish by his
system; that was the foundation of it. Then, if by any chance he really did catch
one fish, he called it twenty, while two fish would count thirty, three forty, and
It is a simple and easily worked plan, and there has been some talk lately of
its being made use of by the angling fraternity in general. Indeed, the Committee
of the Thames Angler's Association did recommend its adoption about two years ago,
but some of the older members opposed it. They said they would consider the idea
if the number were doubled, and each fish counted as twenty.