''Nobody will ever know, on this line,'' we said, ''what you are, or where you're
going. You know the way, you slip off quietly and go to Kingston.''
''Well, I don't know, gents,'' replied the noble fellow, ''but I suppose SOME
train's got to go to Kingston; and I'll do it. Gimme the half– crown.''
Thus we got to Kingston by the London and South-Western Railway.
We learnt, afterwards, that the train we had come by was really the Exeter mail,
and that they had spent hours at Waterloo, looking for it, and nobody knew what
had become of it.
Our boat was waiting for us at Kingston just below bridge, and to it we wended
our way, and round it we stored our luggage, and into it we stepped.
''Are you all right, sir?'' said the man.
''Right it is,'' we answered; and with Harris at the sculls and I at the tiller-lines,
and Montmorency, unhappy and deeply suspicious, in the prow, out we shot on to the
waters which, for a fortnight, were to be our home.
KINGSTON. – INSTRUCTIVE REMARKS ON EARLY ENGLISH HISTORY. – INSTRUCTIVE OBSERVATIONS
ON CARVED OAK AND LIFE IN GENERAL. – SAD CASE OF STIVVINGS, JUNIOR. – MUSINGS ON
ANTIQUITY. – I FORGET THAT I AM STEERING. – INTERESTING RESULT. – HAMPTON COURT
MAZE. – HARRIS AS A GUIDE.
IT was a glorious morning, late spring or early summer, as you care to take it,
when the dainty sheen of grass and leaf is blushing to a deeper green; and the year
seems like a fair young maid, trembling with strange, wakening pulses on the brink
The quaint back streets of Kingston, where they came down to the water's edge,
looked quite picturesque in the flashing sunlight, the glinting river with its drifting
barges, the wooded towpath, the trim-kept villas on the other side, Harris, in a
red and orange blazer, grunting away at the sculls, the distant glimpses of the
grey old palace of the Tudors, all made a sunny picture, so bright but calm, so
full of life, and yet so peaceful, that, early in the day though it was, I felt
myself being dreamily lulled off into a musing fit.
I mused on Kingston, or ''Kyningestun,'' as it was once called in the days when
Saxon ''kinges'' were crowned there. Great Caesar crossed the river there, and the
Roman legions camped upon its sloping uplands. Caesar, like, in later years, Elizabeth,
seems to have stopped everywhere: only he was more respectable than good Queen Bess;
he didn't put up at the public-houses.
She was nuts on public-houses, was England's Virgin Queen. There's scarcely a
pub. of any attractions within ten miles of London that she does not seem to have
looked in at, or stopped at, or slept at, some time or other. I wonder now, supposing
Harris, say, turned over a new leaf, and became a great and good man, and got to
be Prime Minister, and died, if they would put up signs over the public-houses that
he had patronised: ''Harris had a glass of bitter in this house;'' ''Harris had
two of Scotch cold here in the summer of `88;'' ''Harris was chucked from here in
No, there would be too many of them! It would be the houses that he had never
entered that would become famous. ''Only house in South London that Harris never
had a drink in!'' The people would flock to it to see what could have been the matter
How poor weak-minded King Edwy must have hated Kyningestun! The coronation feast
had been too much for him. Maybe boar's head stuffed with sugar-plums did not agree
with him (it wouldn't with me, I know), and he had had enough of sack and mead;
so he slipped from the noisy revel to steal a quiet moonlight hour with his beloved
Perhaps, from the casement, standing hand-in-hand, they were watching the calm
moonlight on the river, while from the distant halls the boisterous revelry floated
in broken bursts of faint-heard din and tumult.
Then brutal Odo and St. Dunstan force their rude way into the quiet room, and
hurl coarse insults at the sweet-faced Queen, and drag poor Edwy back to the loud
clamour of the drunken brawl.
Years later, to the crash of battle-music, Saxon kings and Saxon revelry were
buried side by side, and Kingston's greatness passed away for a time, to rise once
more when Hampton Court became the palace of the Tudors and the Stuarts, and the
royal barges strained at their moorings on the river's bank, and bright-cloaked
gallants swaggered down the water-steps to cry: ''What Ferry, ho! Gadzooks, gramercy.''
Many of the old houses, round about, speak very plainly of those days when Kingston
was a royal borough, and nobles and courtiers lived there, near their King, and
the long road to the palace gates was gay all day with clanking steel and prancing
palfreys, and rustling silks and velvets, and fair faces. The large and spacious
houses, with their oriel, latticed windows, their huge fireplaces, and their gabled
roofs, breathe of the days of hose and doublet, of pearl-embroidered stomachers,
and complicated oaths. They were upraised in the days ''when men knew how to build.''
The hard red bricks have only grown more firmly set with time, and their oak stairs
do not creak and grunt when you try to go down them quietly.
Speaking of oak staircases reminds me that there is a magnificent carved oak
staircase in one of the houses in Kingston. It is a shop now, in the market-place,
but it was evidently once the mansion of some great personage. A friend of mine,
who lives at Kingston, went in there to buy a hat one day, and, in a thoughtless
moment, put his hand in his pocket and paid for it then and there.
The shopman (he knows my friend) was naturally a little staggered at first; but,
quickly recovering himself, and feeling that something ought to be done to encourage
this sort of thing, asked our hero if he would like to see some fine old carved
oak. My friend said he would, and the shopman, thereupon, took him through the shop,
and up the staircase of the house. The balusters were a superb piece of workmanship,
and the wall all the way up was oak-panelled, with carving that would have done
credit to a palace.
From the stairs, they went into the drawing-room, which was a large, bright room,
decorated with a somewhat startling though cheerful paper of a blue ground. There
was nothing, however, remarkable about the apartment, and my friend wondered why
he had been brought there. The proprietor went up to the paper, and tapped it. It
gave forth a wooden sound.
''Oak,'' he explained. ''All carved oak, right up to the ceiling, just the same
as you saw on the staircase.''
''But, great Caesar! man,'' expostulated my friend; ''you don't mean to say you
have covered over carved oak with blue wall-paper?''
''Yes,'' was the reply: ''it was expensive work. Had to match-board it all over
first, of course. But the room looks cheerful now. It was awful gloomy before.''
I can't say I altogether blame the man (which is doubtless a great relief to
his mind). From his point of view, which would be that of the average householder,
desiring to take life as lightly as possible, and not that of the old-curiosity-shop
maniac, there is reason on his side. Carved oak is very pleasant to look at, and
to have a little of, but it is no doubt somewhat depressing to live in, for those
whose fancy does not lie that way. It would be like living in a church.
No, what was sad in his case was that he, who didn't care for carved oak, should
have his drawing-room panelled with it, while people who do care for it have to
pay enormous prices to get it. It seems to be the rule of this world. Each person
has what he doesn't want, and other people have what he does want.
Married men have wives, and don't seem to want them; and young single fellows
cry out that they can't get them. Poor people who can hardly keep themselves have
eight hearty children. Rich old couples, with no one to leave their money to, die
Then there are girls with lovers. The girls that have lovers never want them.
They say they would rather be without them, that they bother them, and why don't
they go and make love to Miss Smith and Miss Brown, who are plain and elderly, and
haven't got any lovers? They themselves don't want lovers. They never mean to marry.
It does not do to dwell on these things; it makes one
There was a boy at our school, we used to call him Sandford and Merton. His real
name was Stivvings. He was the most extraordinary lad I ever came across. I believe
he really liked study. He used to get into awful rows for sitting up in bed and
reading Greek; and as for French irregular verbs there was simply no keeping him
away from them. He was full of weird and unnatural notions about being a credit
to his parents and an honour to the school; and he yearned to win prizes, and grow
up and be a clever man, and had all those sorts of weak-minded ideas. I never knew
such a strange creature, yet harmless, mind you, as the babe unborn.
Well, that boy used to get ill about twice a week, so that he couldn't go to
school. There never was such a boy to get ill as that Sandford and Merton. If there
was any known disease going within ten miles of him, he had it, and had it badly.
He would take bronchitis in the dog-days, and have hay-fever at Christmas. After
a six weeks' period of drought, he would be stricken down with rheumatic fever;
and he would go out in a November fog and come home with a sunstroke.
They put him under laughing-gas one year, poor lad, and drew all his teeth, and
gave him a false set, because he suffered so terribly with toothache; and then it
turned to neuralgia and ear-ache. He was never without a cold, except once for nine
weeks while he had scarlet fever; and he always had chilblains. During the great
cholera scare of 1871, our neighbourhood was singularly free from it. There was
only one reputed case in the whole parish: that case was young Stivvings.
He had to stop in bed when he was ill, and eat chicken and custards and hot-house
grapes; and he would lie there and sob, because they wouldn't let him do Latin exercises,
and took his German grammar away from him.
And we other boys, who would have sacrificed ten terms of our school-life for
the sake of being ill for a day, and had no desire whatever to give our parents
any excuse for being stuck-up about us, couldn't catch so much as a stiff neck.
We fooled about in draughts, and it did us good, and freshened us up; and we took
things to make us sick, and they made us fat, and gave us an appetite. Nothing we
could think of seemed to make us ill until the holidays began. Then, on the breaking-up
day, we caught colds, and whooping cough, and all kinds of disorders, which lasted
till the term recommenced; when, in spite of everything we could manoeuvre to the
contrary, we would get suddenly well again, and be better than ever.
Such is life; and we are but as grass that is cut down, and put into the oven
To go back to the carved-oak question, they must have had very fair notions of
the artistic and the beautiful, our great-great-grandfathers. Why, all our art treasures
of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I
wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and
candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around
them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The ''old blue'' that we hang about
our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries
ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now
for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued
mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the
baby to suck when he cried.
Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always
be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow– pattern dinner-plates
be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the
white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown),
that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully
mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house?
That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished lodgings. It is a white
dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully
erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire
it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless friends
jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its
presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her.
But in 200 years' time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up
from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold
for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will pass it round, and admire
it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate
as to how beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was.
We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar with
it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because
they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china dog. In 2288 people will gush
over it. The making of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our descendants will
wonder how we did it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly
as ''those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced
those china dogs.''
The ''sampler'' that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as ''tapestry
of the Victorian era,'' and be almost priceless. The blue-and– white mugs of the
present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for
their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers
from Japan will buy up all the ''Presents from Ramsgate,'' and ''Souvenirs of Margate,''
that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English