CHAPTER 7

The Tributes

The Thames has many tributaries. There is good reason to honour them. The gods were meant to dance at the confluence of waters. The mingling of the tributary and the main river was deemed to be sacred. The site of entry was a holy place, guarded by the three seated goddesses who have been given the name of Matres. There is a significant clustering of cursus sites, of presumed Neolithic date, around the confluences on the Upper Thames. So the meeting of the rivers is an occasion for spiritual ritual.

There is one especial god for this purpose. The Celtic god Condatis—who is in some late Roman inscriptions associated with Mars, no doubt in his capacity as a healing power—takes his name from the Gallic epithet “watersmeet.” He is literally the god of the two streams, the confluens, and was worshipped as such. It is true that his cult is especially associated with northern Britain, and in particular with the area of the Tyne and the Tees, but there is good reason to believe that such an important deity travelled through the island.

The principal tributaries of the Thames are the Churn, the Thame, the Colne, the Leach, the Windrush, the Evenlode, the Cherwell, the Kennet, the Ver, the Wey, the Mole, the Medway, the Lea and the Roding. There are smaller rivers and streams that refresh and replenish the river—the Ampney Brook, the Gatwick Stream, the Ray, the Cole, the Blackwater, the Ock, the Lambourn, the Pang, the Loddon, the Wye, the Bourne, the Hogsmill and the Ember. There are also waters that stream into the tidal river, among them the Brent, Stamford Brook, Beverley Brook, the Wandle, Chelsea Creek, the Hole Bourne, the Fleet, the Walbrook, Deptford Creek, Barking Creek, the Beam, Rainham Creek, the Mar Dyke, Dartford Creek, Bill Meroy Creek, Cliffe Creek, Mucking Creek, Shell Haven Creek, Hole Haven Creek, Cliffe Fleet, Salt Fleet and the Yantlet Fleet.

Many are now buried; many are forgotten; many are today unhonoured and unsung. There are London rivers, for example, that have long been forced beneath the ground where they remain as conduits or as sewers. Some of these buried waters may have found their own courses and become “shadow rivers” without a name, silently running within the earth. Yet these ancient rivers still exert an influence upon the world above them. They can make their presence known in odours and in creeping dampness; the buried Fleet, for example, can still flood basements along its course. The lost rivers were once deemed to be responsible for ague and fever, and their valleys (now carved between the streets and buildings of the city) were peculiarly susceptible to mist and fog. In more recent times the presence of the underground waters has been blamed for the prevalence of allergies in their vicinity.

Spenser honoured the meeting of the Thames with the Medway and with the Lea as a token of cosmic as well as of natural order. In the vast poetical topography of Polyolbion (1622) Drayton invokes the “clear Colne and the lively Leech,” and “the bright Elnlode.” Drummond of Hawthornden in An Hymn of the Fairest Faire (1623) writes of the stream and of the river as:

…but one self-same essence, nor in ought

Doe differ, save in order.

So the river can become a metaphor for spiritual grace. In painting, too, Turner was ever alert to the mythical powers of the tributary. One of his most celebrated paintings is entitled Union of the Thames and Isis. The setting is Dorchester Mead, just below the ancient hills of Sinodun, and at this place the Thame and the Thames converge. Yet Alexander Pope must carry the palm as the poet of confluence, and in Windsor Forest (1713) he becomes the hierophant chanting holy names:

First the fam’d authors of his ancient name,

The winding Isis and the fruitful THAME;

The Kennet swift, for silver eels renowned,

The Loddon slow, with verdant alders crown’d;

Cole, whose dark streams his flow’ry island lave,

And chalky Wey, that rolls a milky wave;

The blue transparent Vandalis appears,

The gulphy Lee, his sedgy tresses rears;

The sullen Mole, that hides his diving flood,

And silent Darent, stained with Danish blood!

And we in turn can call them out from their modest retreats. The Windrush, extravagantly named, rises among the hills of the Cotswolds, and passes through Bourton and Witney before joining the bosom of its parent. Was it so named because it winds among the rushes, or rushes like the wind? By meditating upon its name Drayton declared that it “scowres” the riverine landscape and “hies her fast / Through the Oxfordian fields” but this was an exaggeration. It is pretty and it is peaceful, except at those points where it surges between the cottages of Bourton-on-the-Water. It is certainly true, however, that the Thames becomes wider and deeper immediately downstream from its confluence with the Windrush.

The Kennet mingles with the Thames at Reading. In Polyolbion Michael Drayton celebrated their confluence:

At Reading once arrived, clear Kennet overtakes

Her Lord the stately Tames, which that great Flood again

With many signs of joy doth kindly entertain.

It is, in other words, a holy marriage or sacred union testifying to the life principle of the world. It is an emblem of fertility. One of the early variants of Kennet is Cunetio, so there may be some vestigial reference to the generative organ of the earth goddess. The bridge here is known as the Horseshoe Bridge, the horseshoe being an ancient symbol of fortune. At the mouth of the Kennet there is an ancient burial ground, now known as Broken Bow, which may be a version of Broken Barrow. Objects of metal and of pottery have been dredged up at this confluence of waters, suggesting that offerings were made here. It is also clear from the archaeological evidence, with the finding of an extremely rare hut or shelter beside the river, that the area around the mouth of the Kennet and the Thames harboured a trading station in the mesolithic period. So this confluence was a commercial, as well as a sacred, site. The bridge itself is now covered with graffiti; among them “Christ Is Coming.”

The Ock, down the river from Abingdon, is the sole outlet for the surplus waters of the Vale of the White Horse; it was once the cause of so many floods that it rivalled the Thames. On its banks have been discovered the remains of an Iron Age religious centre as well as a temple of Romano-Celtic provenance. There was also here a mansio or lodging house for pilgrims, and a structure that may either be an amphitheatre or a walled sacred pool. The propinquity of the river suggests the latter. There was also a cemetery sited here. Some of the Roman bodies contained coins in their mouths, so that they might pay the ferryman.

The “sullen Mole” falls into the river just below Hampton Bridge; it is not particularly sullen, if water can in any case be supposed to suffer from that mood, and its name seems suspiciously like poetic association with the habits of the subterranean animal. Pope in fact borrowed the phrase from Milton who has “the Sullen Mole that runneth underneath.” Milton in turn took the description from Spenser who wrote that

Mole that like a Mousling mole doth make

His way still underground, till the Thames he overtake.

It is an impressive litany of poetic votaries for a small river, and the reference to the “underground” and to the mole are by no means fanciful. In the neighbourhood of Box Hill and Norbury Park, it disappears and then revives. At times of drought the stream is dry at this point, but then is restored near Leatherhead. The antiquary, William Camden, believed that the Mole ran down into a dark cavern beneath the earth from which it was lifted by the power of nature. Defoe noted the same phenomenon and believed that the cause lay in little channels known as “swallows.” “Swallow holes” are in fact known to be a property of limestone rocks, which abound in this area. The Mole really does disappear and rise again, entering the Thames itself at Molesworth.

The river Churn begins its course among the headsprings at Seven Springs, which some believe to be the Thames itself, and in the space of 14 miles falls 400 feet (120 m) until it meets its quietus in the river. It was described by Michael Drayton as the “nimble-footed Churn” an accurate description, at least by the standards of poetical topography. It is, or was, a dancing little trout stream until the clear water of the tributary mingles with the turbulent brown river at Cricklade.

Just below Shiplake Lock the Lodden runs into the Thames. Pope describes it as the “slow Loddon,” but in truth it is not slow at all. It has a swift current, which in previous years supported many watermills. It also has a curious effect of its own. Swimmers of long experience have testified that anyone who swims against its current is invariably affected by sickness and nausea; there is no obvious explanation for this strange phenomenon, but nonetheless it is present. It leads inevitably to speculation that there are some parts of the river that create or harbour distinct properties that are not susceptible to rational analysis.

The Wandle discharges itself into the Thames by Battersea, and has one of the strongest currents among all the tributaries of the river. It is the stream from which Wandsworth derives its name. This is the “blue transparent Vandalis” of Pope’s poem, the poet no doubt considering the English name and location to be in need of some Latinate uplift. In fact the name derives from the Saxon Wendleswurth or “Wendel’s settlement.” It also has another poem to its credit, although not one that would be allowed into Pope’s polite company:

Sweet little witch of the Wandle!

Come to my bosom and fondle;

I love thee sincerely,

I’ll cherish thee dearly,

Sweet little witch of the Wandle.

The name of the Ravensbourne has an exotic origin. It is said that Caesar, while camping with his army near Blackheath, noticed that a raven frequently alighted a short distance away. He conjectured that it came to this place to drink and, after further observation, a small clear spring was found in that place. The spring became known as the Raven’s Well, and the tributary emerged as the Ravensbourne. There is a poem, of doubtful merit, devoted to its progress from “a crystal rillet” to a “flood.” The “flood” itself, being of so deep a nature, later gave its name to Deptford or Deep-Ford. But it does have a certain historical importance. Its waters refreshed the rebellious followers of Wat Tyler and, at a later date, the rebels under Jack Cade. Perkin Warbeck, the pretender to the English throne, met his adherents by the banks of the Ravensbourne; it was here also that in 1497 the Cornish rebels under the command of Lord Audley were hewn to pieces by the captains of Henry VII. No other tributary of the Thames has such a history of insurrection and bloodshed.

The Lea river has been memorialised by Spenser as “the wanton Lea that oft doth lose his way,” and indeed its course is of a wandering nature. It rises near Luton, in Bedfordshire, and then makes its way to Hertford and to Ware; it then passes close by Amwell, where the New River once also flowed, and touches upon Hoddesdon, Cheshunt, Waltham Abbey, Enfield, Edmonton, Tottenham, Stratford, Walthamstow and Bow until eventually it finds its surcease at Bow Creek close to Blackwall. It was once celebrated as a fishing stream, and the fisherman, or “Piscator,” of Isaac Walton’s The Compleat Angler frequents the river Lea and stays at the inns close to its banks. But the Lea is now pre-eminently the river of London’s eastern suburbs, and of the industrial parks that have taken the place of the “stink industries” upon its banks. Leyton is “the town upon the Lea.” Yet the river has a significant history. The invading Danes sailed up the Lea from Blackwall, and erected a fort at Ware. The bridge over the Lea, at Stratford or Stratford-le-Bow, enjoyed the distinction of being the oldest stone bridge in England, pre-dating London Bridge by a hundred years. Waltham Abbey is the last resting place of the last Saxon king of England, buried under the simple inscription of “Harold infelix.”

The tributary of the Cherwell rises in the ironstone hills of Hellidon, and then flows through Northamptonshire and Oxfordshire for 40 miles before reaching the Thames. It is sometimes considered to be a minor stream but in fact it augments the volume of the Thames by approximately a third, as the river moves towards Iffley.

The river Effra is named from the Celtic word yfrid, or torrent, and in its pristine state it rose near the area now known as Crystal Palace. It flows through Norwood Cemetery, Dulwich, Herne Hill, Brixton and Kennington before entering the Thames at Vauxhall Bridge. There is a curious token of its past significance to be found in the remains of a wooden structure, tentatively dated to the middle Bronze Age, located on the south bank where the Effra joins the river. The remains of the wooden posts can still be seen at low tide, but of the Effra itself there is little sign. It has become what is known as a “subterranean river,” long since buried by housing and other developments; parts of the river have been used as sewers since the seventeenth century, and it has been largely diverted into a storm relief sewer. It can only be entered through the sewers of Effra Road in Brixton. Its powers have departed.

The greatest of all the forgotten tributaries, however, must be the Fleet, which still flows into the Thames beneath Blackfriars Bridge; if you travel by boat beneath that bridge, you will see a circular opening through which its waters pour. It is the only visible sign of a buried power. Its name is most likely to derive from the Anglo-Saxon term for a tidal estuary, as in North-fleet. But it is possible that it comes from the fleetness, or swiftness, of its waters that gathered first among the wells and springs to the north of the city. They came together in the vicinity of Clerkenwell, and the then substantial river ran down Turnmill Street (the etymology of which is clear enough) before widening at Holborn (literally “old bourne” or old brook) where a bridge across it was erected. It then entered the valley down to the Thames, the contours of which are still apparent in the canyon of Farringdon Street that descends from Fleet Street to Bridewell.

In the medieval period it was in extensive use, most particularly by colliers coming from the north-east of England. One of the streets leading off Farringdon Street is still known as Sea-Coal Lane. In his survey of London John Stow writes that “in times past the course of the water running at London under Old-bourne Bridge into the Thames had been of such breadth and depth that ten or twelve ships at once, with merchandise, were wont to come to the aforesaid bridge of the Fleet, and some of them to Old-bourne Bridge.” More unhappily it had also been a common depository for the refuse and sewage of Londoners ever since the city was built around it, and it was periodically cleansed. In 1502, for example, there was a grand cleaning “so that fish and fewel were rowed to the Fleet Bridge” but by the end of the sixteenth century it had become in parts an open sewer, obstructed by refuse of all descriptions, and had acquired a reputation as a noisome or even dangerous place. The inmates of the Fleet Prison, largely a gaol for debtors, petitioned against the disease and mortality that the vapours of the tributary seemed to harbour. In 1732 it was bricked in from Holborn Bridge to Fleet Street, and a market placed on the site. Thirty-three years later it was covered from Fleet Street to its outlet in the Thames.

It has the distinction, however, of being celebrated both by Ben Jonson and by Alexander Pope in what might be loosely described as an anti-pastoral tradition. In the poetry of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries the Thames invokes images of purity and of clarity, but the Fleet was deemed to be its dark shadow. Ben Jonson, in a poem entitled “The Voyage Itself” (1610), invokes “the filth, stench, noise” of the tributary as an essential and elemental part of the city’s life. Where the confluence of two rivers was once the occasion for celebration to the gods, the only deities dancing upon these waters are “Gorgonian scolds and harpies”:

…here several ghosts did flit

About the shore, of farts but late departed,

White, black, blue, green, and in more forms out-started.

It is a torrent of “steams” and “grease,” of “laxative lettuce” and of “merdurinous load,” a wholly rank and miasmal river which has taken on the more unhappy characteristics “of Styx, of Acheron, / Cocytus, Phlegethon.” The epic qualities of the river are here reversed. By the early eighteenth century the Fleet had become a symbol or epitome of London itself. As a poem in the Tatler of 1710 put it:

Filth of all hues and odours seem to tell

What street they sailed from, by their sight and smell.

In the Dunciad (1728) Pope widens and intensifies Jonson’s excremental vision with his own description of the impure locale:

To where Fleet-ditch with disemboguing streams

Rolls the large tribute of dead dogs to Thames,

The King of dykes! than whom no sluice of mud

With deeper sable blots the silver flood.

It is the metaphorical space for “filth” and “love of dirt,” the excremental centre of London’s polluted life. In Pope’s cloacal vision all of the cheap versifiers and pamphleteers dive into “the quaking mud” of the tributary as if they were entering their natural element. The silver Thames has its retinue of nymphs and goddesses, but the Fleet has its “Mud-nymphs,” “Nigrina black, and Merdamente brown,” who “suck in” their votaries with their foul embrace. These are the real “nut-brown maids” who have migrated from the woods to the sewers, and taken on the hue and savour of their ordurous surroundings. The national myth of the silver Thames rose above these local inconveniences, so that all the mire and filth were projected upon the river or “ditch” of the Fleet. It was another service that the tributaries paid to their superior.