G. E. Mitton

As far as Hampton the river may be said to lie within the zone of the Londoner. By means of the District Railway and the London and South Western Railway he can get at any part of it, and trams are yearly stretching out further and further, so that he can go above ground, if he wishes, all the way to Hampton. At Hampton itself, at Richmond and Kew, there are large open spaces once the gardens or parks belonging to kings, but now open as public pleasure grounds, ideal places for the man who has a small family to take with him, and whose holiday is limited to a day. For those who are free from encumbrances, there are always boats to be had in abundance, at a much cheaper rate than one would have to pay for them at, say, Maidenhead; and the scenery itself, though not so fine as some higher up, is pleasant and attractive. If the day be wet or uncertain there is the palace at Hampton to explore; and accommodation for eating and drinking is amply supplied by numerous inns and hotels clustering round its gates.

The gateway to the Palace is imposing, with its brick piers and stone heraldic animals, and the long low range of buildings on the left side makes a strip of bright colour.

HAMPTON COURT FROM THE RIVER

The older part of the palace was built by Wolsey, but by far the greater part of it, as it now stands, is due to William III. Some parts of the entrance gateway and the great hall are all that remain to speak of Wolsey's inconceivable boldness in attempting to build a palace which should outshine that of a jealous monarch like Henry VIII. Skelton's satire, beginning:

showed what everyone thought, and doubtless served to concentrate attention upon Wolsey's temerity. The irony of the matter lay in the fact that the palace was not seized, but that the unfortunate owner was forced to make a present of it to the King:

Whether he gave the palace as it stood, with its "two hundred and four score beds, the furniture of most being of silk," is not recorded; but it is probable that when he had been wrought up to the pitch of terror necessary for overcoming his reluctance to part with his beautiful new possession, he would give all—everything—feeling that so long as his life was safe it was all he cared about. As a mark of royal favour, Henry allowed him to occupy apartments at Richmond, where he was not too far off to observe the doings of the monarch in his palace. The king was so pleased with his new establishment that he formed a mighty park, embracing all the land for miles around, including East and West Molesey, Cobham, Esher, Byfleet, and Thames Ditton, and was sorely aggrieved because his loving subjects, whose land and rights had thus been confiscated, dared to make an outcry.

Edward VI. was born at Hampton. After his death Queen Mary came here with her husband Philip, and the unhappy couple, one full of sullen hate, the other sore and bitter in her loneliness, must have strolled in the grounds many a time.

For three months King Charles I. was held prisoner here while his fate was undecided, and when he was removed it was to go up the river to Maidenhead, where he said his last farewell to his children. Oliver Cromwell, who, though he dared not take the name of king, had no dislike to the royal privileges, lived at Hampton, and one of his daughters was married from the palace. But by the time of William III., much of the building had fallen into decay. The situation was pleasant, and though Henry's park had in great part reverted to its rightful owners, there was still much open ground around which made the place desirable. William had a passion for building, and loved the prim Dutch style, as was natural. The maze and the canal, and the long avenues of trees in Bushey, are all evidences of his taste. But in the palace he attempted to copy Versailles, as he had already copied it at Kensington. Poor Wren must have been as much perplexed as ever he was in his life when told to remodel a Tudor building into the copy of one of the Renaissance, and that he succeeded at all is greatly to his credit. Two out of the five courts which remained of the old palace were pulled down, and the state rooms, as we now see them, are the work of Wren under William's directions. Since then the interest and beauty of the interior has been much added to by the famous collection of pictures, which attracts at least as many visitors as the building does.

Bushey Park adjoins Hampton, and lies so close to the river that it forms part of the river scenery. Its glory is in its great double line of chestnuts, with the broad sweep of green grass lining the avenues formed by them. Chestnut Sunday, when the trees are in bloom, is a well-known date in the Londoner's calendar, and every description of conveyance is hired, chartered, or borrowed, to see the great sight. Hundreds of people, to whom it is one of the great days in the year, walk about or eat refreshments beneath the sombre green masses which are lightened by a thousand pyramidal candles. The central avenue is one mile and forty yards in length, and the width of it is fifty-six yards. A noble conception, worthy of the little man with the wise head. On Hampton Green, outside the gates of the palace, Sir Christopher Wren passed the last five years of his life, in sight of his greatest architectural problem.

Molesey Lock, just above the bridge, is a popular place in summer. All those who have come down to enjoy the fresh air, and who want an excuse for doing nothing, stand and watch the boats passing through; there is always as great a crowd on the tow-path as on the water. A number of islands lie above the lock, the largest of which is Tagg's, as well known as any island on the river, and much patronised by holiday-makers at lunch and tea time. In summer a band plays on the lawn twice a week. It is opposite the end of the Hurst Park Racecourse, patronised by altogether a different type of people from those who come to Hampton Court, and who can only be said to belong to the river accidentally, by reason of the position of the course. A wonderful club boat-house of polished wood has sprung up of recent years on the Hampton side, and above it is Garrick's Villa with portico and columns. This the great actor bought in 1754, and kept until his death, after which his widow lived in it for another forty years. He was visited here by all the celebrated men of his time, including Horace Walpole, Dr. Johnson and Hogarth, and here he gave a splendid series of river fÊtes. The little temple on the bank was built by him as a shrine for a statue of Shakespeare, which has now been removed. A small public garden on the edge of the water makes this a favourite lounging place for the people of the neighbourhood. The scenery is rather tame, but has that charm always to be found in flowing water and green grass, in the absence of chimneys and other horrors of man's making.

The church of Hampton village stands up fairly high above the water. It is in a most unlovely style, but ivy has done something to smooth down its defects, which are further toned by distance. There is a ferry close by, and as this is the nearest point to the station, many of those who arrive by train on race-days cross at this point, and the ferrymen reap rich harvests.

Not far beyond this loom up the great earthworks and reservoirs of the West Middlesex and Grand Junction Water Company, and with that the influence of Hampton may be said to cease.

Returning again to the bridge at Hampton, we have the river Mole flowing in on the right bank. Molesey Regatta takes place every year in July. The trees and red brickwork of the palace are on the left, and only a short way down is the pretty little oasis of Thames Ditton, which somehow seems as if it ought to belong to the river much higher up, and had fallen here by mistake. The Swan Inn is right on the edge of the water. It is proud of the fact that Theodore Hook wrote a verse on a pane of glass at a time when such things were quite legitimate, because the tourist, as we know him, had not then come into existence to vulgarise the practice. The pane has been broken, but the verse is remembered, and the following lines are a sample:

We wonder how many hostesses since have wished the lines had never been written. An old inn near by, with overhanging gable end and clinging wistaria, makes a pretty corner, and in the High Street itself there are bits so different from the Kingston and Surbiton ideal, that one cannot understand how they can be in the same zone with them at all. The green lawns of Ditton House and Boyle Farm are quite close, and the fine island with its willows hides the flatness of the further bank.

About the end of the eighteenth century this part of the river was celebrated for its magnificent fÊtes.

One of these, given at Boyle Farm, inspired Moore to write a poem which was not published until long after:

The reach is a favourite one for sailing boats. Below Long Ditton are the large waterworks of the Lambeth Company. On fine Saturdays and Sundays the Hampton tow-path on the other side is generally alive with people. On Raven's Ait is the club-house of the Kingston Rowing Club, and beside the water runs a well laid out strip of ground with bushes and seats, and a good stout hedge to keep off the dust from the motor cars which race by on the road—a section of the Ripley Road beloved of scorchers. In summer this little public garden is bright with flowers, and it is a great favourite with the inhabitants of Kingston and Surbiton. Before arriving at the bridge there are the backs of untidy houses, and generally a great medley of barges, laden with hay and bricks and coal, lying about by the wharves.

Kingston, as we have said elsewhere, can boast of one of the oldest bridges over the river. A bridge of wood stood here in 1225, when there was no other in the whole sweep downward as far as London Bridge. The present one is very narrow, and its convenience is not increased since a double line of tramways has been laid across it. The general similarity of position between it and Richmond Bridge may be remarked. Both have large boat-building establishments near, and both are about the same distance from the railway bridges which cross below them.

As this is not a guide-book, no attempt is made to describe other than picturesque effects and ancient survivals such as are likely to attract the notice of anyone actually on the river, but an exception must be made in favour of Kingston Stone, which anyone ought to land to see. It is in the market-place, not five minutes from the river, and from it—the King's Stone—the name of the place is derived. It is a shapeless block, mounted on a granite base, and round it are inscribed the names of seven Saxon kings who were crowned here, and a silver penny of each of their reigns has been inserted. There seems to be no authentic history of this interesting relic, and no definite explanation as to why these kings should have been here crowned; but a suggestion there is that at the date of the first of the coronations Mercia and Wessex were joined under one king, and while the boundaries of Mercia reached to the Thames on the north side, those of Wessex marched with them on the south. Kingston was equally accessible to both, and as London was at that time in the hands of the Danes, and the ford at Kingston the only one above London by which the river could be safely crossed, the place was chosen accordingly.

Teddington Lock was for a long time the lowest on the river, but has been supplanted by a Benjamin in the shape of a half-tide lock at Richmond. The reach about Teddington is in the summer very pretty. The banks are dotted with little bungalows, bright with blue and white paint and gay with flowers. The long smooth lawns of the riverside houses stretch down to the water, and the Crimson Rambler climbs over many a rustic bridge and iron trellis. It is a well-cared for part, and holds its own against rivals of greater grandeur. There are several islands forming cover where one can ship oars and rest, and though landing is in most places forbidden, there is no law against a boat's drawing inshore beneath the shelter of the overhanging trees, amongst which may be noted several weeping willows. This bit recalls Moore's:

Beyond Teddington we are in Twickenham Reach:

There is a great bend at Twickenham, and in it the chimneys of Strawberry Hill may be seen overtopping the high evergreen hedge that surrounds it. The house has been altered considerably since Walpole's date, but in its essence it is the house he built. He himself describes his view thus:

His architecture was a medley of everything that could by any possibility be included under the heading Gothic, and the result was more curious than beautiful, though it became the fashion to visit the house. Walpole bemoaned the crowds aloud, but secretly delighted in them. He published a description of the house, in the beginning of which he says he trusts it will be a lesson in taste to all who see it! An example of the suave self-belief of an egotist. At Twickenham there is another fantastic building called Pope's Villa. This can be seen much better from the river than Strawberry Hill can, and it is an affected piece of architecture. It has been described as "a combination of an Elizabethan half-timber house and a Stuart Renaissance, with the addition of Dutch and Swiss, Italian and Chinese features." This is not the house occupied by Pope, nor is it even exactly on the same site as his. In front of it is a group of weeping willows, a kind of tree which shows to particular advantage by the water-side. Pope himself is said to have been the first to introduce it into England, having found some sticks of it in a bundle sent to him from Spain by the Countess of Suffolk.

Pope lived at Twickenham from 1719 to 1744, and produced here most of his important works, including the last books of his Odyssey, the Dunciad and the famous Essay on Man. He was here visited by Gay and Swift, and many another contemporary whose name is still held in estimation. He laid out his grounds in a decorative way, and made a curious underground grotto, which lies away from the water, on the other side of the road. Among the celebrated men who have, at one time or another, lived at Twickenham are numbered Henry Fielding, Dr. Donne, Sir Godfrey Kneller, Tennyson, and Turner. The last-named was very fond of fishing, and used to fish a good deal in this part of the river.

There is a little esplanade at Twickenham, shaded by small horse-chestnuts, and in front lies the famous Eel-pie Island, which vies with Tagg's in summer popularity. The hotel has a pleasant garden, but the rest of the island is, it must be confessed, rather untidy, with several places for building motor launches and many boat-houses. At the small wharf opposite the church there are nearly always barges unloading bricks or sand and gravel. Yet the place has an air of dignity, perhaps given to it by the old Perpendicular stone tower of the church, so incongruously welded on to a red-brick pedimented Georgian building. The architect was the same who built St. George's, Hanover Square; but, as Sir Godfrey Kneller was churchwarden, one might have expected something in better taste. Pope is buried inside, and a flat slab with his initial letter on it now serves as a base for several pews. Not far from the church is York House, and with Orleans and Ham House on the other side of the river this is a notable group. In the great gardens of Orleans House grow splendid cedars, stone pines, and other evergreens. The little Duke of Gloucester, the only child who survived babyhood out of Queen Anne's enormous family, was brought here for his health in 1694. Six years later this quaint child, with a rickety body and an enormous head, died of small-pox at the age of eleven. The house was afterwards rebuilt. To it in 1800 came Louis Philippe, then Duc d'Orleans, and his two brothers. After his brief summer of prosperity in France, he returned to England as an exile in 1848; that he had a warm remembrance of the house is shown by his then purchasing it. He did not, however, live here himself, but placed his son, the Duc d'Aumale, in it, and a colony of royal refugees settled round. At Mount Lebanon, not far off, was the Prince de Joinville; and the Duc d'Aumale, having bought York House, gave it to his nephew the Comte de Paris, who lived there for six or seven years. Queen Anne was born in York House—it had been given to her mother's father, Lord Clarendon—and with her elder sister she spent her earliest years at Twickenham. All these notable houses and dignified memories are enough to account for the air of sober gravity never wholly absent from the river at Twickenham even on the brightest days; and the rows of Lombardy poplars, the magnificent cedars, and the fine foliage of the other trees enhance the impression. Ham House, on the other side, was built in 1611, it is said for Prince Henry, James I.'s eldest son. It is screened from the water by a row of tall trees. Around it grow Scotch firs and holm oaks.

We have not long left Twickenham before we see the little oblong island about which there was so much contention because it formed an item in the famous Marble Hill view, seen from the heights of Richmond Park. The London County Council are now owners of the Marble Hill estate, and have made it into a public park. It lies on the Twickenham side. The house was built by George II. for the Countess of Suffolk. Gay, Pope, and Swift all took an interest in the building, and voiced their opinions as to the style and the laying out of the grounds. A suite of rooms in the house was afterwards set aside for Gay, who was a great favourite with the countess.

The other side of the river is open, and it must be admitted that on a sunny day this bit is a stiff pull if one is unfortunate enough to be going against the current. It is often to be described by the word "glaring," yet the fine scimitar-like sweep of the tree-crowned heights above, capped by the huge mass of the Star and Garter Hotel, toned to unoffending mediocrity of colour, is worth seeing.

Richmond, like nearly all the other places on the river, has an atmosphere of its own, difficult to put into words. It is less flippant than Kingston, and has not a tinge of the gravity of Twickenham. The houses rise high and are irregular; those in the main street recede from the water as they leave the bridge, and between them and the stream are innumerable others, some with gardens, some overshadowed by trees. Weeping willows, Scotch firs, and ivy-covered trunks abound, and the place is the perfection of a residential quarter. There is enough oldness and irregularity to avoid stiffness, enough modernity to ensure cleanliness. The bridge has a peculiarly individual curve—a real humpback—and its stone balustrade is very fine. At the southern end, far too many new red-brick flats are springing up, alas! but on the north or east, where lies old Richmond, they are not visible to any appreciable extent. The scene below the bridge is distinctly pretty. Large boat-building yards, as at Kingston, occupy the foreground, and the warm cinnamons and ochres of newly-varnished boats are generally to be seen, as well as the more crude and garishly painted craft. The islands are tree-covered, and are well placed in the stream. Yet one may note that, popular as Richmond is, it is not flooded in the summer time with such crowds of boating visitors as Hampton. There are more large craft about, and boating people do not care for that.

What remains of Richmond Palace must be sought below the bridge, for it will not be seen without a little effort. The old palace stood right on the margin of the water, and an engraving of it is still extant, showing a pinnacled and many chimneyed building. The angular towers are capped by turrets like those of the old palace at Greenwich. Henry I. was the first English king to live here, but until Edward III.'s time it was hardly a recognised royal palace. It fell before the hand of Richard II., who in a fit of frenzy at the death of his wife, which occurred here, ordered its destruction. Henry V. restored it, but it was burnt down in the end of the fifteenth century, and afterwards rebuilt by Henry VII., who changed its name from Sheen to Richmond, and who himself died there. The old Tudor gateway of his time remains still. It is said, but with doubtful accuracy, that the Countess of Nottingham died in the room over the gateway, after having confessed to Elizabeth her duplicity about the Earl of Essex and the ring he had confided to her charge. We have many records of Richmond from the time of the miserable Katherine of Arragon—widow of one boy prince, but not yet affianced to the other, a foreigner in a strange land, bitterly hating her surroundings—to the time of Charles I., who made the great park and hunted in it. A large Carthusian monastery stood near the palace. Perkin Warbeck found an asylum in the monastery, and in 1550 Robert Dudley was here married to Amy Robsart.

There is a half-tide lock at Richmond, with a footbridge. This is at present the lowest lock on the river, though there is some talk of making a similar one at Wandsworth. It is quite different in construction from the usual kind. It has three great sluices, each weighing thirty-two tons, and when the tide brings up the water, so that it is equal with that above—that is to say, at half-tide—the sluices are raised by the addition of a small weight to the massive pendules by which they are exactly balanced, and the water is allowed free way.

All along this stretch of the river there is on one side a fine row of shady trees growing to a great height. Beyond the raised footpath is the old Deer Forest, on which stands Kew Observatory, and a minor stream, which afterwards forms a moat to Kew Gardens, runs along merrily. Isleworth is finely placed at a bend of the river, and though it is a manufacturing place, it is not so bad as Brentford. The large willow-covered ait in front affords occupation to the osier gatherers. The church is ugly; it is placed very like that at Hampton, and, like Hampton also, its ugliness is mitigated by a covering of ivy. The tower, as so frequently happens, is much older than the rest. Was it that church towers were built more solidly than the naves, or that the naves would have stood equally well had they been allowed to remain?

Then we come to the great park surrounding Syon House (Duke of Northumberland), a park fringed with marshy ground, where reeds and rushes flourish, and which is overflowed at every flood. Crows consider it a delightful place, if their perpetual presence may be taken to indicate opinion. A great clump of cedars stands between the house and the river, but we have to go considerably further on before the severe line of frontage, with its ground floor arcade and battlemented parapet, can be seen at full length. The astonished lion stands clear up against the sky, as he did of old at Northumberland House, over the site of which now flows a ceaseless stream of traffic. Long years ago there stood here at Isleworth a convent for nuns. This was suppressed at the Dissolution. Katherine Howard was imprisoned in Syon House until three days before her execution, and only five years later the corpse of her murderer, the tyrant Henry, stopped here on its way to Windsor. Edward VI. granted the place to Lord-Protector Somerset, who, with his usual mania for building, began to reconstruct it on a much larger scale; but before he had got farther than the mere shell of his design, he suffered disgrace, and Syon House passed to the Duke of Northumberland. Here came Lady Jane Grey, timid and doubting, to receive the offer of the crown, and from here she started on her last sad journey to the Tower.

Queen Mary naturally tried to re-establish the nuns, but found it difficult, as some had died and others had married! Fuller's comment is worth quoting:

In James I.'s reign Syon House was in the hands of the Earl of Northumberland, who also fell under his sovereign's displeasure, but was allowed to return here to die. Under his successor, the tenth earl, Inigo Jones was employed to alter the house; but the architect of the present building was Adam (1728-92).

The place is often very quiet, and the hovering crows, and perhaps a few men in boats grubbing for sand and gravel from the river-bed with long-handled scoops, have it all to themselves. It is not much frequented because just below comes Brentford, with all its ugliness, a sore blot on the river. Nevertheless, on the Surrey side, to counterbalance it, we have the famous Kew Gardens. The very varied trees that grow here can be well seen, for the parapet of the wall is low, the Gardens being sufficiently protected by the moat. Further on, when this comes to an end, the wall is heightened, and only the tops of the elms and ashes and horse-chestnuts peep over. Presently a new object comes into view—a "palace," in that it was the dwelling-place of royalty; but anything less like a palace surely never was seen. A stiff, square red-brick house, where Miss Burney served her "sweet queen," and the old king cried "What, what, what?" a hundred times a day, and the overflowing quiverful of their Royal Highnesses quarrelled and played and grew up.

Very few people realise what a large basin there is on the river Brent, and what an amount of business is carried on here. From the river, one's chief reflection is thankfulness that the trees on the large islands have grown so well that they form a screen for the soap factories, the cement works, the breweries, etc., which constitute the industries of Brentford.

says Gay. The dirty streets are still there, with the confusion in their narrow limits worse confounded by the passing of tramcars, which, over the mile along which Brentford spreads itself, take double the time spent on any other bit of equal distance on their route. Most people have a hazy notion about two kings at Brentford; this is one of those curious examples of the persistence of an unimportant detail. The allusion was first made in a play called The Rehearsal, written by the Duke of Buckingham, and Thackeray's ballad on the same subject carried it a step further. That there was a battle at Brentford one learns in the history books. It was when the Parliamentarians, who had rested in the town all night, were surprised by Prince Rupert, under the cover of a thick mist, and completely routed.

All along the Kew side, up to the bridge, are tea-gardens sandwiched between boat-houses; and the new bridge made of granite, with its branching lamps and royal arms, is really an imposing object. Above and below the bridge the character of the river is singularly different. Above, as we have seen, are the mudflats, and wharves, and chimneys, not to omit water towers and gasometers; and below is a bit of Chiswick, built along by the waterside, a queer little irregular row of red-brick houses and cottages, near which are fastened the boats of men who live by fishing; it is a little riverside place of the old sort. There are meadows, called Duke's Meadows, opposite Mortlake; these afford a fine vantage-ground for spectators who come to see the great Boat Race.

The hour of the Boat Race varies according to the tide, for the race is rowed at the "top of the tide"—when it is at its fullest. If the hour be an easy one—about mid-day—and the weather is promising, and especially if the reports of the prowess of the crews give reason to believe the race will be a close one, then the crowd is very large indeed. Some prefer to watch the start; some enthusiasts keep up with the boats on water the whole way; but a great majority there are who want to see the last effort between Hammersmith and Barnes Bridges, for it is almost a certainty that the crew leading at Barnes Bridge will be the winner. Almost, but not quite; for there was an occasion when, by a sudden spurt, the positions of the boats were reversed, and Cambridge, which had been behind, won the race. The road along by Mortlake is lined with crowds; every window is filled, and all available roofs. On the railway bridge are closely-packed ranks of people, brought there and deposited by trains, which afterwards decorously withdraw and wait to pick them up again. The price of this first-rate position is included in the fares. Chiswick meadows afford space for many more persons, who usually pay a shilling a head to the land-holders. This is a very favourite position, because the grassy slopes form such a pleasant seat while the inevitable waiting is gone through.

In the river itself lie several steamers packed with passengers, and also various small boats. Then down comes the launch of the Thames Conservators to clear the course. The long strings of barges, which have been taking advantage of the flowing tide to make their way up-stream, are seen no more. A gun goes off, and then, an extraordinarily short time after, a murmur begins among the crowds on the Mortlake side. It grows and grows and swells along the Chiswick shore, as first one boat creeps round the corner, and then the other. "Cambridge wins; Cambridge, Cambridge!" "Row up, Oxford!"

Then, perhaps—usually—it is seen that one boat is leading by so many lengths as to make it impossible for the other to catch up. The leading boat goes ahead with a straight, splendid swing into clear water. The losing one, getting into its opponent's wash, rocks as it labours on, its crew lose heart, and the distance widens.

Close behind are the umpire's launch and a dozen others gliding along, keeping just behind the backward crew. And when all have passed, the river, so calm before, is churned up into miniature waves that wash and beat on the banks. Presently the umpire's boat is seen coming swiftly back, bearing the winning flag at the bows over the other.

The trains move slowly forward to pick up the passengers; bicycles, motors, and carriages begin to move off; streams of people pour down every road; and all is over for another year.

The chief memory of Chiswick is that of Hogarth, who is buried in the churchyard close by the water. The house in which he lived is still standing, and is a few minutes' walk from the church. Hogarth was here for about three years, though when he left to go to Leicester Square he did not sell the house, and his widow lived in it after his death. For two years Pope also lived in Chiswick; and in Chiswick House, which lies away from the river on the other side of the fields, two great men, Charles James Fox and George Canning, died in the same room, in 1806 and 1827 respectively. And in the Roman Catholic Cemetery at Mortlake is the massive sarcophagus—in the form of an Arab tent—beneath which lies the dust of the great traveller, Sir Richard Burton, and his wife.