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.
Brentford, tedious town,
For dirty streets and white-legged chickens known,
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.