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.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE RIVER AT LONDON
There is a subtle difference in the river above and below Hammersmith: above, it is a stream of pleasure—below, it is something less beautiful, but grander, more crowded with memories, more important.
Though pleasure boats are to be seen in quantities any summer evening about Putney; though market gardens still border the banks at Fulham; yet the river is for the greater part lined with wharves and piers and embankments. It is no wild thing running loose, but a strong worker full of earnest purpose. It is the great river without which there would have been no London, the river which bears the largest trade the world has ever known.
Unfortunately, the habit of using the river at London as a highway was lost some time in the eighteenth century and has not yet been recovered, notwithstanding the gallant attempt of the London County Council to educate the people to it. At one time the river was used for every sort of traffic: tilt boats, covered with an awning, ran up and down like omnibuses and charged sixpence a passenger; and every man of importance kept his private barge, for the smoothly gliding waters made an infinitely preferable route to the vile roads. At every set of stairs—and the stairs were frequent—numberless wherries awaited hire. In the sixteenth century there were two thousand on the water, and it was reckoned that nine thousand watermen earned their living by transporting people up and down or from shore to shore. When it is objected that these men were a pest and a nuisance, so that we are well rid of them, that their language was unspeakable and their manners filthy, it may be replied, autres temps autres mœurs, for there are a few watermen still to be had at Westminster, at the Tower, and at most of the river stairs, and they are civil and obliging, only, alas, the public rarely patronises them. Occasionally, an uncommonly adventurous person, probably a visitor staying in London, penetrates to the haunt of the watermen, and, upon inquiry, he finds a respectable man, duly licensed like a cabman, liable to be reported for rudeness or misconduct, strictly limited by law as to the fees he may demand, and ready to add greatly to the pleasure of the trip by his genial, shrewd humour and his keen observation; qualities found frequently in men whose business is upon great waters.