Picturesque Sketches of London, Past and Present

by Thomas Miller

tops of the tall masts alone point out their “whereabouts.” These Docks are surrounded by high strong-built walls, so lofty, that it would be a puzzle to a most expert thief to scale them, on account of the finish of the coping; and if even this were accomplished, a greater difficulty would remain in getting over the bulky goods which are stored within. The walls which encircle the two London Docks were erected at a cost of sixty-five thousand pounds; and no less a sum than four millions was expended in completing this vast establishment. The East India Docks are at Blackwall, and our engraving is a view of the old Mast-House in the Export-Dock—one of the most prominent objects in the landscape, when the eye is turned in that direction, either from the summit of One-tree-hill in Greenwich Park, or as seen from the right of the Observatory.

It will be readily imagined that such improvements as these were not made without meeting with much opposition, for it is on record that the cargo of a large vessel often took up five or six weeks before it was delivered: for before the Docks were made, goods were put into lighters at Blackwall, and carried to the old-fashioned quays near London Bridge, and after a long delay, occasioned even by the Custom House authorities themselves, they were finally removed to the different warehouses in the City. In these good old times river robbery was a thriving trade; and we have more than rumour for asserting that many a fortune was made by this systematic plunder. No marvel that when the first inroad was made on these old vested rights, a clamour was raised by carmen, porters, lightermen, and all the shoal of waterside labourers, who benefited more or less by the very difficulties which attended the removal of merchandise, and that from Wapping to Westminster the whole aquatic populace raised their voices against the dock crusades. Even the Trinity House itself murmured about an invasion of interests, and contended that the Royal Dock at Deptford would be ruined. City limits and city privileges were all in all to these sticklers for old rights; nor have matters altered much even up to the present day, when a proposed improvement in the sewerage of the City seems to create as much alarm as if all its charters and privileges were about to be undermined and swallowed up. All these claims and demands had to be bought up, and thousands were expended in silencing their clamours before the Docks were commenced; for there were legal quays beside the river, and moorages within, and landing-places, that time out of mind had their little perquisites. And when all the Joneses, Smiths, and Tomkinses were satisfied, the mighty work began to proceed; and thus in time spread out and rose up these broad city basins and high-piled warehouses, which are the pride of England and the envy of so many surrounding nations.

But it is not the removal and storing of merchandise, in which as many as five thousand men are sometimes employed, that alone engrosses the eye of the observant stranger when he visits the Docks. There are other scenes of painful or pleasurable interest, which fall upon the eye and heart according to the humour of the man. One of those it is our province to portray. About a year ago we dined on board a large vessel in St. Katherine’s Docks which had been chartered to carry out emigrants to America; it was a few days before the ship was announced to sail. The owner was a worthy gentleman; the party who had hired the ship, needy adventurers, whose references had blinded all inquiries, and who were only found out when interference was of no legal avail. For days “hired vagabonds” had been “touting” at every wharf and public-house in the neighbourhood; and the call, although not so openly made as that of an omnibus conductor, only varied inasmuch as “America” was substituted for “Charing-cross” or “Paddington.” They took passengers for almost whatever they could get, paying no regard as to whether or not they had stores to last the voyage, or would starve before they were half over the Atlantic. “It was a sorry sight,” and the law had no power beyond that of making a few arrangements that would contribute to the comforts of the poor passengers.

We went down the hold, which was fitted up with berths—if such a name may be given to the tiers of unplaned deal boards, which resembled large hen-coops piled one above another; and stretched on mattresses upon these wooden gridirons we saw many of the emigrants waiting wearily for the appointed hour that was fixed for sailing. It made the heart sicken to picture that hold, when out at sea with the hatches battened down, and the vessel driving through a storm. There were then little children running about, and playing at hide and seek among the bales and casks—fair-haired, red-cheeked, blue-eyed beauties, whose sun-burnt arms and necks told that they had had the run of the open village-green; and such we found had been the case when we inquired. Both father and mother were fine specimens of English peasantry: the grandfather and grandmother were also there. They had fixed up the very clock in the hold, which had for years ticked in the old familiar cottage, and brought a few choice flowers in pots, which they hoped to plant about their new home in a foreign land. An antique oak table, that had been in the family for many generations, was also doomed to bear them company in their long voyage. The old grandfather, whose countenance would have enraptured an artist, sat in a deep Rembrandt-like shadow at one corner of the hold, with the family Bible upon his knee. They appeared to be well provided for the voyage, and were full of “heart and hope.”

Another corner was occupied by a wretched-looking Irish family. All excepting the old countryman and his family seemed to regard this miserable group with an eye of suspicion more than of pity; for it was whispered that a few biscuits and a little oatmeal were all the provisions they had made for the voyage. The captain, however, who had had some experience, considered that they were amply provided, and he made the strictest inquiry. A bag of coarse bread, which had been cut into slices and then browned in the oven, had that morning, he said, been sent on board to assist them—it was the gift of a few poor Irish people who lived in the borough of Southwark. This bread, he said, with a little suet, would make excellent puddings; and he promised that Pat should not lack the latter ingredient. It appeared that there were many little things which a willing hand might do on board a ship, and, as he said, “We never yet allowed one to starve; but this is a queer lot.” If we remember rightly, the number of passengers was not sufficient to call for the interference of the Emigration Commissioners. The ship had been chartered to carry a cargo, a part of which, from some cause or other, was withheld; so the speculators endeavoured to make up the loss by passengers. Our attention was too much engrossed in conversation with those who were about to quit their native country, it might be for ever, to enter fully into these legal matters, although we believe the number at last became sufficient to call for this interference.

To our feelings there was something very revolting in married and single, young and old, being thus placed together in the hold of a ship, which was never intended for the accommodation of passengers; and we think that government might be worse employed than in applying a remedy to these evils. We fear that many who leave our shores with refined and delicate feelings, who, however humble may be their station in life, are gifted with that innate love of modesty which in no country has a more natural growth than in our own,—that many such are doomed to quit England, and through circumstances over which they have no control, land great losers in this never-to-be-recovered gift.

A voyage to America in the hold of a vessel fitted up temporarily as we have described, is a scene not likely to fall under the eye of a popular author: it can only be sketched by getting the information from some unfortunate fellow who has been bumped and thumped against those huge beams which run inside the berths, and rolled about like a barrel, and has been lucky enough to outlive all such pitching and tossing. A state-cabin, in the roughest gale, must be a palace compared with such a place in a moderate calm; and a common steerage, rendered as comfortable as circumstances will permit, a perfect elysium. Picture those who have never in all their lives encountered a stronger gale than needed a safe hand to keep on the hat, turning all sorts of imaginable somersaults, and who never heard any noise louder over their heads than when some relative fell down drunk upon the chamber-floor at a feast-time, first listening to the tramp, and thunder, and hurly-burly on deck, when the ship is struck by a heavy sea, and every timber groans again in its deep agony. No regular steward to assist—no servant to attend—berth moaning to berth—child squealing against child—one praying here, another cursing there—the hold all but dark, and where a glimmering of light is seen, the sea rushing in like a cataract—and over all, the wind howling like a raging demon, and every wave knocking at the ship’s side, and demanding admittance; and if such is not a picture of a certain nameless place under the earth, it would convey no bad idea of one upon the sea.

And those dear children nestled together, with their little arms encircling one another in their cheerless berths, their mother incapable of comforting them! It gave one the heart-ache to think of what they were destined to endure. We pictured them in their restless slumber, murmuring like bees—dreaming of their cottage, then far away—or dizzy with the rocking of the ship, recalling the swing which hung between the apple-trees in the garden, and unconscious of the danger with which they were surrounded. Then we remembered Him who “tempereth the wind to the shorn lamb”—