of such reproach? Ah! Almost prophetic, surely, the child’s
jingle:
When will that be,
Say the bells of Step-ney!
CHAPTER XXII – BOUND FOR THE GREAT SALT LAKE
Page 136
Dickens, Charles – The Uncommercial Traveller
Behold me on my way to an Emigrant Ship, on a hot morning early in
June. My road lies through that part of London generally known to
the initiated as ‘Down by the Docks.’ Down by the Docks, is home
to a good many people – to too many, if I may judge from the
overflow of local population in the streets – but my nose
insinuates that the number to whom it is Sweet Home might be easily
counted. Down by the Docks, is a region I would choose as my point
of embarkation aboard ship if I were an emigrant. It would present
my intention to me in such a sensible light; it would show me so
many things to be run away from.
Down by the Docks, they eat the largest oysters and scatter the
roughest oyster-shells, known to the descendants of Saint George
and the Dragon. Down by the Docks, they consume the slimiest of
shell-fish, which seem to have been scraped off the copper bottoms
of ships. Down by the Docks, the vegetables at green-grocers’
doors acquire a saline and a scaly look, as if they had been
crossed with fish and seaweed. Down by the Docks, they ‘board
seamen’ at the eating-houses, the public-houses, the slop-shops,
the coffee-shops, the tally-shops, all kinds of shops mentionable
and unmentionable – board them, as it were, in the piratical sense,
making them bleed terribly, and giving no quarter. Down by the
Docks, the seamen roam in mid-street and mid-day, their pockets
inside out, and their heads no better. Down by the Docks, the
daughters of wave-ruling Britannia also rove, clad in silken
attire, with uncovered tresses streaming in the breeze, bandanna
kerchiefs floating from their shoulders, and crinoline not wanting.
Down by the Docks, you may hear the Incomparable Joe Jackson sing
the Standard of England, with a hornpipe, any night; or any day may
see at the waxwork, for a penny and no waiting, him as killed the
policeman at Acton and suffered for it. Down by the Docks, you may
buy polonies, saveloys, and sausage preparations various, if you
are not particular what they are made of besides seasoning. Down
by the Docks, the children of Israel creep into any gloomy cribs
and entries they can hire, and hang slops there – pewter watches,
sou’-wester hats, waterproof overalls – ‘firtht rate articleth,
Thjack.’ Down by the Docks, such dealers exhibiting on a frame a
complete nautical suit without the refinement of a waxen visage in
the hat, present the imaginary wearer as drooping at the yard-arm,
with his seafaring and earthfaring troubles over. Down by the
Docks, the placards in the shops apostrophise the customer, knowing
him familiarly beforehand, as, ‘Look here, Jack!’ ‘Here’s your
sort, my lad!’ ‘Try our sea-going mixed, at two and nine!’ ‘The
right kit for the British tar!’ ‘Ship ahoy!’ ‘Splice the mainbrace,
brother!’ ‘Come, cheer up, my lads. We’ve the best liquors
here, And you’ll find something new In our wonderful Beer!’ Down
by the Docks, the pawnbroker lends money on Union-Jack pockethandkerchiefs,
on watches with little ships pitching fore and aft
on the dial, on telescopes, nautical instruments in cases, and
such-like. Down by the Docks, the apothecary sets up in business
on the wretchedest scale – chiefly on lint and plaster for the
strapping of wounds – and with no bright bottles, and with no
little drawers. Down by the Docks, the shabby undertaker’s shop
will bury you for next to nothing, after the Malay or Chinaman has
stabbed you for nothing at all: so you can hardly hope to make a
cheaper end. Down by the Docks, anybody drunk will quarrel with
anybody drunk or sober, and everybody else will have a hand in it,
and on the shortest notice you may revolve in a whirlpool of red
shirts, shaggy beards, wild heads of hair, bare tattooed arms,
Britannia’s daughters, malice, mud, maundering, and madness. Down
by the Docks, scraping fiddles go in the public-houses all day