g, and put them aboard His Majesty's tender to
meet what fate might bring.

The construction of the great docks has completely changed this
quarter. The Precinct of St. Katherine's by the Tower has almost
entirely disappeared, being covered by St. Katherine's Dock; the
London Dock has reduced Wapping to a strip covered with warehouses.
But the church remains, so frankly proclaiming itself of the
eighteenth century, with its great churchyard. The new Dock Basin,
Limehouse Basin, and the West India Docks, have sliced huge cantles
out of Shadwell, Limehouse, and Poplar; the little private docks and
boat-building yards have disappeared; here and there the dock remains,
with its river gates gone, an ancient barge reposing in its black mud;
here and there may be found a great building which was formerly a
warehouse when ship-building was still carried on. That branch of
industry was abandoned after 1868, when the shipwrights struck. Their
action transferred the ship-building of the country to the Clyde, and
threw out of work thousands of men who had been earning large wages in
the yards. Before this unlucky event Riverside London had been rough
and squalid, but there were in it plenty of people earning good
wages--skilled artisans, good craftsmen. Since then it has been next
door to starving. The effect of the shipwrights' strike may be
illustrated in the history of one couple.

The man, of Irish parentage, though born in Stepney, was a painter or
decorator of the saloons and cabins of the ships. He was a
highly-skilled workman of taste and dexterity; he could not only paint
but he could carve; he made about three pounds a week and lived in
comfort. The wife, a decent Yorkshire woman whose manners were very
much above those of the riverside folk, was a few years older than her
husband. They had no children. During the years of fatness they saved
nothing; the husband was not a drunkard, but, like most workmen, he
liked to cut a figure and to make a show. So he saved little or
nothing. When the yard was finally closed he had to cadge about for
work. Fifteen years later he was found in a single room of the meanest
tenement-house; his furniture was reduced to a bed, a table, and a
chair; all that they had was a little tea and no money--no money at
all. He was weak and ill, with trudging about in search of work; he
was lying exhausted on the bed while his wife sat crouched over the
little bit of fire. This was how they had lived