1936 On the Continent

anchored in the stream off Billingsgate fish quay. They are the lineal descendants of two such boats that were anchored there in 1666 when the Great Fire blazed. Their crews then helped the strickenLondoners in their fight against the flames, and as a reward they were granted a charter which has allowed them to lie ever since. They are the same boats that you may see any day lazily gliding up the waters of the Scheldt and along the calm ribbons of the Dutch canals.
    Broad in the beam, sleek and plump, they look like two good-humoured housewives from Holland. They need a background of windmills and wooden-shoed girls and black and white Friesian cows in a green meadow to be in their best setting. But even amid the busy river traffic of the Pool of London they keep their picturesque individuality. Always you will find them there, selling their eels, which the boats of the Batavier Line bring from Holland, to the merchants of Billingsgate.
Wapping Old Stairs
    Wapping Old Stairs next. Pirates were hanged there in the fierce days of the past, and the victims were left dangling in their chains until three Thames tides had passed over them. The notorious Captain Kidd suffered a just fate at this spot; and just beside the stairs is the
Town of Ramsgate
inn, to which the infamous Judge Jeffreys, cringing and snivelling from the pursuing mob, fled. But they got him, and the cruelty and viciousness of the Bloody Assize was later wiped out.
Deptford
    Deptford, which looms up through the blur of steamer smoke and the slight haze which is always hovering over the river, is a glum and ugly smear of buildings. But it was at this waterside, where the factories now stand in a grey mass, that Queen Elizabeth went on board the “Golden Hind” to knight Drake; and in the Deptford pubs Peter the Great of Russia learned to like English ale, with which he refreshed himself in vast draughts after a heavy day working as an ordinary artisan in the shipyards; and in the dingy old church of Saint Nicholas, Christopher Marlowe sleeps. A rapier thrust in a drunken brawl put an end to his poet’s wit.
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    We have passed Barking Creek, whose only fame seems to lie in an unprintable English limerick. Ahead lieTilbury and Gravesend. Old Gravesend—that part of the town which fronts the river—has narrow winding streets. Many of the local men are shrimp fishers, and their small boats are anchored close to the pier.
    The
Three Daws
at Gravesend is one of the most interesting inns along the Thames. It has been licensed continually for 300 years, and in its low-beamed old rooms bargees, pilots and lightermen gather and gossip over their mugs of beer.
Canvey Island
    Canvey Island on the port bow. A long, low island whose shores are protected from inundation by sea-walls which Dutch engineers first constructed in the seventeenth century. The island is rapidly developing into a bungalow colony and a series of riverside bathing beaches. But here and there among the rather hideous new houses may be seen some of the old timber and tile dwellings which the Dutchmen who settled there after their dyke-building work erected for themselves.
    In the summer Canvey Island is a jovial haunt. Its idiom is unashamedly plebeian, like that of Southend. There are merry-go-rounds and sideshows along the beaches, and the people who frequent it enjoy themselves with robust noise and excellent good humour.
Southend
    But Southend is the real London-by-the-Sea, to which every true Cockney makes exodus as often as he can, by train or coach or river steamer, during the summer months. Its pier juts out from the shore for over a mile, and there is a light railway to take people from town to pierhead.
    If you are ultra-refined and superior, the sight of Southend pier occupying what appears to be half the width of the entire river, will feel you with a slight feeling of nausea. Such a common place! At Southend trippers from the East End eat winkles which they gouge out from their shells with a pin. How horrid! No county families there. They are all shootin’ or huntin’ or fishin’ somewhere else.
    For that Southend can, perhaps, be thankful. For thewhole charm of the place lies just in the fact that it is a resort of the people, where enjoyment is loud and jovial and unashamed.
    The town has five miles of sea promenade, some of its shelters are fitted with “Vita” glass, which allows the beneficial sun rays to penetrate, and the amusements range from a boating pool for