CHAPTER XV.
THE THAMES TUNNEL, RATCLIFF HIGHWAY, AND WAPPING.
Sub-river Tunnels in the Coal-mining Districts—First Proposals for a Tunnel under the Thames—Its Commencement—A Dangerous Irruption—Brave Labourers—A Terrible Crisis—Narrow Escapes—The Last Irruptions—The Tunnel opened for Traffic—Ratcliff Highway—The
Wild Beast Shops—The Marr and Williamson Murders—Swedenborg—Wapping—Hanging the Pirates in Chains—Townsend's Evidence-Capture of Jeffreys—Stag Hunting in Wapping—Boswell's Futile Exploration—The Fuchsia—Public-house Signs—Wapping Old Stairs—Shadwell and its Springs.
Sub-river tunnels are not unfrequent in the coalmining districts of the north of England. The
beds of both the Tyne and the Wear are pierced
in this manner; while at Whitehaven, and at the
Botallack mines in Cornwall, the bed of the ocean
has been penetrated for long distances, the tunnel
at the former place extending upwards of a mile
beneath the sea. At the close of the last century
a North-country engineer proposed a sub-aqueous
passage to connect North and South Shields,
but the scheme was never carried out. The
same gentleman then proposed the tunnel from
Gravesend to Tilbury, mentioned by us in the preceding chapter; but it was soon abandoned as impracticable, as was also a Cornish miner's proposal
to connect Rotherhithe with Limehouse.
In 1823, however, a bolder, more reckless, and
far-seeing mind took up the project, and Mr. Brunel
(backed by the Duke of Wellington and the eminent
Dr. Wollaston) seriously submitted a plan of a
tunnel to the public, and so practical a man soon
obtained listeners. With his usual imaginative
sagacity he had gone to Nature, and there found
allies. The hard cylindrical shell of the soft-footed
teredo (Calamitas navium, as Linnaeus calls it),
which eats its way, in small tubular tunnels, even
through the tough timbers of men-of-war, had suggested to the great engineer a shield under which
his workmen could shelter.
The communication between the Surrey shore
and the Wapping side was most important, as the
wharves for the coasting trade of England lay
chiefly on the Surrey bank, and traffic had to be
conveyed by carts to the Tower-side docks. In
1829, of 887 wagons and 3,241 carts that passed
over London Bridge southwards, 480 of the first
and 1,700 of the second were found to turn down
Tooley Street. It was also ascertained that the 350
watermen of the neighbourhood took over the
Thames no less than 3,700 passengers daily.
In 1824 a company was formed to construct a
tunnel, and an Act of Parliament was obtained.
The preliminary step was three parallel borings,
like cheese-tastings, made beneath the bed of the
Thames, in the direction of the proposed tunnel.
As to the level to be taken, Mr. Brunel consulted
the geologists, who for once were not happy in
their theories. They informed the engineer that
below a certain depth a quicksand would be found,
and he must therefore keep above it, and as close
as possible to the stratum of firm clay forming the
bed of the river. The Tower Subway has since
shown the absurdity of this theory, and the folly
of not making preliminary experiments, however
costly. If the tunnel had been begun in a different
place, and at the deep level of the Tower Subway,
Mr. Brunel would have saved twenty years of
labour, many lives, and about a quarter of a million
of money.
In March, 1825, the laborious and for a long time
unsuccessful work was begun, by erecting a round
brick cylinder 42 feet high, 150 feet in circumference, and 150 feet distant from the river. The
excavators then commenced on the inside, cutting
away the earth, which was raised to the top of
the shaft by a steam-engine placed there, which
also relieved them from the water that occasionally
impeded their progress. The engine raised 400
gallons a minute, and at a later stage served to
draw carriages along the temporary tunnel railway,
and also hoisted up and let down all things required
by the masons. The bricklayers kept heightening
their little circular fort as they themselves sank
deeper in the earth. By this shaft Mr. Brunel congratulated himself he had evaded the bed of gravel
and sand 26 feet deep, and full of land-water, which
had annoyed his predecessors. When the shaft
was sunk to its present depth of 65 feet, another
shaft of 25 feet diameter was sunk lower; and at
the depth of 80 feet the ground suddenly gave way,
and sand and water were, as Mr. Saunders describes
it, "blown up with some violence."
The tunnel itself was begun at the depth of 63
feet. Mr. Brunel proposed to make his tunnel 38
feet broad and 22½ feet high, leaving room within
for two archways each 15 feet high, and each wide
enough for a single carriage-way and a footpath.
The wonderful teredo shield, a great invention for a
special object, consisted of twelve separate divisions,
each containing three cells, one above another.
When an advance was required, the men in their
cells pulled down the top poling-board defences,
and cut away the earth about six inches; the polingboards in each division below were then seriatim
removed, and the same amount of earth removed,
and then replaced. "Each of the divisions," says a
describer of the shield, "was then advanced by the
application of two screws, one at its head and one
at its foot, which, resting against the finished brickwork of the tunnel, impelled the shield forward
into the new-cut space. The other set of divisions
then advanced." As the miners were at work
at one end of the cells, the bricklayers at the other
were busy as bees forming the brick walls of the
tunnel, top, sides, and bottom, the crushing earth
above being fended off by the shield till the
bricklayers had finished. Following the shield was
a rolling stage in each archway, for the assistance
of the men in the upper cells.
The difficulties, however, from not keeping to
the stiff, firm, and impervious London clay, proved
almost insuperable, even to Mr. Brunel. The
first nine feet of the tunnel, driven through firm
clay, in the early part of the year 1826, were
followed by a dangerously-loose watery sand,
which cost thirty-two anxious days' labour. From
March to September all went well, and 260 feet of
the tunnel were completed. On the 14th of September Brunel prophesied an irruption of the river
at the next tide. It came, but the precautions
taken had rendered it harmless. By the 2nd of
January, 1827,350 feet were accomplished, but loose
clay forced itself through the shield. In April, the
bed of the river had to be explored in a divingbell. Bags of clay were used to fill up depressions.
A shovel and hammer, accidentally left in the river,
were afterwards found in the shield during an influx
of loose ground, eighteen feet below. In May,
however, came the long-expected disaster, chiefly
caused by two vessels coming in at a late tide, and
mooring just above the head of the tunnel, causing
a great washing away of the soil round them. Mr.
Beamish, the resident assistant engineer, thus graphically describes the irruption:—
"As the water," he writes, "rose with the tide, it
increased in the frames very considerably between
Nos. 5 and 6, forcing its way at the front, then at
the back; Ball and Compton (the occupants) most
active. About a quarter before six o'clock, No.
II (division) went forward. Clay appeared at the
back. Had it closed up immediately. While this
was going forward my attention was again drawn to
No. 6, where I found the gravel forcing itself with
the water. It was with the utmost difficulty that
Ball could keep anything against the opening.
Fearing that the pumpers would now become
alarmed, as they had been once or twice before,
and leave their post, I went upon the east stage to
encourage them, and to choose more shoring for
Ball. Goodwin, who was engaged at No. 11, where
indications of a run appeared, called to Rogers,
who was in the act of working down No. 9, to
come to his assistance. But Rogers, having his
second poling (board) down, could not. Goodwin
again called. I then said to Rogers, "Don't you
hear?" upon which he left his poling for the
purpose of assisting Goodwin; but before he could
get to him, and before I could get fairly into the
frames, there poured such an overwhelming volume
of water and sludge as to force them out of the
frames. William Carps, a bricklayer, who had
gone to Goodwin's assistance, was knocked down
and literally rolled out of the frames on the stage,
as though he had come through a mill-sluice, and
would undoubtedly have fallen off the stage had I
not caught hold of him, and with Rogers' assistance
helped him down the ladder. I again made an
attempt to get into the frames, calling upon the
miners to follow; but all was dark (the lights at
the frames and stage being all blown out), and I
was only answered by the hoarse and angry sounds
of Father Thames's roarings. Rogers (an old
sergeant of the Guards), the only man left upon the
stage, now caught my arm, and gently drawing me
from the frames, said, 'Come away, pray, sir, come
away; 'tis no use, the water is rising fast.' I
turned once more; but hearing an increased rush
at No. 6, and finding the column of water at Nos.
11 and 12 to be augmenting, I reluctantly descended. The cement casks, compo-boxes, pieces
of timber were floating around me. I turned into
the west arch, where the enemy had not yet advanced so rapidly, and again looked towards the
frames, lest some one might have been overtaken;
but the cement casks, &c., striking my legs,
threatened seriously to obstruct my retreat, and it
was with some difficulty I reached the visitors'
bar" (a bar so placed as to keep the visitors from
the unfinished works), "where Mayo, Bertram, and
others were anxiously waiting to receive me. . . .
I was glad of their assistance; indeed, Mayo fairly
dragged me over it. Not bearing the idea of so
precipitate a retreat, I turned once more; but
vain was the hope ! The wave rolled onward and
onward; the men retreated, and I followed. Met
Gravatt coming down. Short was the question, and
brief was the answer. As we approached I met
I. [Isambard] Brunel. We turned round: the effect
was splendid beyond description. The water as it
rose became more and more vivid, from the reflected
lights of the gas. As we reached the staircase a
crash was heard, and then a rush of air at once
extinguished all the lights. . . . . Now it was
that I experienced something like dread. I looked
up the shaft, and saw both stairs crowded; I looked
below, and beheld the overwhelming wave appearing
to move with accumulated velocity.
"Dreading the effect of the reaction of this wave
from the back of the shaft upon our staircase, I
exclaimed to Mr. Gravatt, 'The staircase will blow
up!' I. Brunel ordered the men to get up with
all expedition; and our feet were scarcely off the
bottom stairs when the first flight, which we had
just left, was swept away. Upon our reaching the
top, a bustling noise assailed our ears, some calling
for a raft, others for a boat, and others again a
rope; from which it was evident that some unfortunate individual was in the water. I. Brunel
instantly, with that presence of mind to which I
have been more than once witness, slid down one
of the iron ties, and after him Mr. Gravatt, each
making a rope fast to old Tillet's waist, who, having
been looking after the packing of the pumps below
the shaft, was overtaken by the flood. He was
soon placed out of danger. The roll was immediately called—not one absent."
The next step was to repair the hole in the riverbed. Its position being ascertained by the divingbell, three thousand bags of clay, spiked with small
hazel rods, were employed to effectually close it.
In a few weeks the water was got under, and by
the middle of August the tunnel was cleared of the
soil that had washed in, and the engineer was
able to examine his shattered fortifications. In all
essentials the structure remained perfectly sound,
though a part of the brickwork close to the shield
had been washed away to half its original thickness,
and the chain which had held together the divisions
of the shield had snapped like a cotton thread.
The enemy—so powerless when kept at a distance,
so irresistible at its full strength—had driven deep
into the ground heavy pieces of iron belonging to
the shield.
Amid all these dangers the men displayed great
courage and perseverance. Brunel's genius had
roused them to a noble and generous disregard of
the opposing principles of nature. The alarms
were frequent, the apprehension incessant. At any
moment the deluge might come; and the men
worked, like labourers in a dangerous coal mine, in
constant terror from either fire or water. Now and
then a report like a cannon-shot would announce
the snap of some portion of the overstrained
shield; sometimes there were frightened cries from
the foremost workers, as the earth and water
rushed in and threatened to sweep all before them.
At the same time during these alarming irruptions,
large quantities of carburetted and sulphuretted
hydrogen would burst into fire, and wrap the whole
place in a sudden sheet of flame. Those who witnessed these explosions describe the effect of the
fire dancing on the surface of the water as singularly
beautiful. The miners and bricklayers, encouraged
by the steadfast hand at the helm, got quite accustomed to these outbursts, and, at the shout of
"Fire and water!" used to cry, "Light your pipes,
my boys," reckless as soldiers in the trenches.
But still worse than these violent protests of
Nature was a more subtle and deadly enemy. The
air grew so thick and impure, especially in summer,
that sometimes the most stalwart labourers were
carried out insensible, and all the workmen suffered
from headache, sickness, and cutaneous eruptions.
It was a great struggle, nobly borne. They shared
Brunel's anxieties, and were eager for a share of
his fame, for he had inspired the humblest hodman
with something of his own high impulse. "It was
touching," writes a chronicler of the tunnel, "to
hear the men speak of Brunel. As in their waking
hours these men could have no thought but of the
tunnel, so, no doubt, did the eternal subject constantly mingle with their dreams, and harass them
with unreal dangers. One amusing instance may
be mentioned. Whilst Mr. Brunel, jun., was engaged one midnight superintending the progress of
the work, he and those with him were alarmed by
a sudden cry of ' The water ! the water!—wedges
and straw here!' followed by an appalling silence.
Mr. Brunel hastened to the spot, where the men
were found perfectly safe. They had fallen fast
asleep from fatigue, and one of them had been
evidently dreaming of a new irruption."
By January, 1828, the middle of the river had
been reached, and no human life had yet been
sacrificed. But, as if the evil principle had only
retired to prepare for a fresh attack, a terrible crisis
now came. "I had been in the frames," says Mr.
Brunel, jun., in a letter written to the directors on
the fatal Saturday, August 12th, 1828, "with the
workmen throughout the whole night, having taken
my station there at ten o'clock. During the workings
through the night no symptoms of insecurity appeared. At six o'clock this morning (the usual
time for shifting the men) a fresh set came on to
work. We began to work the ground at the west
top corner of the frame. The tide had just then
begun to flow, and finding the ground tolerably
quiet, we proceeded by beginning at the top, and
had worked about a foot downwards, when, on
exposing the next six inches, the ground swelled
suddenly, and a large quantity burst through the
opening thus made. This was followed instantly
by a large body of water. The rush was so violent
as to force the man on the spot where the burst
took place out of the frame (or cell) on to the
timber stage behind the frames. I was in the frame
with the man; but upon the rush of the water I
went into the next box, in order to command a
better view of the irruption; and seeing there was
no possibility of their opposing the water, I ordered
all the men in the frames to retire. All were retiring except the three men who were with me, and
they retreated with me. I did not leave the stage
until those three men were down the ladder of the
frames, when they and I proceeded about twenty
feet along the west arch of the tunnel. At this
moment the agitation of the air by the rush of the
water was such as to extinguish all the lights, and
the water had gained the height of the middle of
our waists. I was at that moment giving directions
to the three men, in what manner they ought to
proceed in the dark to effect their escape, when
they and I were knocked down and covered by a
part of the timber stage. I struggled under water
for some time, and at length extricated myself from
the stage; and by swimming and being forced by
the water, I gained the eastern arch, where I got a
better footing, and was enabled, by laying hold of
the railway rope, to pause a little, in the hope of
encouraging the men who had been knocked down
at the same time with myself. This I endeavoured
to do by calling to them. Before I reached the
shaft the water had risen so rapidly that I was out
of my depth, and therefore swam to the visitors'
stairs, the stairs of the workmen being occupied by
those who had so far escaped. My knee was so
injured by the timber stage that I could scarcely
swim or get up the stairs, but the rush of the water
carried me up the shaft. The three men who had
been knocked down with me were unable to extricate themselves, and I grieve to say they are
lost, and, I believe, also two old men and one
young man in other parts of the work."
This was a crisis indeed. The alarmists grew
into a majority, and the funds of the company were
exhausted. The hole in the river-bed was discovered by the divers to be very formidable; it
was oblong and perpendicular, and measured about
seven feet in length. The old mode of mending was
resorted to. Four thousand tons of earth (chiefly
clay, in bags) were employed to patch the place.
The tunnel remained as substantial as ever, but
the work was for seven years suspended. Brunel,
whose tenacity of purpose was unshakable, was
almost in a state of frenzy at this accident. So far
his plan had apparently failed, but the engineer's
star had not yet forsaken him. In January, 1835,
the Government, after many applications, agreed to
make some advances for the continuation of the
work, and it was once more resumed with energy.
The progress was at first very slow; for, of sixtysix weeks, two feet four inches only per week were
accomplished during the first eighteen, three feet
nine inches per week during the second eighteen,
one foot per week during the third eighteen, and
during the last twelve weeks only three feet four
inches altogether. This will excite little surprise
when we know, says a clever writer on the subject,
that the ground in front of the shield was, from excessive saturation, almost constantly in little better
than a fluid state; that an entire new and artificial bed had to be formed in the river in advance;
and brought down by ingenious contrivances till it
was deep enough to occupy the place of the natural
soil where the excavation was to be made, and that
then there must be time allowed for its settlement,
whenever the warning rush of sand and water was
heard in the shield. Lastly, owing to the excavation being so much below that of any other works
around the tunnel, it formed a drain and receptacle
for all the water of the neighbourhood. This was
ultimately remedied by the sinking of the shaft on
the Wapping side. Yet it was under such circumstances that the old shield injured by the last
irruption. was taken away and replaced by a new
one. This was executed by Brunel without the
loss of a single life. But now fresh difficulties
arose: the expenditure had been so great that the
Lords of the Treasury declined to make further
advances without the sanction of Parliament. The
examination of Mr. Brunel and the assistant engineers before a Parliamentary Committee led, however, to favourable results, and the work was again
renewed.
In August, 1837, a third irruption and several
narrow escapes occurred. The water had gradually increased at the east corner, since two p.m.
on the 23rd, rushing into the shield with a hollow
roar, as though it fell through a cavity in the riverbed. A boat was then sent into the tunnel, to
convey material to block up the frames. Notwithstanding, the water gained upon the men, and
rapidly rose in the tunnel. About four p.m., the
water having risen to within seven feet of the crown
of the arch, it was thought wise for the men to
retire, which they did with great courage, along
a platform constructed by Mr. Brunel in the east
arch only a few weeks before. As the water still continued rising, after the men left, Mr. Page, the acting
engineer, and four others, got into the boat, in
order to reach the stages and see if any change had
taken place; but after passing the 600 feet mark in
the tunnel the line attached to the boat ran out, and
they returned to lengthen it. This accident saved
their lives, for while they were preparing the rope
the water surged up the arch ten or twelve feet.
They instantly made their way to the shaft, and
Mr. Page, fearing the men might get jammed in
the staircase, called to them to go steadily; but
they, misunderstanding him, returned, and could
hardly be prevailed upon to go up. Had the line
been long enough, all the persons in the boat must
have perished, for no less than a million gallons of
water now burst into the tunnel in a single minute.
The lower gas-lights were now under water, and
the tunnel was almost in darkness. The water
had now risen to within fifty feet of the entrance of
the tunnel, and was advancing in a wave. As
Mr. Page and his assistants arrived at the second
landing of the visitors' stairs, the waves had risen
up to the knees of the last man.
A WILD-BEAST SHOP. (See page 134.)
The next irruption was in November, 1837,
when the water burst in about four in the morning,
and soon filled the tunnel. Excellent arrangements
had been made for the safety of the men, and all
the seventy or more persons employed at the time
escaped, but one—he alone did not answer when
the roll was called; and some one remembered
seeing a miner going towards the shield when all
the rest were escaping. The fifth and last serious
irruption occurred on March 6, 1838. It was preceded by a noise resembling thunder, but no loss
of life occurred.
ST. DUNSTAN'S, STEPNEY. (From a View taken in 1803.)
The last feeble struggle of the river against its
persistent enemy was in April, 1840. About eight
a.m., it being then low water, during a movement
of the poling-boards in the shield, a quantity of
gravel and water rushed into the frame. The
ground rushed in immediately, and knocked the
men out of their cells, and they fled in a panic;
but finding the water did not follow, they returned,
and by great exertions succeeded in stopping the
run, when upwards of 6,000 cubic feet of ground
had fallen into the tunnel. The fall was attended
with a noise like thunder, and the extinguishing of
all the lights. At the same time, to the horror of
Wapping, part of the shore in that place sank,
over an area of upwards of 700 feet, leaving a
cavity on the shore of about thirty feet in diameter,
and thirteen feet in depth. Had this taken place
at high water, the tunnel would have been filled;
as it was, men were sent over with bags of clay
and gravel, and everything rendered secure by the
return of the tide.
Sometimes sand, nearly fluid, would ooze through
minute cracks between the small poling-boards of
the shield, and leave large cavities in the ground in
front. On one of these occasions the sand poured
in all night, and filled the bottom of the shield.
In the morning, on opening one of the faces, a
hollow was discovered, eighteen feet long, six feet
high, and six feet deep. This cavity was filled up
with brickbats and lumps of clay. One of the
miners was compelled to lay himself down in this
cavity, for the purpose of building up the further
end, though at the risk of being buried alive.
At last, on the 13th of August, 1841, Sir Isambard
Brunel passed down the shaft on the Wapping side
of the Thames, and thence, by a small drift-way
through the shield, into the tunnel. The difficulties of the great work had at last been surmounted.
The tunnel measures 1,200 feet. The carriageways were originally intended to consist of an
immense spiral road, winding twice round a circular
excavation 57 feet deep, in order to reach the
proper level. The extreme diameter of this spiral
road was to be no less than 200 feet. The road
itself was to have been 40 feet wide, and the
descent very moderate. The tunnel is now turned
into a part of the East London Railway, which will
form a junction between the Great Eastern Railway
and the various branches of the Brighton Railway
on the south of the Thames.
Ratcliff Highway, now called St. George Street,
is the Regent Street of London sailors, who, in
many instances, never extend their walks in the
metropolis beyond this semi-marine region. It
derives its name from the manor of Ratcliffe in the
parish of Stepney. Stow describes it as so increased in building eastward in his time that,
instead of a large highway, "with fair elm-trees on
both the sides," as he had known it, it had joined
Limehurst or Lime host, corruptly called Limehouse, a mile distant from Ratcliffe. In Dryden's
miscellaneous poems, Tom, one of the characters,
remarks that he had heard a ballad about the
Protector Somerset sung at Ratcliff Cross.
The wild-beast shops in this street have often
been sketched by modern essayists. The yards in
the neighbourhood are crammed with lions, hyenas,
pelicans, tigers, and other animals in demand among
the proprietors of menageries. As many as ten to
fifteen lions are often in stock at one time, and
sailors come here to sell their pets and barter
curiosities. The ingenious way that animals are
stored in these out-of-the-way places is well worth
seeing.
Ratcliff Highway has not been the scene of
many very memorable events. In 1811, however,
it was startled by a series of murders that for a time
struck all London with terror, and produced a deep
conviction in the public mind that the old watchmen who then paraded the City were altogether
insufficient to secure the safety of its inhabitants.
Mr. Marr, the first victim, kept a lace and pelisse
shop at No. 29, Ratcliff Highway. At about twelve
at night on Saturday, December 7, 1811, he sent out
his servant-girl to purchase some oysters for supper,
while he shut up the shop-windows. On the girl's
return, in a quarter of an hour, she rang the bell,
but obtained no answer. As she listened at the
key-hole, she thought she could hear a person
breathing at the same aperture; she therefore gave
the alarm. On the shop being broken open, Mr.
Marr was found dead behind the counter, Mrs. Marr
and the shop-boy dead in another part of the shop,
and a child murdered in the cradle. The murderer
had, it was supposed, used a ship-mallet, and had
evidently come in on pretence of purchasing goods,
as Marr had been reaching down some stockings
when he was struck. Very little if any money was
missed from the till. Twelve days after, before the
horror and alarm caused by these murders could
subside, other crimes followed. On the 19th of
December, Williamson, the landlord of the King's
Arms public-house, Old Gravel Lane, Ratcliff Highway, with his wife, and female servant were also
murdered. An apprentice who lodged at the
house, coming down-stairs in alarm at hearing a
door slam, saw the murderer stooping and taking
the keys out of the pocket of Mrs. Williamson.
The murderer heard him, and pursued him upstairs; but the lad, fastening his sheets to a bed,
let himself down out of window into the street.
The murderer, a sailor named Williams, escaped,
though the house was almost instantly surrounded;
but was soon after captured at a sailors' boardinghouse, where a knife stained with blood was afterwards found secreted. The wretch hanged himself
in prison the night of his arrest. His body was
placed on a platform in a high cart, with the mallet
and ripping chisel, with which he had committed
the murders, by his side, and driven past the houses
of Marr and Williamson. A stake was then driven
through his breast, and his carcase thrown into a
hole dug for the purpose, where the New Road
crosses and Cannon Street Road begins.
It was remembered afterwards, by a girl to whom
the murderer had been attached, that he had once
asked her if she should be frightened if she awoke
in the night and saw him standing with a knife by
her bedside. The girl replied, "I should feel no
fear, Mr. Williams, when I saw your face." Very
little was discovered of the man's antecedents, but
it is said that the captain of the East Indiaman in
which he had sailed had predicted his speedy
death by the gallows. These murders excited the
imagination of De Quincey, the opium-eater, who
wrote a wonderful though not strictly accurate
version of the affair. Macaulay, writing of the
alarm in England at the supposed murder of Sir
Edmundbury Godfrey, says, "Many of our readers
can remember the state of London just after the
murder of Marr and Williamson; the terror which
was on every face; the careful barring of doors;
the providing of blunderbusses and watchmen's
rattles. We know of a shopkeeper who on that
occasion sold 300 rattles in about ten hours.
Those who remember that panic may be able to
form some notion of the state of England after the
death of Godfrey."
In the Swedish Church, Princes Square, Ratcliff
Highway, lies buried that extraordinary man, Baron
Swedenborg, founder of the sect of Swedenborgians,
who died in 1772. This strange mystic, who discovered an inner meaning in the Scriptures, believed that in visions he had visited both heaven
and hell; he was also a practical mineralogist of
great scientific attainments.
We now come to Wapping, that nautical hamlet of
Stepney, a long street extending from Lower East
Smithfield to New Crane. It was begun in 1571,
to secure the manor from the encroachments of the
river, which had turned this part of the north bank
of the Thames into a great wash or swamp; the
Commissioners of Sewers rightly imagining that
when building once began, the tenants would not
fail to keep out the river, for the sake of their own
lives and properties. Stow calls it Wapping-inthe-Wose, or Wash; and Strype describes it as a
place "chiefly inhabited by seafaring men, and
tradesmen dealing in commodities for the supply
of shipping and shipmen."
It must have been a dirty, dangerous place in
Stow's time, when it was chiefly remarkable as being
the place of execution for pirates. Stow says
of it—"The usual place for hanging of pirates and
sea-rovers, at the low-water mark, and there to
remain till three tides had overflowed them; was
never a house standing within these forty years,
but since the gallows being after removed farther
off, a continual street, or filthy strait passage, with
alleys of small tenements or cottages built, inhabited by sailor's victuallers, along by the river
of Thames, almost to Radcliffe, a good mile from
the Tower."
Pirates were hung at East Wapping as early as
the reign of Henry VI., for in a "Chronicle of
London," edited by Sir Harris Nicolas, we read
that in this reign two bargemen were hung beyond
St. Katherine's, for murdering three Flemings and
a child in a Flemish vessel; "and there they
hengen till the water had washed them by ebbying
and flowyd, so the water bett upon them." And
as late as 1735 we read in the Gentleman's
Magazine, "Williams the pirate was hanged at
Execution Dock, and afterwards in chains at
Bugsby's Hole, near Blackwall." Howell, in his
"Londinopolis," 1657, says, "From the Liberties
of St. Katherine to Wapping, 'tis yet in the memory
of man, there never was a house standing but
the gallowes, which was further removed in regard
of the buildings. But now there is a continued
street, towards a mile long, from the Tower all
along the river, almost as far as Radcliffe,
which proceedeth from the increase of navigation,
mariners, and trafique." In one of those wild
romantic plays of the end of the Shakespearean
era, Fortune by Land and Sea, a tragi-comedy by
Thomas Heywood and William Rowley, the writer
fixes one scene near Execution Dock, where two
pirates, called Purser and Clinton, are brought to
die. One of these men delivers himself of a grand
rhapsody—
"How many captains that have aw'd the seas
Shall fall on this unfortunate piece of land!
Some that commanded islands; some to whom
The Indian mines paid tribute, the Turk vailed.
* * * * *
"But now our sun is setting; night comes on;
The watery wilderness o'er which we reigned
Proves in our ruins peaceful. Merchants trade,
Fearless abroad as in the rivers' mouth,
And free as in a harbour. Then, fair Thames,
Queen of fresh water, famous through the world,
And not the least through us, whose double tides
Must overflow our bodies; and, being dead,
May thy clear waves our scandals wash away,
But keep our valours living."
The audience, no doubt, sympathised with these
gallant filibusters, whose forays and piracies against
Spain would be thought by many present very
venial offences.
In 1816 Townsend, the celebrated Bow Street
runner, was examined before a Committee of the
House of Commons, on the decrease of highwaymen, and other questions connected with the police
of the metropolis. He was particularly questioned
as to the advantage of hanging men in chains.
The sturdy old officer, with the memorable white
hat, was strongly for the custom. "Yes," he said,
"I was always of that opinion, and I recommended
Sir William Scott to hang the two men that are
hanging down the river. I will state my reason.
We will take for granted that those men were
hanged, as this morning, for the murder of those
revenue officers. They are by law dissected. The
sentence is that afterwards the body is to go to
the surgeons for dissection. There is an end of
it—it dies. But look at this. There are a couple
of men now hanging near the Thames, where all
the sailors must come up; and one says to the
other, 'Pray, what are those two poor fellows there
for?' 'Why,' says another, 'I will go and ask.'
They ask. 'Why, these two men are hung and
gibbeted for murdering His Majesty's revenue
officers.' And so the thing is kept alive."
In one of Hogarth's series of the Idle and Industrious Apprentices, the artist has introduced a
man hanging in chains further down the river; and
a friend of the author's remembers seeing a pirate
hung in chains on the Thames bank, and a crow
on his shoulder, pecking his flesh through the iron
netting that enclosed the body.
Wapping, it will be remembered, was in 1688
the scene of the capture of the cruel minister of
James II., Lord Chancellor Jeffreys, who, trying
to make his escape in the disguise of a common
seaman, was captured in a mean ale-house, called
the "Red Cow," in Anchor-and-Hope Alley, near
King Edward's Stairs, in Wapping. He was recognised by a poor scrivener, whom he had once
terrified when in his clutches, as he was lolling out
of window, confident in his security. The story
of his capture is related with much vividness and
unction by Macaulay:—
"A scrivener," says the historian, "who lived at
Wapping, and whose trade was to furnish the seafaring men there with money at high interest, had
some time before lent a sum on bottomry. The
debtor applied to equity for relief against his own
bond, and the case came before Jeffreys. The
counsel for the borrower, having little else to say,
said that the lender was a trimmer. The chancellor
instantly fired. 'A trimmer! Where is he? Let
me see him. I have heard of that kind of monster.
What is it made like?' The unfortunate creditor
was forced to stand forth. The chancellor glared
fiercely on him, stormed at him, and sent him away
half dead with fright. 'While I live,' the poor man
said, as he tottered out of the court, 'I shall never
forget that terrible countenance.' And now the day
of retribution had arrived. The trimmer was walking through Wapping, when he saw a well-known
face looking out of the window of an ale-house.
He could not be deceived. The eyebrows, indeed,
had been shaved away. The dress was that of a
common sailor from Newcastle, and was black with
coal-dust; but there was no mistaking the savage
eye and mouth of Jeffreys. The alarm was given.
In a moment the house was surrounded by hundreds of people, shaking bludgeons and bellowing
curses. The fugitive's life was saved by a company of the Trainbands; and he was carried before
the Lord Mayor. The mayor was a simple man,
who had passed his whole life in obscurity, and was
bewildered by finding himself an important actor
in a mighty revolution. The events of the last
twenty-four hours, and the perilous state of the city
which was under his charge, had disordered his
mind and his body. When the great man, at
whose frown, a few days before, the whole kingdom
had trembled, was dragged into the justice-room
begrimed with ashes, half dead with fright, and
followed by a raging multitude, the agitation of the
unfortunate mayor rose to the height. He fell into
fits, and was carried to his bed, whence he never
rose. Meanwhile, the throng without was constantly becoming more numerous and more savage.
Jeffreys begged to be sent to prison. An order to
that effect was procured from the Lords who were
sitting at Whitehall; and he was conveyed in a
carriage to the Tower. Two regiments of militia
were drawn out to escort him, and found the duty
a difficult one. It was repeatedly necessary for
them to form, as if for the purpose of repelling a
charge of cavalry, and to present a forest of pikes
to the mob. The thousands who were disappointed of their revenge pursued the coach with
howls of rage to the gate of the Tower, brandishing
cudgels, and holding up halters full in the prisoner's
view. The wretched man meantime was in convulsions of terror. He wrung his hands, he looked
wildly out, sometimes at one window, sometimes
at the other, and was heard, even above the tumult,
crying, 'Keep them off, gentlemen! For God's
sake, keep them off!' At length, having suffered
far more than the bitterness of death, he was safely
lodged in the fortress, where some of his most illustrious victims had passed their last days, and where
his own life was destined to close in unspeakable
ignominy and terror."
Strype records the fact that on July 24, 1629,
King Charles I., having hunted a stag all the
way from Wanstead, in Essex, ran him down at
last, and killed him in Nightingale Lane, "in the
hamlet of Wapping, in a garden belonging to a
man who had some damage among his herbs, by
reason of the multitude of people there assembled
suddenly."
Dr. Johnson, in one conversation with that excellent listener, Boswell, talked much of the wonderful extent and variety of London, and observed
that men of curious inquiry might see in it such
modes of life as only few could imagine. "He in
particular," says Boswell, "recommended us to
'explore' Wapping, which we resolved to do. We
accordingly carried our scheme into execution in
October, 1792; but, whether from that uniformity
which has in modern times to a great degree spread
through every part of the metropolis, or from our
want of sufficient exertion, we were disappointed."
Joseph Ames, that well-known antiquary and lover
of old books, who wrote "Typographical Antiquities; or, the History of Printing in England," was a
ship-chandler in a humble alley of Wapping, where
he died, in 1758. This worthy old student is described as a person of vast application and industry
in collecting old printed books and prints, and
other curiosities, both natural and artificial. His
curious notices of Caxton's works, and of very rare
early books, were edited and enlarged, first by
Herbert, and lastly by that enthusiastic bibliomaniac, T. F. Dibdin. Another celebrated native
of Wapping was John Day, a block and pump
maker, who originated that popular festivity, Fairlop
Fair, in Hainault Forest.
Amongst the ship and boat builders of Wapping,
the rope makers, biscuit bakers, mast, oar, and
block makers, many years ago, a prying nurseryman observed in a small window a pretty West
Indian flower, which he purchased. It proved
to be a fuchsia, which was then unknown in England. The flower became popular, and 300 cuttings from it were the next year sold at one guinea
each.
Among the thirty-six taverns and public-houses
in Wapping High Street and Wapping Wall, says
Mr. Timbs, are the signs of the "Ship and Pilot,"
"Ship and Star," "Ship and Punchbowl," "Union
Flag and Punchbowl," the "Gun," "North American
Sailor," "Golden Anchor," "Anchor and Hope," the
"Ship," "Town of Ramsgate," "Queen's Landing,"
"Ship and Whale," the "Three Mariners," and the
"Prospect of Whitby."
Between 288 and 304, Wapping, are Wapping Old
Stairs, immortalised by Dibdin's fine old song—
"'Your Molly has never been false,' she declares,
'Since last time we parted at Wapping Old Stairs.'"
Going still further east we come to Shadwell,
which, like Wapping, was a hamlet of Stepney, till
1669, when it was separated by Act of Parliament.
It derives its name, its name, it is supposed by Lysons, from
a spring dedicated to St. Chad. Its extent is very
small, being only 910 yards long, and 760 broad.
In Lysons' time, the only land in the parish not
built on was the Sun Tavern Fields, in which were
rope-walks, where cables were made, from six to
twenty-three inches in girth; the rest of the parish
was occupied by ships' chandlers, biscuit bakers,
ship-builders, mast-makers, sail-makers, and anchorsmiths. The church of St. Paul was built in the
year 1656, but it was not consecrated till 1671.
It was rebuilt in 1821 on the old site. There
were waterworks, established in Shadwell by
Thomas Neale, Esq., in 1669.
About 1745 a mineral spring, which was called
Shadwell Spa, was discovered by Walter Berry,
Esq., when sinking a well in Sun Tavern Fields.
It was said to be impregnated with sulphur, vitriol,
steel, and antimony. A pamphlet was written by
Dr. Linden, in 1749, to prove it could cure every
disease. The water was found useful in cutaneous
diseases. It was then employed for extracting salts,
and for preparing a liquor with which the calicoprinters fix their colours. The waters of another
mineral spring in Shadwell resemble those of the
postern spring on Tower Hill. Cook's almshouses
at Shadwell are mentioned by the local historians.