148 THE CALL OF THE SEA 



Leaving the Thames ^cix <;> 



(From The Other Side of the Lantern) 



HTHE Thames creeps from under the fog, as if it 

 came forth from a tunnel. Here at Tilbury it 

 is a villainous tramp of a river. Dirty, sullen, and 

 strong, it lurches down to the sea. It seems to 

 revel in its dirtiness, for every eddy it turns up 

 brings from the depths fresh realisations of a 

 deeper dirt. It rubs its muddy shoulders along 

 the shrinking banks, so that they are soiled by its 

 touch. Mud and mist replace the glories of stream 

 and sky. Where there may have been fields trod- 

 den by leisurely folk, with stiles for them to rest at 

 and hedgerows for them to make love among, there 

 are gullies and dj'kes of slime, a village of dismal 

 sheds, and a spinney of cranes and derricks. The 

 very grass, struggling up among ashes and rusting 

 iron, looks lean and dissipated. 



All this is the outcome of man's enterprise and 

 industry. The huge, beery ogre of labour, dirty 

 and sweating from his work, has thrown himself 

 down in the lady's garden, and the lilies and the 

 roses are crushed and sullied by his inconsiderate 

 form. 



In the background towards London there rises 

 in the mist, beyond a palisade of masts, a forest of 

 chimneys with foliage of smoke. Ships seem to be 



