afterwards is not the thing we did, or tried to do, but the friends who
were about us at the time. But our stately ships themselves, with our
River their home, which gave Poplar's name, wherever they went, a ring
on the counter like a sound guinea, at the most they are now but planks
bearded with sea grass, lost in ocean currents, sighted only by the
albatross.

Long ago nearly every home in Dockland treasured a lithographic
portrait of one of the beauties, framed and hung where visitors could
see it as soon as they entered the door. Each of us knew one of them,
her runs and her records, the skipper and his fads, the owner and his
prejudice about the last pennyworth of tar. She was not a transporter
to us, an earner of freights, something to which was attached a profit
and loss account and an insurance policy. She had a name. She was a
sentient being, perhaps noble, perhaps wilful; she might have any
quality of character, even malice. I have seen hands laid on her with
affection in dock, when those who knew her were telling me of her ways.

To few of the newer homes among the later streets of Dockland is that
beautiful lady's portrait known. Here and there it survives, part of
the flotsam which has drifted through the years with grandmother's
sandalwood chest, the last of the rush-bottomed chairs, and the
lacquered tea-caddy. I well remember a room from which such survivals
were saved when the household ship ran on a coffin, and foundered. It
was a front parlour in one of the streets with an Oriental name; which,
I cannot be expected to remember, for when last I was in that room I
was lifted to sit on one of its horsehair chairs, its seat like a
hedgehog, and I was cautioned to sit still. It was rather a long drop
to the floor from a chair for me in those days, and though sitting
still was hard, sliding part of the way would have been much worse.