the murther) apprehended this strange waterman;
who confessed the fact, and was
condemned and executed." A doleful theory
this, and not so pleasant to think upon as
that propounded by Dr. Woodward, who tells
us that "the fertile soil of the marsh, usually
known as the Isle of Dogs, was so called
because when our former princes made
Greenwich their country seat, and used it
for hunting, the kennels for their dogs were
kept on this marsh; which usually making a
great noise, the seamen and others thereupon
called the place the Isle of Dogs." The
hunting theory being more pleasant than the
murder theory, and both resting (for aught
we see) on equally trustworthy evidence, we
will adopt the former.

Dr. Woodward superadds to this theory,
a statement of fact, to the effect that the
so–called Isle of Dogs "is not an isle, indeed,
scarce a peninsula—the neck being about a
mile in length." This is true, or at least it
was true when the Doctor wrote; but as
commercial people have since cut a canal or
two across the neck of the peninsula, it has
since become an island, though not one of
nature's making. It used in old times to be
called Poplar Marsh. Maitland, writing on
these matters about a century ago, tells us
something, not only concerning the hunting
theory above alluded to, but concerning the
marshy nature of the peninsula itself. "The
Chapel House in the Isle of Dogs, or Poplar
Marsh, is the ruins of a stone chapel; but
when or by whom built is unknown.
However, I am of opinion that it either belonged
to the Manor of Pountfret (or to His Majesty's
servants who attended the royal kennels whilst
the King's hounds were kept here), which
anciently lay in this marsh; the capital
mansion whereof, by the discovery of large
foundations and gatehooks, may not only be
presumed to have stood here, but likewise
divers other houses, which probably were
inhabited till the great inundation toward
the close of the fifteenth century, occasioned
by a breach in the bank of the river
Thames, near the great ship–yard at
Limehouse Hole."

Poplar has been cruelly cut off from its
own proper Isle of Dogs, its own original
marsh, by the West India Dock Company.
Poplar cannot now get to its marsh without
wriggling past the sugar hogsheads and rum
puncheons; and, as if to add to the insult,
the Blackwall Railway has raised an
additional barrier, which can only be set at
nought either by leaping over, or climbing
under, its arches. Poplar had once a goodly
range of poplar trees, from which it
obtained its name; although the trees have
been much lessened in number, Poplar will
not admit of any diminution of importance
thereby; like many other districts in the
margin of the metropolis, Poplar has
exchanged trees for houses. Its High Street is
traversed by the Dock Junction Railway from
Camden Town: and it feels sure of being a
busy place by and bye. Working our way
southward from this High Street, and
traversing the railway as best we may, we come
fairly upon the neck of our peninsula, and an
hour's exploration will show how the Dock
Company have converted this peninsula into
an island. Not only is it an island, but an
island within an island. The great Import
Dock is connected by a basin and lock–gates
with the Thames at Blackwall on the east,
and by another basin and lock–gates with the
Thames at Limehouse on the west: this gives
an insular character to the peninsula. Southward
of this is another channel, a straight cut
from east to west; this was planned and made
simply as a canal, but it now constitutes the
Company's South Dock, and it helps to form
an island within an island. A large affair are
these docks. Only think of an Import Dock
that will contain at one time two hundred
vessels of three hundred tons each; and an
Export Dock not very much smaller; and a
still longer but narrower South Dock; and a
Timber Dock of notable dimensions; and
warehouses which have contained at one time
a hundred and fifty thousand hogsheads of
sugar, half a million bags of coffee, thirty or
forty thousand pipes of rum and Madeira,
fifteen thousand logs of mahogany, and twenty
thousand tons of logwood! Truly the barrier
which is placed between Poplar and its island
is a rich one—it is in more senses than one a
spicy affair. From these various docks the
Isle of Dogs hangs down like—we hardly
know what,—like a balloon that is getting
flabby and half–spent; or like a cap of
liberty turned upside down; or like a
kidney potato with a little bit cut off one
end; or like the toe of a stocking. It is
barely three–quarters of a mile broad across
the neck of the peninsula; but to follow the
river curve, the distance is little less than
three miles.

We have called the Isle of Dogs a low,
green, swampy field, fringed with industry,
and inhabited by a few cows. The industry,
as in most other parts of the vicinity of
London, is becoming more developed every
year. We can see it landward as we walk
from Limehouse to the Millwall Ferry House;
but we can see it still better by following the
river–line in a Woolwich steamer. Big,
burly, dirty factories are these, which show
their good sense by departing as far as may
be from the centre of London. Here, at
Limehouse Hole, where the western boundary
of our Isle may be said to begin, we find a
chemical manufacturer, making all sorts of
acids and alkalies out of all sorts of
substances; and a tarpaulin–maker, who daubs
Russia hemp with Russia tar; and a seed–
crusher, with his mills and presses; and a
rope–maker, with his shed nearly as long as
the Crystal Palace; and a sail–maker. Then
there is the ship–yard to which the well–
known name of G. F. Young is attached, and