ed from Greenland ships. On another are powerful cranes for landing anchors and guns; and on a third a machine for masting and dismasting vessels with more than usual despatch. How comparatively feeble is man, until the powers of his mind are called into action! He invents machinery, and then goes forth with more than the strength of a giant.

Before the establishment of the Marine Police, in 1798, the robberies which took place on the river were very frequent, and sometimes very extensive. plunder is to be had, plunderers will be found.

Where

When we reflect on the valuable cargoes with which ships are freighted from the East and West, and on the daring characters that abound in large cities and seaports, it will not excite wonder, that so long as vessels remained in an unprotected state, continual attempts should be made to plunder them. To such a pitch of audacity has pillage been carried on in the river, that a vessel has been known to be boarded, during the night, by a desperate gang, her anchor weighed, and both anchor and cable borne away in presence of the captain, in spite of all his attempts to prevent it. As on land there are thieves of all grades, from the reckless highwayman and burglar, to the fearful and wily pickpocket, so on the water, there were spoilers of all kinds, ready to rob on a large or small scale, from a cargo, to a cocoanut or a nutmeg. The river pirate boldly took, by open force, his share of the booty. The night plunderer bribed the watchmen on board, and by their connivance, bore away in his boat all that he could conveniently remove. The light horseman, on good terms with the mates of ships and revenue officers, opened hogsheads of sugar and other produce, plundering them with im

punity. The heavy horseman stowed away, beneath his ample dress, as much coffee, ginger, and cocoa, as he could well carry; while the gauze lighterman was ever ready to receive stolen goods. Besides these, there were the mudlark and the scupple hunter: the former prowling about at low water, receiving in his small bag such petty packages as he could get from his dishonest friends on board; and the latter sneaking about the wharfs and quays, under pretence of wanting work, to pick up every thing and any thing that came to hand. The West India Docks have very extensive ranges of warehouses for the stowage of merchandize. The northern dock, for unloading ships arriving from the West Indies, is two thousand six hundred feet in length, by a breadth of more than five hundred. Here a fleet of three hundred West Indiamen may ride safely. The southern dock, for loading outward-bound vessels, will hold, at least, two hundred ships. Before the formation of the West India Docks, the river used to be very inconveniently crowded on the arrival of a fleet.

The Wapping entrance to the London Docks is before me. Workmen, revenue officers, merchants, clerks, porters, and visitors, are passing to and fro. On the right, stand a number of caravan-looking accounting houses on wheels, that they may be removed from place to place; and the painted boards in the front announce the intelligence that carts, wagons, vans with springs, and every other accommodation, for the speedy and safe removal of merchandize, may be there obtained. On the left, stand empty and laden wains, cabs, and coaches, with their attendant wagoners in frocks, coachmen in great coats, and cab-drivers in similar attire.

Against the wall, by the gates, are placards of the different vessels about to sail to all parts of the world; a goodly number of ships bound to Australia, New South Wales, and Van Diemen's Land among them. On entering the gates, the immense area is covered with pipes and casks of different kinds of wine, to be inspected before they are stowed in the ground floors and vaults of the surrounding warehouses.

Masts without number now attract my attention, figure-heads, and the great bulging bows of vessels. A confused mass of closely reefed sails, rigging, blocks, and tackling. Here is a lad swinging in the noose of a rope half way down the hull of a ship, turning an iron nut with a nut-screw; and there is another busily employed at the mast head. Seamen, fair, sunburnt, swarthy, and black, are on the decks and round the cabooses, and "Heave ho!" is heard in different directions, as the tackling creaks, and the heavy hogsheads dangle in the air.

Years ago I came to this place to welcome home an aged relative, to whom, in my youthful days, I was strongly attached: he had just arrived from the western world. Twenty summers and winters had he passed in the woody lands on the banks of the Delaware, and so much was he altered in appearance, that, at first, I passed him by as a stranger. Time had been busy with him, bleaching his hair like flax, furrowing his cheeks and brow, and impairing the strength of his body and his mind. I could have wept like a child, for affection was strong within me. Well! I must not linger on the scene. Many were the days of his pilgrimage, and his white hairs reminded those who loved him, not only that he had walked long with God on

earth, but that he would soon dwell with Him in hea ven. Since then, I have witnessed his last sigh, closed his dying eyes, and followed him to the grave.

Oh fear not, Christian, to die,

For death is the end of thy woes;
And the sleep of the grave will pass by
As a night of refreshing repose.

The labourer that rests through the gloom,

At the dawn of the day will arise;

And ere long wilt thou spring from the tomb,
And be winging thy way to the skies.

The stores of wine in the vaults of this place are immense, as well as those of brandy, rum, and hollands; while, in the warehouses, the amount of tea, tobacco, and indigo, is equally astonishing. As I continue my walk round the several quays, I step for a moment into the different warehouses, to mark the different kinds of merchandize that are laid up there. One place is filled with wool, another piled with hemp, and a third occupied with cork, tied up in large bundles. On every hand, something is doing around me; pipes of wine, puncheons of rum, hogsheads of sugar, and boxes of raisins and currants, are hoisted by cranes from the quay to the ships, or from the ships to the quay. I see boxes of fruit, bales of silk, bundles of hides, packages of wool, glue, glass, madder, shell-lac, spices, tallow, oil, wax, gum, whalebone, leather, sponge, and a hundred other commodities, while piles of iron in bars, and logwood in logs, vary the scene.

A party of strangers, judging by the curiosity and wonder visible in their eyes, are now walking along the quay; the ladies are not a little incommoded by the ropes and pullies, the trucks of the workmen, and the packages that intercept their course; yet they take it all with good humour: it would be unreasonable to

take it otherwise: the real business of life cannot be allowed to stand still, while we practise its courtesies and civilities.

The outlet of the dock to the river forcibly reminds me of an occurrence which was very near proving fatal. A young friend, about to embark for Sydney, some years ago, had lingered on the quay with her friends, till the vessel had almost quitted the lock, sailing onwards for the Thames; there was but just time for any one to proceed up the rope ladder with safety. My young friend attempted to do this, but faltered. It was a critical moment. Had she fallen into the lock, it would have been her destruction. Perceiving that she had lost her presence of mind, I snatched her away from the ladder, just as the vessel had cleared the lock. The remembrance of her perilous situation and escape, even now, makes me draw my breath quicker than ordinary. About a month ago, I again saw her embark with her husband, on her second voyage to Sydney.

I am now looking on a brig, that lies close up to the quay, and I could look at her for an hour, having just picked up the information, from a sailor on board, that she was all but wrecked in the Bay of Biscay. There she is with a chain cable passed twice around her hull, her bows staved in, her bulwarks broken clean off, and her masts carried by the board. Her jurymast is a mere spar, and she carries not a rag deserving the name of a sail. How such a broken craft could ride the waters is wonderful. While I look at her, the Bay of Biscay scene is before me-the roaring winds, the black sky, and the heaving ocean. Hark how her strained timbers creak between the blasts of the tempest! Her mast is struck by the lightning, and now it is carried away.