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What a fearful crash! He who can mete out the sea in the hollow of his hand, can alone save her crew from destruction ! He has commanded the winds to cease. “He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet; so he bringeth them unto their desired haven," Psa. cvii. 29, 30.

When we see the reckless life that sailors too often lead, and when we call to remembrance our own utter unworthiness, well may each of us exclaim, Lord, 6 what is man, that thou art mindful of him ? and the son of man that thou visitest him ?'' Psa. viii. 4. How terrible is the wide ocean in its rage! and yet

Life is a sea as fathomless,
As wide, as terrible, and yet sometimes
As calm and beautiful. The light of heaven
Smiles on it, and 'tis deck'd with every hue
Of glory and of joy. Anon dark clouds
Arise, contending winds go forth abroad,
And Hope sits weeping o'er a general wreck
And thou must sail upon this sea, a long
Eventful voyage. The wise may suffer wreck,
The foolish must. Oh, then, be early wise :
Learn from the mariner his skilful art,
To ride upon the waves, and catch the breeze,
And dare the threat'ning storm, and trace a path
'Mid countless dangers, to the destined port
Unerringly secure. Oh, learn from him
To station quick-eyed Prudence at the helm,
To guard thyself from Passion's sudden blasts,
And make Religion thy magnetic guide,
Which, though it trembles as it lonely lies,
Points to the light that changes not, in heaven.

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I have quitted the London Docks, and am now at those of St. Katharine. It is a sight somewhat strange to see a fleet of merchantmen riding on the waters, occupying a spot where, a short time before, might be seen huge buildings of substantial masonry, a beautiful

church, and a resting place for the departed dead: yet so it is : for where the river of mammon runs, it sweeps away

all that interferes with its free course. The stranger who has not seen the neighbourhood of the Tower and Wapping, for the last twenty years, will look around in vain for the ancient and beautiful church of St. Katharine, once belonging to the old hospital, founded by king Stephen's queen, Matilda. It is gone, together with its burial ground, and the large breweries near.

The site they covered is occupied by St. Katharine's Docks. St. Katharine's church

now in. the Regent's Park, with its almshouse, master, brethren, sisters, poor scholars, and beadsmen.

The new, dock of St. Katharine's occupies a space. of twenty-one acres, in which, a hundred and twenty fine ships find sufficient room. The quay appears to-day more than ordinarily crowded with merchandize and people, though the rain is falling fast and freely. As I walked here, the policemen had their vilcase capes on, umbrellas were hoisted, great coats buttoned close to the chin, and scores of poor draggle-tailed women and girls, with their thin-soled shoes, were paddling along the sloppy pavements. The docks are not improved in their appearance by bad weather; and at this moment, the

very porters linger, to avoid the wet skin that awaits them should they go forth.

I remember being present at the opening of St. Katharine's Docks, certainly one of the liveliest scenes on. which I ever gazed. The quays and windows of the various warehouses were thronged with goodly spectators; while the vessels, showing the flags of all nations, and hung with pendants and streamers of all colours, passed proudly into the capacious basin. Every yard

was manned with sailors, at every mast-head sat a blue jacket, and every deck was crowded with well-dressed company; while bands of music, playing national airs, imparted additional life to the glowing scene.

What a puny thing is man, compared with his own workmanship! Look at the broad, bulging bows of that three-masted ship near the quay! Regard her prow, figure-head, bowsprit

, towering masts, and enormous yards and sails! What an amazing hulk! And yet the whole

of the world would not stand a moment before the excited breath of the Almighty. As bubbles on the face of the waters would it disappear, and be no more seen. When a ship quits the shore, it is not the strength of her timbers that will insure her return: she is in the hands of God alone. How infinite art thou, O God, in thy power, thy wisdom, and thy goodness! The sun in his brightness proclaims thy glory by day, and by night

navy

"A million torches, lighted by thy hand,

Wander unwearied through the blue abyss ; They own thy power, accomplish thy command

All gay with life, all eloquent with bliss. What shall we call them? Piles of crystal light

A glorious company of golden streamsLamps of celestial ether burning bright

Suns lighting systems with their joyous beams : But thou to these art as the moon to night;

Yes! as a drop of water in the sea, All this magnificence in thee is lost :

What are ten thousand worlds compared to thee ? And what am I, then? Heaven's unnumber'd host,

Though multiplied by millions, and array'd In all the glory of sublimest thought,

Is but an atom in the balance, weigh'd Again thy greatness ! is a cipher brought Against infinity! Oh what am I, then? Nought !"

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SIR JOHN SOANE'S MUSEUM.

The Lincoln's Inn Fields Museum, established by sir John Soane, has much to recommend it to public attention; and those who love curiosities and works of art, and have leisure as well as inclination to gratify themselves, will be amply rewarded in visiting its costly stores.

The museum consists of a considerable collection of sculpture, paintings, sarcophagi, medals, casts, vases, terracottas, bronzes, Gothic fragments, drawings, engravings, etchings, cabinets, carvings, gems, cameos, intaglios, and other curiosities. The general appearance of the several chambers of the institution will appear contracted in the eye of those who forget they are looking on what was the private residence of an individual artist, though now it has become a public institution.

I have paused a moment on the ancient Gothic corbels that adorn the front of the building. I have gazed on the porphyry-painted walls, casts, and reliefs of the entrance-hall and recess; and am now standing beneath the south central compartment of the painted ceiling in the dining-room and library.

If the first pleasure in gazing on a work of art arises from a keen conception of its beauties, the next in order certainly springs from a detection of its defects. Indeed, I somewhat fear that, in our unamiable moods, this order is not unfrequently reversed, and that we see more distinctly the faulty than the faultless parts of what is submitted to our observation.

That the very inconsiderable elevation of the ceiling sadly injures the effect of the paintings thereon, must strike

every beholder. The subject of “ Phebus in his car, preceded by Aurora, and the Morning Star led on by the Hours, with the Zephyrs sporting in his train," appears to require space. The visitor is not prepared to find himself so near the celestial group, supposed to be careering the elevated heavens. Not willingly

ald run the risk of affecting to be overwise in such matters; but to me it does appear that altitude is indispensable to a painted ceiling, and especially when the subject is an ethereal one.

The whole of the ceiling-paintings, Phebus in his car, Pandora and the assembled gods and goddesses, the Seasons, Night with the Pleiades, Epimetheus receiving Pandora, and the Opening of the Vase, are by Henry Howard, R. A. Antique busts, Greek and Etruscan vases, inlaid marble, mirrors, bronzes, books, and painted glass, are around me. That astronomical clock of Raingo of Paris is a real curiosity, and yonder model of the Corinthian order is excellent. The painting by sir Joshua Reynolds, the Snake in the Grass, is deservedly a favourite: it cost somewhat more than five hundred guineas. The painting over the chimneypiece has a double claim on public attention, from the circumstance of its being not only a portrait of the founder of this museum, but also one of the last productions of sir Joshua's pencil.

I have not passed without a pause the model of the monument erected over the tomb where the dust of sir John Soane now reposes, in the burial-ground of St. Giles’-in-the-Fields, at St. Pancras. The monument was erected to the memory of Elizabeth, sir John's wife; but since then, the donor of this princely collec

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