Leap up, the creatures that God hath made

To people the isleless main :

They have no bridle in their jaws,

And on their necks no rein,

But, my little child, thou sittest here,
Still gazing on yon stream,

And the wondrous things that I have told
To thee are as a dream.

To me they are as living thoughts;
And well I understand

Why the sublimest sea is still

More glorious than the land:
For when at first the world awoke
From its primeval sleep,

Not on the land the Spirit of God
Did move, but on the deep.'

MARY HOWITT.

A TIDAL HARBOUR WITH THE SEA OUT AND IN.

I HARDLY know two things more different in appearance than what is called a tide harbour when the sea is in, and the same harbour when the sea is out. At high water we behold a beautiful basin, brim full, and bearing on its surface numberless vessels, all of whose masts, ropes, and sails loosed to dry, are reflected in the mirror upon which they rest, so gracefully, the bold originals, in all their pomp and bustle, or their inverted and softened representations beneath. The little boats which pass up and down, or flit across the harbour, and the ships arriving or departing, some dropping their anchor with a thundering splash into the stream, and others laboriously heaving up that ponderous load of iron to their bows, give an endless variety to this busy scene. The cheerful voice of the seamen, singing as they work, mingled with the anxious word of command spoken by the cautious pilots, form a fitting music for the scene.

Even the brawling of the noisy boatmen has its characteristic and stirring interest, as they cross or recross the port with hawsers, which they tie and untie, or pass along from post to post, with an address that astonishes the ignorant and delights the professional eye, netting the whole space over with cords, with the industry of spiders, as if their mischievous purpose were to catch or retain the ships-not expedite their departure, or aid their

entrance into the port. The adjacent wharfs and piers, at that busiest, because the most available season of the tide, called emphatically the "top of high-water," are generally crowded with spectators, composed either of persons eagerly watching the arrival of long-looked-for friends, or bidding an adieu to those who are departing; or, finally, of that large majority of idlers, who having no precise business anywhere, are attracted, unconsciously, by the inherent beauty and interest of this evervarying scene, and who, without having either taste or knowledge enough to analyse their feelings, are yet moved by what is so essentially picturesque, that the dullest senses are made to feel its charm.

Nor is this a scene which palls on the observation, for it is scarcely possible that we shall discover it to be alike on any two days of the year. On one day there may be either a faint breeze, or a dead calm. The vessels, in that case, drop out gently to sea, with the first turn of the ebb-while others enter the harbour with the last drain of flood-each being aided by a little tiny boat, connected with its parent bark by a cord, alternately dipping in the water and jerking out of it, as the seamen, with a loud huzza, strain their backs to the oar.

Or it may happen, that an entering or departing ship is drawn along by a rope or warp, as it is called, kept as tight as a rod of iron by fifty or a hundred hands, lining the long projecting pier, at the end of which stands the lighthouse-that lighthouse of which in the blaze of sunshine it has been satirically remarked, we take no more note than of a friend whose assistance we require no longer; though it probably crosses the recollection of some of the more reflecting of the spectators, that the time has been when, in a dark and stormy night, a single glimpse of this now neglected beacon was held worth a ship-load of silver.

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On such a time as I am supposing, dozens, or even hundreds, of ships and vessels of various sizes and descriptions, from all the mercantile nations of the earth, are seen jostling one another, dropping out, or dropping in, towing, warping, sailing, steaming, on their different courses, a mighty maze, but not without a plan." Even to inexperienced observation this apparent mass of confusion is very pleasing, though to such it must seem as inexplicable and beyond control, as that of the planetary movements, or the vagaries of the moon, which all admire, though few understand.

When, however, there happens to be a brisk wind blowing, the scene is totally different. The elements now meet in opposition, for the wind, instead of slumbering as before, and letting the silent tide have its own placid way, is roused up, and having

set itself against the current, sorely puzzles, but rarely baffles entirely, the skill of the seamen. Then it is that the talents and local knowledge of the pilots, and the hardy intrepidity of the captains, come into play; and men who in the calm of the day before we should not have discovered to be much above their fellows in courage or capacity, now claim their due superiority. At such movements the commander is cheerful, and even eagerly obeyed by those very men who, in the pride of ignorance and the presumption of security, were far less docile in the calm.

If we watch a ship coming in, we shall see the anchor all ready to let go, the cables ranged along the deck, the leads-man in the chains taking cast after cast as briskly as he can, and singing out the soundings to the anxious pilot, as the harbour's mouth is neared. On entering it the tacks become shorter, and are made with more smartness. The helm is put down quickly, the head-sheets let fly in a moment, and about she comes. The yards spin round, ropes crack, and sails shake, as if the whole machinery of seamanship was going to pieces. As she heels to the gale, under the unrestrained leverage of the masts, the old ship creaks from stem to stern, by the friction of the timbers and the beams against one another, and to shore-going senses it would seem as if the danger was great.

But if we now take notice of the weather-wise glance of the pilot's eye, or mark the tranquil deportment of the captain by his side, or observe the cheery laugh of the dripping crew, as the waves curl or break over them, we shall understand, although we cannot tell how, that in the midst of what seems tumult, and hazard, and difficulty, all is order and safety. Thus at moments when in our ignorance we fancy the vessel is to be driven against the rocks or absorbed by the seas, as she gradually forces her way in or out of the harbour, we discover that the people most concerned know that all danger is past, and are chatting at their ease about indifferent matters.-CAPTAIN HALL.

THE FISHING-BOAT.

GOING OUT.

BRISKLY blows the evening gale,
Fresh and free it blows;
Blessings on the fishing-boat,

How merrily she goes!

Christ he loved the fishermen ;

Walking by the sea,

LIKE most of the inhabitants of this little island, I have been occasionally in the habit of spending some of the summer months and the early part of the autumn by the sea. But, excepting for one twelvemonth of my life, I was never a resident on the coast, and that residence occurred when I was between the ages of eight and ten, rather short of the one period, and somewhat turned of the other. That was my only opportunity of making acquaintance with the mighty ocean in its winter sublimity of tempest and of storm; and partly, perhaps, from the striking and awful nature of the impression, partly from some peculiarity of character and of situation, as a lonely, musing, visionary child, the recollection remains indelibly fixed in my memory, fresh and vivid as if of yesterday. It was a bold and dangerous coast, and the wintry tempest was as perilous as it seemed. Often and often have I, refusing to go to bed, watched at an upper window, with the maid whose business it was to attend me, on a December night, striving to catch a glimpse, through the almost palpable darkness, of some vessel struggling with the gale, whose position was shown momentarily by the brief glare

of the minute-gun calling for unavailing aid, or the brighter flash of the lightning, which illumined sea and sky in lurid flame, only to leave them in a more frightful obscurity.

I have gazed through many a midnight, with intense and breathless interest, on scenes like these; and then, in the morning, I have seen the cold, bright, wintry sun shining on the dancing sea, still stirred by the breath of the tempest, and on the floating spray and parted timbers of the wreck. Once, too, and only once, I saw a human body thrown on shore amid the rocks. I watched the dark and strange-looking object (it was the corpse of a sailor) as it lay tossing on the waves, without, in the slightest degree, suspecting it was a dead body, until a fearful and unearthly shriek from a group of women assembled on the beach informed me, that the helpless and almost shapeless object which the waves had just flung ashore, was no other than the swollen and blackened remains of a fellow creature. I shall never forget that shriek. The wreck had been a trading vessel belonging to the port, and the women assembled were the wives, mothers, sisters, and children of the crew, one of whom had recognised her father in the disfigured corpse. I never can forget that cry.-MISS

MITFORD.

THE interest of Alexander Selkirk's narrative arises, not merely from the singular life which he spent for several years on an uninhabited island, but also from its having formed the groundwork of Defoe's beautiful romance of "Robinson Crusoe," the delight of our childhood, which is certainly, in many respects, one of the most extraordinary efforts of human genius. The merit of the author is shown in the startling air of reality which his fiction wears we seem to share with Crusoe in all his difficulties; to sympathize with his solitary condition; and follow eagerly the ingeniously-minute and well-conceived train of circumstances and adventures through which the inhabitant of the lonely isle passes.

The simple, natural pathos with which Defoe clothes the narrative of a plain unsophisticated seaman, placed in perfect solitude, the way in which he expresses his feelings, and de