He died in his bed, and who shall say,
impenitent?

The old sea-captains and traders connected
with the sea, have still their abiding places in
quiet cosy little cottages about here, mostly
tenements, with green doors and bow-windows,
and with a summer-house perched
a-top, where they can twist a flag on festive
occasions, and enjoy their grog and tobacco on
quiet summer evenings. The wild mania for
building—the lath-and-plaster, stucco-palace,
Cockney-Corinthian frenzy, has not yet
extended to Limehouse, and the old " salts"
have elbow-room.

I must turn back here, however; for it is
nearly four o'clock, and I shall be too late
else for a peep into the Docks. The Docks!
What a flood of recollections bursts through
the sluice-gates of my mind, as I gaze on the
huge range of warehouses, the swarms of
labourers, the crowd of ships! Little as
many of us know of maritime London, and of
the habits of Jack alive, we have all been to
the Docks, once in our lives at least. Was it
to see that wonderful seafaring relation of
ours who was always going out to the Cape
with a magnificent outfit, and who always
returned, Vanderdecken-like, without having
doubled it—being also minus shoes and
stockings, and bringing home, as a species of
atonement-offering, the backbone of a shark?
Was it to dine on board the " Abercrombie,
Jenkinson," of I don't know how many
hundred tons burden, which went out to
Sydney with emigrants, and foundered in
Algoa Bay? Was it with that never-to-be-
forgotten tasting order for twelve pipes,
sixteen hogsheads, twelve barrels, of rare ports
and sherries, when coopers rushed about
with candles in cleft sticks, running gimlets
into casks, and pouring out rich wines into
sawdust like water? When we ate biscuits,
and rinsed our mouths scientifically, and
reproached our companions with being
uproarious; but coming out (perfectly sober, of
course), could not be prevented from addressing
the populace on general subjects, and
repeatedly volunteering the declaration (with
our hat on the back of our head and the tie
of our cravat like a bag-wig) that we were "All
Right!"

I remember, as a child, always asking
myself how the ships got into dock ; a question
rapidly followed by alarming incertitude as to
how they got out. I don't think I know
much more about the matter now, though I
listen attentively to a pilot-coat and scarred
face, who tells me all about it. Pilot-coat
points to the warehouses, dilates on the
enormous wells those gigantic brick-work shells
contain ; shows me sugar bags, coffee bags,
tea chests, rice bags, tubs of tallow, casks of
palm-oil. Pilot-coat has been everywhere,
and every voyage has added a fresh scar to
his face. He has been to sea since he was no
higher than " that " pointing to a stump.
Went out in a convict ship ; wrecked off
St. Helena. Went out to Valparaiso; had a
fever. Went out to Alexandria; had the
plague. Went out to Mobile; wrecked.
Went out to Jamaica; fell down the hatchway,
and broke his collar-bone. Deserted
into an American liner; thence into an
Australian emigrant ship; ran away at
Sydney; drove bullocks in the bush; entered
for Bombay; entered the Indian navy; was
wrecked off the coast of Coromandel; was
nearly killed with a Malay creese. Been in a
South-sea whaler, a Greenland whaler, a South
Shields collier, and a Shoreham mackerel boat.
Who could refuse the " drop of summut " to
an ancient mariner, who has such a tale to tell,
were it only to curtail the exuberance of his
narration ? And it is, and always has been,
my private opinion, that if the " wedding
guest " had given the real " ancient mariner"
sixpence for a " drop of summut," he would
have had the pith of his story out of him in
no time, whereby, though we should have lost
an exquisite poem, the "wedding guest"
would not have been so unsufferably bored as
he undoubtedly was, and some of us would
have known better, perhaps, what the story
was about.

You have your choice of Docks in this
wonderful maritime London. The St. Katherine's
Docks, the London, the West India
Docks lie close together; while, if you follow
the Commercial Road, the East India Docks
lie close before you, as the Commercial Docks
do after going through the Thames Tunnel.
There are numerous inlets, moreover, and
basins, and dry docks: go where you will, the
view begins or ends with the inevitable ships.

Tarry with me for a moment in the Isle of
Dogs, and step on board this huge East
Indiaman. She is as big as a man-of-war,
and as clean as a Dutch door-step. Such a
bustle as is going on inside, and about her,
nevertheless! She is under engagement
to the " Honourable Company " to sail in
three days' time; and her crew will have
a tidy three days' work. There are horses,
pigs, bullocks, being hoisted on board; there
are sheep in the launch, and ducks and geese
in the long-boats. French rolls can be baked
on board, and a perfect kitchen-garden
maintained foreward. Legions of stores are being
taken on board. Mrs. Colonel Chutney's
grand piano; old Mr. Mango's (of the civil
service) hookahs and black servants; harness,
saddlery, and sporting tackle for Lieutenant
Griffin of the Bombay cavalry. And there
are spruce young cadets whose means do not
permit them to go by the overland rout, and
steady-going civil and military servants of the
Company, going out after furlough, and who
do not object to a four months' sea-voyage.
And there are black Ayahs, and Hookabadars,
and Lascars, poor bewildered, shivering,
brown-faced Orientals, staring at everything
around them, as if they had not quite got
over their astonishment yet at the marvels of
Frangistan. I wonder whether the com-