about four hundred and fifty thousand pounds
per annum; their capital, three millions nine
hundred thousand pounds. The value of the
property they contain, on an average, minus
duty, is eight or ten millions. These are a
few leading commercial facts, which will
bring the place, under its mercantile aspect,
pretty well before you. Accompany me now
along the crowded waggon-laden streets of the
city—by lofty warehouses and under monster
cranes—to where those masts with their yards
and cordage break out among the houses
against the sky, and we will look at the place
as visitors. How an establishment looks in a
blue-book, is of course important; how it
looks in the book of Nature, is interesting
too!

We come to East Smithfield; we arrive at
the principal entrance. There is a plain
brown gateway with offices on either side, and
we pass in. There lies before you a vague
view of masts and rigging, with flags dangling
out. The pavement around swarms with
brown casks; on your left rises a tall, stately
wool warehouse. If you go, now, the first
things that will attract your attention are two
monster casks painted green, sheltered by an
airy canopy. These were intended for the
Great Exhibition; they come from Spain, and
contain, each, ten butts of sherry (and I am
about to emigrate! ) Meanwhile, there is a
general air of brisk business; brokers' clerks,
and owners' employés are running about; a
sunburnt skipper passes along—and a stout,
good-natured old gentleman with tasting
order. To the right is the Superintendent's
Office. On a table, as you enter the house,
is a list of the ships in Dock, for general
reference: inside, the clerks are working away
quickly and regularly—with the same steadiness
as the clock ticks along:—

"Lady Sale come in? " asks a man, opening
the door.

"Expect her by the next tide, "—and the
door shuts, and all goes on as before.

As you move about in the open space (they
call it the " Crescent ") the Wool Warehouses
tower to the left. The crane swings—a bale
dangles aloft—slides quietly in on the fourth
story perhaps. On each story the square
dense white bales lie piled. About ninety
thousand bales pass through the Docks in the
year. A great deal comes from our Australian
colonies. And how quick the wool process is!
The sheep are sheared in December: the
"clip " is shipped and arrives in London by
April: every month or six weeks there are
periodical sales—and off go the bales by
Pickford to the railway stations. In each
bale you see a little hole where the wool sticks
out puffily,—so that it looks like a bird's nest
turned inside out—this enables the purchaser
to try the sample. What surprises you most,
though, in these warehouses is to find the
cranes worked by tread-wheels. When I first
ascended—amidst the thick woolly atmosphere
that feels as if it was a "comforter" across your
mouth—I heard a wild singing and clanging.
I looked and saw the tread-wheel clashing
bravely round—the men inside in their sleeves,
with red faces, singing and stamping furiously.
It quite reminds one of white mice in their
little corn mill. But no mechanical power—
and the authorities have tried several methods
—is found half so serviceable.

We now move down to the quays, where
the vessels are lying. Between the sheds
and the ships there is a constant running of
barrows—and rolling of casks. We pass a
stately Yankee liner which has one or two
men painting her—while the black cook hovers
about the deck. A Spanish mongrel brig
—neither large nor clean—lies, further in,
with a dark, bearded, indolent crew.
Occasionally, by-the-bye, these foreign skippers
take a fancy to clearing their vessels themselves,
instead of having it done by the Dock men.
The crew work a little—then " knock off"
and smoke—then work again a little—and
smoke again , and the process of unloading
takes three times the usual time. Next the
Spaniard lies a Dutchman—and outside a
brig, loaded—as you see by her depth—is
hauling out through the throng of vessels in
a wonderful manner. " Let go the line!"
shouts somebody; "Haul away! " shouts
somebody else; the ropes are all lying in confusion
about her deck, and two huge sides of beef
are sprawling on an ensign there. As you pass
along, the aspect of light hair and blue eyes
informs you that the crew of the schooner,
there, are brother Northerns; a dog is chasing
a rabbit, playfully, about the deck;—she is a
Swede.

Into the Western Dock—he largest, and
the one we have been looking at, first—there
runs a jetty of seven hundred feet long, and sixty
feet wide—capable of accommodating thirty
large ships. A tram-road runs down the
centre. Goods are lying there—cylinders
full of nails—boxes and bags; a truck rolls
along with clean new spades upon it—spades
that will never be sullied by English earth;—
they are going down to an emigrant ship.
These ships generally come to the jetty. Before
the " Phantom Ship " had arrived at what my
parent calls "her highly satisfactory state
of forwardness," I went down to the end of
the jetty, to see one which was just ready to
sail. The passengers were clustered together,
sitting on their luggage, accompanied here
and there by some friend who had come to
"see them off." The young men were chatting
listlessly; the mothers only looked at each
other—which I thought the saddest part of
the picture; the girls were very silent and
composed. The children were spelling the
names on the boxes, and playing about, and I
wondered how much they would remember
of England, years hence, in their distant land;—
if they would remember " coming away;" and
I thought how they would ask all about it.
And then I saw a sort of movement on board,
and a little dwarf of a man with a shrill voice,