on these fine mornings, to take the breezy atmosphere of the river. The
huge steamer Great Britain, bound for Australia, lies right off the Rock
Ferry landing; and at a little distance are two old hulks of ships of
war, dismantled, roofed over, and anchored in the river, formerly for
quarantine purposes, but now used chiefly or solely as homes for old
seamen, whose light labor it is to take care of these condemned ships.
There are a great many steamers plying up and down the river to various
landings in the vicinity; and a good many steam-tugs; also, many boats,
most of which have dark-red or tan-colored sails, being oiled to resist
the wet; also, here and there, a yacht or pleasure-boat, and a few ships
riding stately at their anchors, probably on the point of sailing. The
river, however, is by no means crowded; because the immense multitude of
ships are ensconced in the docks, where their masts make an intricate
forest for miles up and down the Liverpool shore. The small black
steamers, whizzing industriously along, many of them crowded with
passengers, snake up the chief life of the scene. The Mersey has the
color of a mud-puddle, and no atmospheric effect, as far as I have seen,
ever gives it a more agreeable tinge.

Visitors to-day, thus far, have been H. A. B., with whom I have arranged
to dine with us at Rock Ferry, and then he is to take us on board the
Great Britain, of which his father is owner (in great part). Secondly,
Monsieur H., the French Consul, who can speak hardly any English, and who
was more powerfully scented with cigar-smoke than any man I ever
encountered; a polite, gray-haired, red-nosed gentleman, very courteous
and formal. Heaven keep him from me! At one o'clock, or thereabouts, I
walked into the city, down through Lord Street, Church Street, and back
to the Consulate through various untraceable crookednesses. Coming to
Chapel Street, I crossed the graveyard of the old Church of St. Nicholas.
This is, I suppose, the oldest sacred site in Liverpool, a church having