Maturin in his fearful romance of Melmoth, has well exemplified the change of character and frequent subversion of intellect occasioned by untoward circumstances.  The human mind, like a woody fibre, when submitted to the action of a petrifying stream, gradually assimilates the qualities of its associates.  This truth is strikingly verified in the persons of the men on our blockade stations, for the prevention of smuggling.  They are a numerous race, and inhabit little fortalices on the coasts of our sea-girt isle, which to an imaginative mind would give it the appearance of a beleagured citadel.  The powerful, but still ineffective means resorted to by government for the suppression of illicit traffic, sadly demonstrates the degeneracy of our nature, and may be seen in full operation on the coast between Margate, Dover, and Hastings.  For this purpose, the stranger on his arrival at Margate, must take the path leading to the cliff’s, eastward of the town, and after walking a little way with the sea on his left hand, he will pass, at intervals, certain neat, though gloomy looking cottages, chiefly remarkable for an odd, military aspect, strongly reminding one of a red jacket turned up with white.  These, perched like the eagle’s eyry on the very edge and summit of those crested heights that “breast the billows foam,” are the preventive stations, inhabited by the dumb and isolated members of the blockade.  These men will now be seen for the rest of the journey, mounted on the jutting crags, straining their weary eyes over the monotonous expanse of waters which for ever splash beneath them—­a sullen accompaniment to their gloomy avocations.

On a first sight of these men, you are ready to exclaim with Mercutio, “Oh, flesh! how art thou fishified;” and begin to think that Shakspeare might have had a living original for his horrid Caliban:  for they are mostly selected from amongst fishermen, on account of their excellent knowledge of the coast, and most perfectly retain their amphibious characteristics.  The good humoured Dutch looking face is, however, wanting; they have a savage angularity of feature, the effect of their antisocial trade; one feels a sort of creeping horror on approaching a fellow creature, armed at all points, in a lone and solemn place, the haunts of desperate men, and on whose tongue an embargo is laid to speak to no one, pacing the surly rocks, his hands on his arms, ready to deal forth death on the first legal opportunity.  Beings such as these an amiable and delicate mind shudders to contemplate, and always finds it difficult to conceive; yet, such are the preventive men who line our coast—­melancholy examples of the truth stated at the outset of this paper.  Occasionally, however, the good traveller will, much to his joy, meet with an exception to this sad rule, in the person of an old tar, whom necessity has pressed into the service, and who from long acquaintance with the pleasures of traversing the mighty ocean,