About nine o’clock we were crossing the sand bar, which lies at the mouth of the Mersey River, running up towards Liverpool.  Our signal pennants are fluttering at the mast head, pilot full of energy on one wheel house, and a man casting the lead on the other.

“By the mark, five,” says the man.  The pilot, with all his energy, is telegraphing to the steersman.  This is a very close and complicated piece of navigation, I should think, this running up the Mersey, for every moment we are passing some kind of a signal token, which warns off from some shoal.  Here is a bell buoy, where the waves keep the bell always tolling; here, a buoyant lighthouse; and “See there, those shoals, how pokerish they look!” says one of the passengers, pointing to the foam on our starboard bow.  All is bustle, animation, exultation.  Now float out the American stars and stripes on our bow.

Before us lies the great city of Liverpool.  No old Cathedral, no castles, a real New Yorkish place.

“There, that’s the fort,” cries one.  Bang, bang, go the two guns from our forward gangway.

“I wonder if they will fire from the fort,” says another.

“How green that grass looks!” says a third; “and what pretty cottages!”

“All modern, though,” says somebody, in tones of disappointment.  Now we are passing the Victoria Dock.  Bang, bang, again.  We are in a forest of ships of all nations; their masts bristling like the tall pines in Maine; their many colored flags streaming like the forest leaves in autumn.

“Hark,” says one; “there’s, a chime of bells from the city; how sweet!  I had quite forgotten it was Sunday.”

Here we cast anchor, and the small steam tender conies puffing alongside.  Now for the custom house officers.  State rooms, holds, and cabins must all give up their trunks; a general muster among the baggage, and passenger after passenger comes forward as their names are called, much as follows:  “Snooks.”  “Here, sir.”  “Any thing contraband here, Mr. Snooks?  Any cigars, tobacco, &c.?” “Nothing, sir.”

A little unlocking, a little fumbling.  “Shut up; all right; ticket here.”  And a little man pastes on each article a slip of paper, with the royal arms of England and the magical letters V.R., to remind all men that they have come into a country where a lady reigns, and of course must behave themselves as prettily as they can.

We were inquiring of some friends for the most convenient hotel, when we found the son of Mr. Cropper, of Dingle Bank, waiting in the cabin, to take us with him to their hospitable abode.  In a few moments after the baggage had been examined, we all bade adieu to the old ship, and went on board the little steam tender, which carries passengers up to the city.

This Mersey River would be a very beautiful one, if it were not so dingy and muddy.  As we are sailing up in the tender towards Liverpool, I deplore the circumstance feelingly.  “What does make this river so muddy?”