thus no longer to be the abject victim of the antipathetic element—a speck of rock, one-foot-by-one, would not that suffice to stand upon, and be still? I speak of times past. The mighty Power had, when trusting to its awful mutability, shewn itself merciful as great, as I crossed and re-crossed from and to Dover, in 1840. But this was a longer voyage; and as we steamed down the river, the wind was directly adverse, and felt strong. The sea looked dreary; and the evening set in gray, cold, and unpleasant. I was the last passenger that kept on deck. About ten o’clock, the increasing spray drove me down. However, I escaped the doleful extremity of sea-sickness, and slept till morning, when the slow waters of the Scheldt received us. The sun was bright; but nothing can adorn with beauty the low, nearly invisible banks of an almost Dutch river; and there was no busy craft to enliven the scene. It is strange to think how a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to look at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a perfection of colouring which at once contrasts and harmonises the hues of sky and water.
Though it may be done a thousand times, still English people must always experience a strange sensation when they disembark on a foreign strand, and find every familiar object startlingly changed:
