Who is there that on landing has not asked himself the
question, "Is it possible that I am in England? It seems
but as yesterday that I was in America, to-day I am in
Europe. Is it a dream, or a reality?"

The river and the docks--the country and the town--the
people and their accent--the verdure and the climate are
all new to me. I have not been prepared for this; I have
not been led on imperceptibly, by travelling mile after
mile by land from my own home, to accustom my senses to
the gradual change of country. There has been no border
to pass, where the language, the dress, the habits, and
outward appearances assimilate. There has been no blending
of colours--no dissolving views in the retrospect--no
opening or expanding ones in prospect. I have no difficulty
in ascertaining the point where one terminates and the
other begins.

The change is sudden and startling. The last time I
slept on shore, was in America--to-night I sleep in
England. The effect is magical--one country is withdrawn
from view, and another is suddenly presented to my
astonished gaze. I am bewildered; I rouse myself, and
rubbing my eyes, again ask whether I am awake? Is this
England? that great country, that world of itself; Old
England, that place I was taught to call home _par
excellence_, the home of other homes, whose flag, I called
our flag? (no, I am wrong, I have been accustomed to call
our flag, the flag of England; our church, not the Church