few days, from one continent to
another, that we can hardly credit the evidence of our own senses.

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country is withdrawn from view, and another is suddenly presented to my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 of Nova Scotia, nor the Colonial nor
the Episcopal, nor the Established, but the Church of England.) Is
it then that England, whose language I speak, whose subject I am, the
mistress of the world, the country of Kings and Queens, and nobles and
prelates, and sages and heroes?

I have read of it, so have I read of old Rome; but the sight of Rome,
Caesar and the senate would not astonish me more than that of London,
the Queen and the Parliament. Both are yet ideal; the imagination has
sketched them, but when were its sketches ever true to nature? I have
a veneration for both, but, gentle reader, excuse the confessions of an
old man, for I have a soft spot in the heart yet, _I love Old England_.
I love its institutions, its literature, its people. I love its law,
because, while it protects property, it ensures liberty. I love its
church, not only because I believe it is the true church, but because
though