Ashore At Dover

On landing, the first voice one hears is from An English police-constable; a man Respectful, conscious that at need he can Enforce respect. Our custom-house at home Strict too, but quiet. Not the foul-mouthed scum Of passport-mongers who in Paris still Preserve the Reign of Terror; not the till Where the King haggles, all through Belgium. The country somehow seems in earnest here, Grave and sufficient:—England, so to speak; No other word will make the thing as clear. “Ah! habit,” you exclaim, “and prejudice!” If so, so be it. One don't care to shriek, “Sir, this shall be!” But one believes it is.