Sailors visit many fine countries; but there is none--not the very finest--that delights them more than the coast of their own native land when they sight it after a long voyage. The flattest piece of treeless English shore--such a melancholy, sandy, muddy waste, say, as that which the River Stour winds greasily and slimily through past Sandwich, into the salt, green, sparkling waters of the Small Downs--the English sailor will look at with a thirstier and sharper pleasure than ever could be excited in him by the most majestic and splendid scenery abroad. Thus in effect thought I, as I stood upon the quarter-deck of the _Royal Brunswicker_, viewing the noble elevation of the white South For…
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