The dreadful struggle which so long convulsed Europe, and in which England bore so prominent a part, was then at its hottest; we were at war, and determination and enthusiasm shone in every face; man, woman, and child were eager to fight the Frank, the hereditary, but, thank God, never dreaded enemy of the Anglo-Saxon race.  ’Love your country and beat the French, and then never mind what happens,’ was the cry of entire England.  Oh, those were days of power, gallant days, bustling days, worth the bravest days of chivalry at least; tall battalions of native warriors were marching through the land; there was the glitter of the bayonet and the gleam of the sabre; the shrill squeak of the fife and loud rattling of the drum were heard in the streets of country towns, and the loyal shouts of the inhabitants greeted the soldiery on their arrival, or cheered them at their departure.  And now let us leave the upland, and descend to the sea-bord; there is a sight for you upon the billows!  A dozen men-of-war are gliding majestically out of port, their long buntings streaming from the top-gallant masts, calling on the skulking Frenchman to come forth from his bights and bays; and what looms upon us yonder from the fog-bank in the east? a gallant frigate towing behind her the long low hull of a crippled privateer, which but three short days ago had left Dieppe to skim the sea, and whose crew of ferocious hearts are now cursing their imprudence in an English hold.  Stirring times those, which I love to recall, for they were days of gallantry and enthusiasm, and were moreover the days of my boyhood.

CHAPTER III

Pretty D-----The venerable church--The stricken heart--Dormant
energies—­The small packet—­Nerves—­The books—­A picture—­Mountain-like
billows—­The footprint—­Spirit of De Foe—­Reasoning powers—­Terrors of
God—­Heads of the dragons—­High-Church clerk—­A journey—­The drowned
country.

And when I was between six and seven years of age we were once more at D—–­, the place of my birth, whither my father had been despatched on the recruiting service.  I have already said that it was a beautiful little town—­at least it was at the time of which I am speaking—­what it is at present I know not, for thirty years and more have elapsed since I last trod its streets.  It will scarcely have improved, for how could it be better than it then was?  I love to think on thee, pretty quiet D—–­, thou pattern of an English country town, with thy clean but narrow streets branching out from thy modest market-place, with thine old-fashioned houses, with here and there a roof of venerable thatch, with thy one half-aristocratic mansion, where resided thy Lady Bountiful—­she, the generous and kind, who loved to visit the sick, leaning on her gold-headed cane, whilst the sleek old footman walked at a respectful distance behind.  Pretty quiet D—–­, with thy venerable church, in which moulder the mortal remains of England’s sweetest and most pious bard.