Next morning I took the steamer to Cowes. The sail down the sea of Southampton was very pleasant, and my fancy was as busy as my sight, as we skirted along the shore, from which the “New Forest” stretches away towards Dorsetshire, covering many a square mile of merry England with woods as dense as those of our own primeval wilds. How exciting to reflection, the view of a wood which, for so many ages, has perpetuated the violence of William the Norman, and the tragic memory of Rufus! A gay little French woman, who knew nothing of the history, however, and who seemed to take me for an Englishman, expressed herself, in her sprightly vernacular, in terms of rapturous delight, with reference to the scenery alone. She was overwhelmed with the luxurious beauty of England, as contrasted with the penury which stares you in the face for leagues and leagues in France, in places where nature only needs a little aid from cultivation to assume a face as cheerful as those of its inhabitants. When we passed Calshot Castle, and had the Isle of Wight in full view, I was nearly as much inspired as herself. The admirable service which the island renders to the British fleet, became apparent as we looked towards those “leviathans afloat,” at Spithead; but I turned with greater interest towards the Solent, and tried hard to descry that lonely spur of Hampshire, on which stands Hurst Castle, the scene of one of the most thrilling episodes in the closing history of Charles the First. As we approached Cowes, it reminded me of Staten Island, off New-York, and, at first, I hardly knew to what I owed the association, though the similarity of scene is considerable; but when a second glance showed me a noble ship, of unmistakeable American proportions, with the American ensign fluttering at her peak, just under the lee of the island, I felt the home-feeling overpoweringly, and could have shouted my salutation to my country’s oak, with full lungs and a fuller heart! I pointed it out to the French woman, and told her of my country, and then I was saluted with her voluble congratulations, in such terms as showed that she, at least, thought it a land of which one has a right to be proud. Osborne House is a prominent object, on the rising bank of the Medina, as one drives from Cowes toward Newport, and I looked with no little interest at the beautiful home in which Victoria and Albert live the life of private people, without sacrificing the dignity which they owe it to the nation to sustain. It delights me to say that they have the reputation of cultivating, there, every domestic virtue; and I was charmed with a popular print, which one sees in the neighbourhood, representing the family at Osborne, on their knees, with the prince reading prayers among his children.