On the day fixed for our departure from Boulogne, the weather being boisterous and wind contrary, the _Packet_ could not sail, and we trusted ourselves to a small vessel, with only one effective sailor on board. Even _Mary_ was daunted by the breakers outside the Harbour, and _I_ descended into the vessel as unwillingly as a criminal might go to execution, and hid myself in bed. Presently our little ship moved; and before ten minutes were gone she struck upon the sands. I felt that something disastrous had happened; but knew not what till poor Mary appeared in the cabin, having been thrown down from the top of the steps. There was again a frightful beating and grating of the bottom of the vessel--water rushing in very fast. A young man, an Italian, who had risen from a bed beside mine, as pale as ashes, groaned in agony, kneeling at his prayers. My condition was not much better than his; but I was more quiet. Never shall I forget the kindness of a little Irish woman who, though she herself, as she afterwards said, was much frightened, assured me even cheerfully that there was no danger. I cannot say that her words, as assurances of safety, had much effect upon me; but the example of her courage made me become more collected; and I felt her human kindness even at the moment when I believed that we might be all going to the bottom of the sea together; and the agonising thoughts of the distress at home were rushing on my mind. X EXTRACTS FROM DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S TOUR IN SCOTLAND 1822 EXTRACTS FROM DOROTHY WORDSWORTH'S TOUR IN SCOTLAND, 1822 _Friday, 14th September 1822._--Cart at the door at nine o'clock with our pretty black-eyed boy, Leonard Backhouse, to drive the old grey horse.... Scene at Castlecary very pretty.... Nothing which we English call comfort within doors, but much better, civility and kindness. Old woman bringing home her son to die; left his wife, she will never see him again. [They seem to have gone by the Forth and Clyde Canal.] Scene at the day's end very pretty. The fiddler below,--his music much better there. A soldier at the boat's head; scarlet shawls, blue ribbons, something reminding me of Bruges; but we want the hum, and the fruit, and the Flemish girl with her flowers. The people talk cheerfully, and all is quiet; groups of cottages. Evening, with a town lying in view. Lassies in pink at the top of the bank; handsome boatman throws an apple to each; graceful waving of thanks.