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the baggage had been examined, we all bade adieu to the old ship, and went on board the little steam tender which carries passengers up to the city.
This Mersey River would be a very beautiful one, if it were not so dingy and muddy.
As we are sailing up in the tender towards Liverpool, I deplore the circumstance feelingly.
“ What does make this river so muddy?”
“ Oh,” says a by-stander, “don't you know that
The quality of mercy is not strained?” I had an early opportunity of making acquaintance with my English brethren; for, much to my astonishment, I found quite a crowd on the wharf, and we walked up to our carriage through a long lane of people, bowing, and looking very glad to see us. When I came to get into the hack it was surrounded by more faces than I could count. They stood very quietly, and looked very kindly, though evidently very much determined to look. Something prevented the hack from moving on; so the interview was prolonged for some time. Our carriage at last drove on, taking us through Liverpool and a mile or two out, and at length wound its way along the gravel paths of a beautiful little retreat, on the banks of the Mersey, called the “Dingle.” It opened to my eyes like a paradise, all wearied as I was with the tossing of the sea. I have since become familiar with these beautiful little spots, which are so common in England; but now all was entirely new to me. After a short season allotted to changing our ship garments and for rest, we found ourselves seated at the
