Resuming my walk in the afternoon, I climbed the heights west of the city, and after passing through a suburb four or five miles in length, entered the vale of the Cailly.  This is one of the sweetest scenes in France.  It lies among the woody hills like a Paradise, with its velvet meadows and villas and breathing gardens.  The grass was starred with daisies and if I took a step into the oak and chesnut woods, I trampled on thousands of anemones and fragrant daffodils.  The upland plain, stretching inward from the coast, wears a different character.  As I ascended, towards evening, and walked over its monotonous swells, I felt almost homesick beneath its saddening influence.  The sun, hazed over with dull clouds, gave out that cold and lifeless light which is more lonely than complete darkness.  The wind, sweeping dismally over the fields, sent clouds of blinding dust down the road, and as it passed through the forests, the myriads of fine twigs sent up a sound as deep and grand as the roar of a roused ocean.  Every chink of the Norman cottage where I slept, whistled most drearily, and as I looked out the little window of my room, the trees were swaying in the gloom, and long, black clouds scudded across the sky.  Though my bed was poor and hard, it was a sublime sound that cradled me into slumber.  Homer might have used it as the lullaby of Jove.

My last day on the continent came.  I rose early and walked over the hills towards Dieppe.  The scenery grew more bleak as I approached the sea, but the low and sheltered valleys preserved the pastoral look of the interior.  In the afternoon, as I climbed a long, elevated ridge, over which a strong northwester was blowing, I was struck with a beautiful rustic church, in one of the dells below me.  While admiring its neat tower I had gained unconsciously the summit of the hill, and on turning suddenly around, lo! there was the glorious old Atlantic stretching far before and around me!  A shower was sweeping mistily along the horizon and I could trace the white line of the breakers that foamed at the foot of the cliffs.  The scene came over me like a vivid electric shock, and I gave an involuntary shout, which might have been heard in all the valleys around.  After a year and a half of wandering over the continent, that gray ocean was something to be revered and loved, for it clasped the shores of my native America.

I entered Dieppe in a heavy shower, and after finding an inn suited to my means and obtaining a permis d’embarquement from the police office, I went out to the battlements and looked again on the sea.  The landlord promised to call me in time for the boat, but my anxiety waked me sooner, and mistaking the strokes of the cathedral bell, I shouldered my knapsack and went down to the wharf at one o’clock.  No one was stirring on board the boat, and I was obliged to pace the silent, gloomy streets of the town for two hours.  I watched the steamer glide out on the rainy channel, and turning into the topmost berth, drew the sliding curtain and strove to keep out cold and sea-sickness.  But it was unavailing; a heavy storm of snow and rain rendered our passage so dreary that I did not stir until we were approaching the chain pier of Brighton.