But never mind. The sea scene grew little by little, until presently it
was very imposing. We drew up into the midst of a waiting host of
vessels. Enormous five-masted men-of-war, great turret ships, steam
packets, pleasure yachts--every sort of craft, indeed--the sea was thick
with them; the yards and riggings of the warships loaded with men, the
packets crowded with people, the pleasure ships rainbowed with brilliant
flags all over and over--some with flags strung thick on lines
stretching from bowsprit to foremast, thence to mainmast, thence to
mizzenmast, and thence to stern. All the ships were in motion--gliding
hither and thither, in and out, mingling and parting--a bewildering
whirl of flash and color. Our leader, the vast, black, ugly, but very
formidable _Devastation_, plowed straight through the gay throng, our
Shah-ships following, the lines of big men-of-war saluting, the booming
of the guns drowning the cheering, stately islands of smoke towering
everywhere. And so, in this condition of unspeakable grandeur, we swept
into the harbor of Dover, and saw the English princes and the long ranks
of red-coated soldiers waiting on the pier, civilian multitudes behind
them, the lofty hill front by the castle swarming with spectators, and
there was the crash of cannon and a general hurrah all through the air.
It was rather a contrast to silent Ostend and the unimpressible
Flanders.