I am bewildered; I rouse myself, and rubbing my eyes, again ask whether I am awake?
Is this England?
that great country, that world of itself; Old England, that place I was taught to call home _par excellence_, the home of other homes, whose flag, I called our flag?
(no, I am wrong, I have been accustomed to call our flag, the flag of England; our church, not the Church of Nova Scotia, nor the Colonial nor the Episcopal, nor the Established, but the Church of England.) Is it then that England, whose language I speak, whose subject I am, the mistress of the world, the country of Kings and Queens, and nobles and prelates, and sages and heroes?
I have read of it, so have I read of old Rome; but the sight of Rome, Caesar and the senate would not astonish me more than that of London, the Queen and the Parliament.

Both are yet ideal; the imagination has sketched them, but when were its sketches ever true to nature?
I have a veneration for both, but, gentle reader, excuse the confessions of an old man, for I have a soft spot in the heart yet, _I love Old England_.
I love its institutions, its literature, its people.

I love its law, because, while it protects property, it ensures liberty.

I love its church, not only because I believe it is the true church, but because though armed with power, it is tolerant in practice.

I love its constitution, because it combines the stability of a monarchy, with the most valuable peculiarities of a republic, and without violating nature by attempting to make men equal, wisely follow its dictates, by securing freedom to all.
I like the people, though not all in the same degree.