I was not sick till long after we passed Margate, and deep was the pleasure I drank in with the sea-breeze; divine the delight I drew from the heaving Channel waves, from the seabirds on their ridges, from the white sails on their dark distance, from the quiet yet beclouded sky, overhanging all. In my reverie, methought I saw the continent of Europe, like a wide dreamland, far away. Sunshine lay on it, making the long coast one line of gold; tiniest tracery of clustered town and snow-gleaming tower, of woods deep massed, of heights serrated, of smooth pasturage and veiny stream, embossed the metal-bright prospect. For background, spread a sky, solemn and dark blue, and⁠—grand with imperial promise, soft with tints of enchantment⁠—strode from north to south a God-bent bow, an arch of hope.

Cancel the whole of that, if you please, reader⁠—or rather let it stand, and draw thence a moral⁠—an alliterative, text-hand copy⁠—

“Daydreams are delusions of the demon.”