t it, as a sailor quits the rock on
which he has been wrecked, when the saving ship rides by. Such was his
plan.

To leave the country of our fathers, made holy by their graves!--We could
not feel even as a voluntary exile of old, who might for pleasure or
convenience forsake his native soil; though thousands of miles might divide
him, England was still a part of him, as he of her. He heard of the passing
events of the day; he knew that, if he returned, and resumed his place in
society, the entrance was still open, and it required but the will, to
surround himself at once with the associations and habits of boyhood. Not
so with us, the remnant. We left none to represent us, none to repeople the
desart land, and the name of England died, when we left her,

In vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety.

Yet let us go! England is in her shroud,--we may not enchain ourselves to
a corpse. Let us go--the world is our country now, and we will choose for
our residence its most fertile spot. Shall we, in these desart halls, under
this wintry sky, sit with closed eyes and folded hands, expecting death?
Let us rather go out to meet it gallantly: or perhaps--for all this
pendulous orb, this fair gem in the sky's diadem, is not surely
plague-striken--perhaps, in some secluded nook, amidst eternal spring,
and waving trees, and purling streams, we may find Life. The world is vast,
and England, though her many fields and wide spread woods seem
interminable, is but a small part of her. At the close of a day's march
over high mountains and through snowy vallies, we may come upon health, and
committing our loved ones to its charge, replant the uprooted tree of
humanity, and send to late posterity the tale of the ante-pestilential
race, the heroes and sages of the lost state of things.

Hope beckons and sorrow urges us, the heart beats high with expectation,
and this eager desire of change must be an omen of success. O come!
Farewell to the dead! farewell to the tombs of those we loved!--farewell
to giant London and the placid Thames, to river and mountain or fair
district, birth-place of the wise and good, to Windsor Forest and its
antique castle, farewell! themes for story alone are they,--we must live
elsewhere.

Such were in part the arguments of Adrian, uttered with enthusiasm and
unanswerable rapidity. Something more was in his heart, to which he dared
not give words. He felt that the end of time was come; he knew that one by
one we