A melancholy feeling clouded the features of Alexander Wilmot as, on the
following morning, the vessel, under a heavy press of sail, was fast
leaving the shores of his native country. He remained on the poop of the
vessel with his eyes fixed upon the land, which every moment became more
indistinct. His thoughts may easily be imagined. Shall I ever see that
land again? Shall I ever return, or shall my bones remain in Africa,
perhaps not even buried, but bleaching in the desert? And if I do
return, shall I find my old relation still alive, or called away, loaded
as he is with years, to the silent tomb? We are in the hands of a
gracious God. His will be done.

Alexander turned away, as the land had at last become no longer visible,
and found a young man of about his own age standing close to him, and
apparently as much lost in reverie as he had been. As in turning round
Alexander brushed against him, he thought it right to apologize for the
unintentional act, and this occasioned a conversation.

"I believe, sir," said the other party, who was a tall, spare,
slight-built man, with a dark complexion, "that we were both indulging
in similar thoughts as we took leave of our native shores. Every
Englishman does the same, and indeed every true lover of his country,
let the country be what it will. We find the feeling as strong in the
savage as in the enlightened; it is universal. Indeed, we may fairly say
that it extends lower--down to the brute species, from their love of
localities."

"Very true, sir," replied Alexander; "but with brutes, as you say, it is
merely the love of locality; with men, I trust, the feeling is more