Mr. Hopewell had evidently not attended to it; his eye
was fixed on the bold and precipitous shore of Wales,
and the lofty summits of the everlasting hills, that in
the distance, aspired to a companionship with the clouds.
I took my seat at a little distance from him and surveyed
the scene with mingled feelings of curiosity and admiration,
until a thick volume of sulphureous smoke from the copper
furnaces of Anglesey intercepted our view.

"Squire," said he, "it is impossible for us to contemplate
this country, that now lies before us, without strong
emotion. It is our fatherland. I recollect when I was a
colonist, as you are, we were in the habit of applying
to it, in common with Englishmen, that endearing appellation
"Home," and I believe you still continue to do so in the
provinces. Our nursery tales, taught our infant lips to
lisp in English, and the ballads, that first exercised
our memories, stored the mind with the traditions of our
forefathers; their literature was our literature, their
religion our religion, their history our history. The
battle of Hastings, the murder of Becket, the signature
of Runymede, the execution at Whitehall; the divines,
the poets, the orators, the heroes, the martyrs, each
and all were familiar to us.

"In approaching this country now, after a lapse of many,
many years, and approaching it too for the last time,
for mine eyes shall see it no more, I cannot describe to
you the feelings that agitate my heart. I go to visit
the tombs of my ancestors; I go to my home, and my home