There are few things to me more affecting in the history of the quarrel which divided the two great nations than the recurrence of that word Home, as used by the younger towards the elder country.

Harry Warrington had his chart laid out.
Before London, and its glorious temples of St.Paul's and St.Peter's; its grim Tower, where the brave and loyal had shed their blood, from Wallace down to Balmerino and Kilmarnock, pitied by gentle hearts; before the awful window of Whitehall, whence the martyr Charles had issued, to kneel once more, and then ascend to Heaven;--before Playhouses, Parks, and Palaces, wondrous resorts of wit, pleasure, and splendour;--before Shakspeare's Resting-place under the tall spire which rises by Avon, amidst the sweet Warwickshire pastures;--before Derby, and Falkirk, and Culloden, where the cause of honour and loyalty had fallen, it might be to rise no more:--before all these points of their pilgrimage there was one which the young Virginian brothers held even more sacred, and that was the home of their family,--that old Castlewood in Hampshire, about which their parents had talked so fondly.

From Bristol to Bath, from Bath to Salisbury, to Winchester, to Hexton, to Home; they knew the way, and had mapped the journey many and many a time.
We must fancy our American traveller to be a handsome young fellow, whose suit of sables only made him look the more interesting.

The plump landlady from her bar, surrounded by her china and punch-bowls, and stout gilded bottles of strong waters, and glittering rows of silver flagons, looked kindly after the young gentleman as he passed through the inn-hall from his post-chaise, and the obsequious chamberlain bowed him upstairs to the Rose or the Dolphin.

The trim chambermaid dropped her best curtsey for his fee, and Gumbo, in the inn-kitchen, where the townsfolk drank their mug of ale by the great fire, bragged of his young master's splendid house in Virginia, and of the immense wealth to which he was heir.