Sixteen
years have slowly passed away - it appears half a century - but never,
never can home letters give me the intense joy those letters did.
After seven years' exile, the hope of return grows feeble, the means
are still less in our power, and our friends give up all hope of our
return; their letters grow fewer and colder, their expressions of
attachment are less vivid; the heart has formed new ties, and the
poor emigrant is nearly forgotten. Double those years, and it is as
if the grave had closed over you, and the hearts that once knew and
loved you know you no more.
Tom, too, had a large packet of letters, which he read with great
glee. After re-perusing them, he declared his intention of setting
off on his return home the next day. We tried to persuade him to
stay until the following spring, and make a fair trial of the
country. Arguments were thrown away upon him; the next morning our
eccentric friend was ready to start.
"Good-bye!" quoth he, shaking me by the hand as if he meant to sever
it from the wrist. "When next we meet it will be in New South Wales,
and I hope by that time you will know how to make better bread." And
thus ended Tom Wilson's emigration to Canada.
