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 desert 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 widespread woods seem interminable, is but a small part of her. At the close of a day’s march over high mountains and through snowy valleys, 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.