All men are lonely.But sometimes it seems tomethat we Americans are the loneliest of all.Our hunger for foreign places and new ways has been with us almost like a national disease.
Can my fond heart, on such a feeble proof,Embrace a faith, abhorred by him I love?I see too plainly custom forms us all;Our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed belief,Are consequences of our place of birth:Born beyond Ganges, I had been a Pagan;In France, a Christian; I am here a Saracen :'Tis but instruction, all! Our parents' handWrites on our heart the first faint characters,Which time, re-tracing, deepens into strength,That nothing can efface, but death or Heaven.aaron hill
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