Again, I remark that home is a refuge. Life is the United States army
on the national road to Mexico, a long march, with ever and anon a
skirmish and a battle. At eventide we pitch our tent and stack the
arms, we hang up the war cap and lay our head on the knapsack, we
sleep until the morning bugle calls us to marching and action. How
pleasant it is to rehearse the victories and the surprises, and the
attacks of the day, seated by the still camp-fire of the home circle!
Yea, life is a stormy sea. With shivered masts, and torn sails, and
hulk aleak, we put in at the harbor of home. Blessed harbor! There we
go for repairs in the dry dock of quiet life. The candle in the window
is to the toiling man the lighthouse guiding him into port. Children
go forth to meet their fathers as pilots at the "Narrows" take the
hand of ships. The door-sill of the home is the wharf where heavy
life is unladen.
There is the place where we may talk of what we have done without
being charged with self adulation. There is the place where we may
lounge without being thought ungraceful. There is the place where we
may express affection without being thought silly. There is the place
where we may forget our annoyances, and exasperations, and troubles.
Forlorn earth pilgrim! no home? Then die. That is better. The grave is
brighter, and grander, and more glorious than this world with no tent
for marchings, with no harbor from the storm, with no place of rest
from this scene of greed, and gouge, and loss, and gain. God pity the
man or the woman who has no home!