This is the soothing word that calms the mind under all the various
anxieties, mortifications, and disappointments we meet with, day after
day, in the busy world. This is the idea that enables us to support the
most trying vexations and troubles--it is an antidote for every evil--
My “Home!”--There is a deliciously restful, quiet tone about the word.
It presents heavenly ideas of soft ease, and gentle repose to the
oppressed mind and languid body--ideas of quiet seclusion, where one’s
powers and faculties may be relaxed, and be at rest. The idea of “home”
is perhaps the only one which preserves an equal influence over us
through all the different periods of life.
The weary child that slowly draws its little tender feet, one after the
other, in endeavours to keep up with “dear papa,” who has taken it out
for a long walk, looks up in his face with brightening eyes, as he says,
“Never mind, we shall soon be _home_ now.” Its tiny fingers take a
firmer grasp of the supporting hand of its father, and its poor drooping
head half erects, as it thinks of the kind mother who will receive it
with words of sympathy for its fatigue, seat it in her lap, lay its face
on her cherishing bosom with comforting expressions, and chafe its
aching limbs with her soft palms.
The school boy, or girl, when holiday-time comes--with what anxiety do
they not look forward to the time of the chaise’s arrival, which is to
take them “home!” They both think of the approaching happy meeting with
all their affectionate family--the encouraging smile of the proud
father--the overwhelming kisses of the fond mother--the vociferous
welcomes of the delighted brothers and sisters. Visions of well-merited
praise bestowed on the different exhibitions of the neatly executed
copybook, the correctly worked sums, (those tremendously long phalanxes
of figures, that call forth the mirthful astonishment of the younger
party,) the well-recited Latin lines, and the “horribly hard”
translation, pass before _his_ mind.--_She_ anticipates the admiration
that will be elicited by the display of certain beautiful needlework,
(that pernicious destroyer of female health, both bodily and mental,)
which, at the expense of shape and eyesight, is perhaps brought to such
perfection as exactly to imitate the finest “Brussels.”--Alas, poor
WOMAN! How comes it that we are so blind to our own good, as to employ
in such trifling and even injurious pursuits all your faculties, which
(inferior to man’s, as man assumes they are) might still be cultivated
and developed, so as to add mental acquirements to your gentle
qualities, and render you a still more amiable and desirable companion
for us.
The man while busy at his daily occupation thinks of going “home” after
the fatigues of the day with ecstasy. He knows that on his return he
shall find an affectionate face to welcome him--a warm snug room--a
bright fire--a clean hearth--the tea-things laid--the sofa wheeled round
on the rug--and, in a few minutes after his entrance, his wife sitting
by his side, consoling him in his vexations, aiding him in his plans for
the future, or participating in his joys, and smiling upon him for the
good news he may have brought home for her--his children climbing on the
hassock at his feet, leaning over his knees to eye his face with joyous
eagerness, that they may coaxingly win his intercession with “dear
mamma” for “only half an hour longer.”----
I have hitherto looked only at the bright side of the picture. I am
unhappily aware that there are individuals who never can know the luxury
of “home.” Mr. Charles Lamb says, that “the home of the very poor is no
home.” And I also aver, that the home of the very rich is no home. He
may be constantly at home if he chooses, therefore he can never know the
delightful sensation of a return to it, after having been obliged (for
with human beings the chief charm of a thing seems to arise from its
being denied to us) to remain out all day. Besides, “home” should be a
place of simplicity and quiet retirement after the turmoil of the world.
Do the rich find _these_ amid their numerous guests and officious
domestics--their idle ceremony, and pomp, and ostentation? This is not
the “ease and comfort” (that greatest source of an Englishman’s delight)
which should be peculiar to “home.”----
There is, likewise, another being who never can taste the truly
exquisite enjoyment of “home:”--I mean the “Old Bachelor.” He returns to
his lodging (I will not say to his “home”)--there may be every thing he
can possibly desire in the shape of mere external comforts, provided for
him by the officious zeal and anxious wish to please of Mrs. Smith, (his
housekeeper,) but still the room has an air of chilling vacancy:--the
very atmosphere of the apartment has a dim, uninhabited appearance--the
chairs, set round with provoking neatness, look reproachfully useless
and unoccupied--and the tables and other furniture shine with
impertinent and futile brightness. All is dreary and repelling. No
gentle face welcomes his arrival--no loving hand meets his--no kind
looks answer the listless gaze he throws round the apartment as he
enters. He sits down to a book--alone. There is no one sitting by his
side to enjoy with him the favourite passage, the apt remark, the just
criticism--no eyes in which to read his own feelings--his own tastes are
unappreciated and unreflected--he has no resource but himself--no one to
look up to but himself--all his enjoyment, all his happiness must
emanate from himself. He flings down the volume in despair--buries his
face in his hands--thinks of her who might have been his beloved and
heart-cheering companion--_she_ is gone!----
HOME!--scene of tenderly cherished infancy--of youthful buoyancy,
brilliant with enjoying and hopeful feelings--of maturer and exquisite
happiness--of all our best feelings--towards thee does my heart ever
yearn in constant and grateful affection!--