Home! truly a sweet word, a comfortable word, the memory of which has been as oil and wine to many a sick and weary traveler upon this Broad Highway of life; a little word, and yet one which may come betwixt a man and temptation, covering him like a shield. "Roof and walls, be they cottage or mansion, do not make home," thought I, "rather is it the atmosphere of mutual love, the intimacies of thought, the joys and sorrows endured together, and the never-failing sympathy—that bond invisible yet stronger than death."
And, because I had, hitherto, known nothing of this, I was possessed of a great envy for this axe-fellow as I walked on through the wood.
Now as I went, it was as if there were two voices arguing together within me, whereof ensued the following triangular conversation:
MYSELF. Yet I have my books—I will go to my lonely cottage and bury myself among my books.
FIRST VOICE. Assuredly! Is it for a philosopher to envy a whistling axe-fellow—go to!
SECOND VOICE. Far better a home and loving companionship than all the philosophy of all the schools; surely Happiness is greater than Learning, and more to be desired than Wisdom!
FIRST VOICE. Better rather that Destiny had never sent her to you.
MYSELF (rubbing my chin very hard, and staring at nothing in particular). Her?
SECOND VOICE. Her!—to be sure, she who has been in your thoughts all day long.
FIRST VOICE (with lofty disdain). Crass folly!—a woman utterly unknown, who came heralded by the roar of wind and the rush of rain—a creature born of the tempest, with flame in her eyes and hair, and fire in the scarlet of her mouth; a fierce, passionate being, given to hot impulse—even to the taking of a man's life!