'Tis sweet to hear the honest watchdog's bark
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
'Tis sweet to know that there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.—Byron.
An elegant sufficiency, content,
Retirement, rural, quiet, friendship, books,
Ease and alternate labor, useful life,
Progressive virtue, and approving Heaven.—Thomson.
'Mid pleasures and palaces, though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home.
—J.H. Payne, in the Opera of "Clari."
o word in the English language approaches in sweetness the sound of this group of letters. Out of this grand syllable rush memories and emotions always chaste, and always noble. The murderer in his cell, his heart black with crime, hears this word, and his crimes have not yet been committed; his heart is yet pure and free; in his mind he kneels at his mother's side and lisps his prayers to God that he, by a life of dignity and honor, may gladden that mother's heart; and then he weeps, and for a while is not a murderer. The Judge upon his bench deals out the dreaded justice to the scourged, and has no look of gentleness. But breathe this word into his ear, his thoughts fly to his fireside; his heart relents; he is no longer Justice, but weak and tender Mercy.
What makes that small, unopened missive so precious to that great rough man? Why, 'tis from Home—from Home, that spot to which his heart is tied with unseen cords and tendrils tighter than the muscles which hold it in his swelling chest. Perhaps he left his Home caring little for it at the time. Perhaps harsh necessity drove him from its tender roof to lie beneath
THE THATCH OF AVARICE.