3870. The Fireside.—Admit no rival here. Let your chief joys be shared by her who has forsaken all other hearts and hopes for you; by those who must inherit honor or disgrace from your course of life. Shun the bar-room and the purlieus of intoxication. They are, to thousands, the avenues to infamy.
3871. The rivals of our Home are many and fearful. Among the direst is the drinking-place, whether known as porter-house, grog-shop, or tavern. The man who spends his evenings in these Stygian fumes, soon grovels and wallows away half his civilization.
3872. The tavern-haunter drinks till he feels himself half-ruined; he is wretched; he drinks to drown his wretchedness; he does drown it, and his soul along with it!
3873. Home!—It marks the sacred spot to which the cares and tumult of the world do not reach; and where, except in cases of extreme depravity, its vices do not intrude.