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!—
M. H.
For the Table Book.