LXXX.
“HOME, SWEET HOME.”
Go with me, boys and girls, to the gay streets and gilded saloons of the great city of Paris far across the sea. Here is said to be the centre of all the world’s follies and pleasures. It is at night.
An American, who has left his home and native land to view the splendors of the wicked city, is passing along the street. He has beheld with delight its paintings, its sculpture, and the grand and graceful proportions of its buildings. In the midst of his keenest happiness, when he was rejoicing most over the privileges which he possessed, temptation assailed him. Sin was presented to him in one of its most bewitching garbs, and he yielded to the voice of the siren. He drank wildly and deeply of the intoxicating cup, and his draught brought madness. Reason was overthrown and he rushed out, all his scruples overcome, careless of what he did or how deeply he became immersed in the hitherto unknown sea of guilt.
The cool night air settled damp and heavy upon his heated brow. Walking on and on, not knowing or caring where he went, by-and-by strains of music from a distance met his ear. Pretty soon, following in the direction from which the sounds came, he was able to distinguish the words and air of the piece. The song was well remembered. It was “Home, Sweet Home.” Clear and sweet the voice of some singer, using his native tongue, rose and fell on the air; and the poor wild man stopped and listened to the soft cadences of that beloved melody.
Home, Sweet Home.
Motionless he stood until the last note floated away, and he could hear nothing but the ceaseless murmur of the great city. Then he turned away slowly, with no feeling that his manhood was shamed by the tear which fell as a bright evidence of the power of song, and also as an evidence that he, the guilty sinner, was not yet absolutely lost beyond recall.
The demon of the wine cup had fled, and reason once more asserted her right to control. As the soft strains of “Home, Sweet Home” had floated to his ear, memory brought up before him the picture of his own “sweet home.” He saw his gentle mother and heard her speak, while honest pride beamed from her eye; she seemed to speak again of her son, in whose nobleness and honor she could always trust. His heart smote him as he thought how little he deserved such confidence. He remembered her last words of love and counsel, and the tearful farewell of all those dear ones who gladdened that far-away home with their presence. The tide of remorse swept over his soul as he thought of what the sorrow of those at home would have been could they have seen him but an hour before. Subdued and penitent he retraced his steps, and with his vow never to taste of the terrible stuff that could so excite him to madness there was mingled a deep sense of thankfulness for his escape from further degradation. The influence of home had protected and shielded him, although the sea rolled between.
How strong such memories are to prevent the commission of crime! How powerful is the spell of home! How important, then, is it to make home pleasant and lovable! Many a time a cheerful home and smiling face will do more to make good men and good women than all the learning and eloquence that can be used. It has been said that the sweetest words in our language are “Mother, Home and Heaven”; and one might almost say that the word “Home” included the others. Who can think of home without remembering the gentle mother who sanctified it by her presence? And is not “Home” the dearest name for heaven? Oh, then, may our homes on earth be as green spots in the desert, to which we can retire when weary of the cares of life and drink the clear waters of a love which we know to be sincere and always unfailing.