Home, sweet home, there is no place like home. Our home, that hallowed spot on earth, is most dear to us. Wherever we may wander, our thoughts turn homewards. We may be poor in the outside world, but at home, we are true monarchs. Home is the centre of all our true affections, it is the place to which our hearts cling with the sincerest feelings of attachment. Home is the best place on earth, and nothing can be compared with it.
There is nothing in the world, which can equal the blessing of peace and happiness which one enjoys at home. The love of parents, the affection of wife and children, and the attachment of relations and friends are great and real blessings which no amount of gold and silver can buy. Real and true happiness can be found only in the home. At home, there is that atmosphere of peace and confidence, sincerity and love which one fails to find in the cold, calculating world. Here, there is no deceit. no cheating, no hypocrisy, no cant. All is frankness, truth, and love. These are the sources of true bliss which we can have nowhere but at home.
Despised abroad, we are honoured at home. All the cares and worries of the world are forgotten in the embrace of those whom we love, and who love us with all our faults. One innocent smile, one playful trick of the little infant is worth more than a thousand official favours to raise us to ‘ethereal heights of joy. At home, we feel sure to find some one who is our true well-wisher, who shares our joys and sorrows, and who will not desert us in our hour of need, and whose confidence certainly sustains us through life. Whatever our lot in the rough world of struggle, we are sure to meet with smiles at home.
A man who does not love his home is not a man. He may be an angel or a beast, probably, he is the latter. Even the tenant of the frigid zone and the naked Negro look upon their homes as the happiest spot on earth. To the patriot, his country is the best on earth, and his boast is due to the intense love which he has for it.
In foreign countries, we may have a great many enjoyments and fine houses to live in, but we cannot be so happy there as at home. At home, we are sanctified by some divine influence which cannot be found anywhere else. The exile longs for his humble cottage, for there he lives in perfect contentment and, happiness. Home is the loveliest place for us, and there is no place like it on the face of the earth.
The home is not the roofed dwelling but consists in the affections of those whom we love. If we have not that love, we have no home in the real sense of the word, although we may live in palaces. The love of those dear and near to us purifies and elevates the heart.