Jeffersonian Republican. [volume] (Stroudsburg, Pa.) 1840-1853, 1852-02-05
A Home Scene.

And now | shall not leeye this realm of boy
hood, or suffer my hero to slip away from this
gala time of life, without fair look at that
Home where his present pleasures lie, and
where all his dreams begin and end.
Little does the boy know, as the tide Of
years drifts by, floating him out insensibly
from the halbor of his home, upon the great
sea Of life-what joys, what opportunities,
are slipping from him into the shades of that
inexorable Past, where no man can 60, save
on the wings of his dreams. Little does he
think-and God be praised, that the thought
does not sink deep lines in his young forehead!
as he leans upon the lap ofhis mother; with
his eye turned to her, in some earnest plead
ing for fancied pleasure of the hour, or in
some important story of his griefs, that such
sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy
with his wishes he will find no where again.
Little does he immagine, that the fond
Nelly, ever thoughtful of his pleasure, ever
smiling away his griefs-will soon be beyond
the reach of either; and that the waves of
the years which come rocking so gently
under him, will soon toss her far away, upon
the great swell of life.
But now, you are there. The freight
glimmers upon the walls of your cherished
home, like the Vestal fire of old upon the fig
ures of adoring virgins, or like the flame of
Hebrew sacrifice, whose incense bore hearts
to Heaven The big chair of your father is
drawn to it's wanted corner by the chimney
side; his head, just touched with gray, lies
back upon its oaken top. Little Nelly leans
upon his knee, looking up for some reply to
her girlish questionage. Opposite, sits your
mother; her figure is thin, her look cheerful,
yet subdued; her arm perhaps resting on your
as she talks TO you in tones of ten
der admonition, of the days that are to come.
The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock
that ticked so plainly when Charlie died, is
ticking on the mantel still. The great ta-
bic in the middle of the room, with his books
and work, waits only for the lighting of the
evening lamp, to 900 a return to Its stores
of embroidery, and of story.
Upon little stand under the mirror, which
catches now and and then flicker of the fire.
light, and makes it play, as if in wanton, up
on the ceiling, lies that big book, reve-enced
of your New England parents-the Family
Bible. 1t is a ponderous square volume, with
heavy silver clasps. that you have often pres
sed open for look at its quaint old pictures,
or for study of those prettily bordered pa
ges, which lie between the Testaments and
which hold the Family Record.
There are the Births-your fathers, and
your mothers; it seems as if they were born
a long time ago; and even your own date of
birth appears an almost incredible distance
back. Then, there are the marriages only
one as yet;-and your mothers maiden name
looks oddly to you; it is hard to think of her
as any one else than your doting parent
You wonder if your name will ever come un-
der that paging; and wonder, though you
scarce whisper the wonder to yourself, how
another name would look, Just below yours
such a name for instance, as Fanny--or Miss
Margaret Boyne!
Last of all, come the Deaths-only one,
Poor Charlie.i How it looks b" Died IL
September lS--, Charles Henry, aged four
years." You know just how it looks. You
have turned to it often there you seem to be
joined to him, though only by turning of q
leaf And over your thoughts, as you look
at that page of the record, there sometimes
wanders vague shadowy fear, which will
come-that your name may soon be there
You try to drop the notion, as if it were not
fairly your own; effect to slight it, as you
slight boy who presumed on your acquin-
tance, but whom you have no desire to know
1t is a common thing, you will find, with our
world, to decline familiarity with those ideas
that fright u.s.
Yet your mother-how strange it is.-has
no fears of such dark fancies. Even now, as
you stand beside her, and as the twilight
deepens in the room, her low, silyery voice is
stealing upon your ear, telling you that she
cannot be long with you--that the time is
coming. when you must be guided by your
own judgment, and struggle with the world,
unaided by the friends ofyour boyhood. There
is little pride, and great deal more of anx-
iety in your thoughts now-as you look stead
fsstly into the home blaze, while those deli
cate fingers, SO tender of your happiness play
with the locks upon your brow.
To struggle with the world--that is a proud
thing; to struggle alone-there lies the doubt!
Then, crowds in swift, upon the calm of boy
hood, the first anxious thought of youth; then
chases over the sky of Spring, the first heat