Wheeling daily intelligencer. [volume] (Wheeling, Va. [W. Va.]) 1852-1859, 1853-08-04
written for the Daily IntelIigonecr.l D.
ny !, W, nosLER.

Perhaps no word in the English Language beaEsl
upon it the impress Of such mighty signthcance,
as the single word shoIle." What world of
meaning is in thatwcrd us Is as extended
as the air we breathe, and its influence as wide
us the earth itself. Where is tile man, in all this
wide world, who has not some fond spot on which
memory loves to dwell: some place around which
is cast halo of associations as ineiacenole from
memory as the stars lrom1he canopy OF heaven
sHome, sweet home" it is the centre ofall attrac.
tons; the acme of all ambition; the hat OF all
hope; the climax of all happiness; the guiding
polar star, towards which the mariner directs his
PROV, and Bullets manfully the raging elements
| which surround him. The magnet which draws
the wandering prodigal back, and bids him re-
sumo his seat beneath his own parental home. 1T
| is its sweet promptings that wake up the dor
mant energies of the soldiers heart, and BIDS him
defend more yaliantly his country and ms coun-
try's hlnor. 1t is the loyeof "those dear ones
at home' that prompts him to undertake the perils
of soldiers life, and, perhaps, NIL q soldlers
grave. 1t was for them, and for them alone' that
| the stream from Bunker Hill was caused to flow,
and the streets of Concord to be drenched with
human gore. 1t is the laurel wreath plucked
from the homestead Of his father, by the hand OF
her he loves, that the victor most desires to wear
The student, as he pores over the musty volumes
of Classic lore, and burns the midnight oil in pnr-
| suit of academic honors, Soais back on imagua-
TONS pinions to that dear told home'', and as e
thinks of 1t his young heart is inspired with re-
newed energy; his tagging spirits ag0inireyiye;
lie sets his mark higher and still higher, until he
plucks theSparkli1g wreath from the tevered brow
of his competitors.
There too, is the Patriots t'home''. The Home
of all Homes; the strongest of allties. With
what eager solicitude does he watch every cloud
that rises above its horizon. With what ardo1
he grasps the weapon to ward off the enemy, who
dares insult her honor, or betray her trust; speak
to him OF what you may, insult his person, or in
suit his friends, and he willpass itby unnoticed;
but insnlt his country, and youinficta wound,
which your own blood can only heal.
Where is the person from the highest eminence
of earthly grandeur to the most despcable convict
that groans beneath his chains, who does not at
times wander back to the halcyon days of his
childhood, which yet cling to memory with an un-
dying grasp2 The old gum tree blythe road, or
the beach on whose smooth bark he has engrayen
the initials of her name intcrlinked with his own.
The roaring of the mill dam, by. whose melan-
choly music he has often been lullel to sleeps
The Streamlet in whose placid waters he has bath
ed his Youthful limbs. The "old mill and the
bridge that stood by it,' are all craven indelibly
upon his memory. The family grave yard upon
the hill in which rests the bones of his ancestors;
the old school house; the long and tiresome march
es to and from it; the tricks while there; the uu-
ant excursions, against the awful edicts of the
teacher-nll stand as SO many lasting monuments
| TO mark the home Of his childhood.
| The old grey-h headed sirel with what pride does
he approach the old homestead in which was rear.
ed long list of illustrous ancestorSl With what
emotions does he point you to that OLD pear Tree
planted by the hand of his grandfather; nourished
and protected by his own progenitor, and again
1descending to himself, all bound together by an
indissoluble tie; and all bearing upon them the
| impress of home.
The mean Arab, as he lays crouched in his rude
hut, feels that he is at home. He looks forth upon
the world, and feels thatno one has right to mo-
lest him, OF disturb the quiet of his home.
| The wild savage ofithe Wilderness has secret
tie which binds him too his home, and from which
you cannot separate him, save Ly death. The
Icelander loves his icebergs and mountain crags
of the North. He regards them as the monuments
of his homes and would not exchange them for
all the splendor of the East. Thus see written
in unmistakable characters on the tablet of every
heart, the simple yet endearing words, "Home,
sweet home, there'S no place like Home."
| Wheeling. dug. Q, 1858.