The Cambria freeman. [volume] (Ebensburg, Pa.) 1867-1938, 1868-03-12
ssHOME, SWEET IEOME.''

NlSut OIOppcu ucT SHduOWJ van ONSI
London, and the mantle of mists that all
day long had enveloped the city, grew
more dense and fell in beaded drops of
rain. The gas lights burned brightly at
the corners, but it was a dreary night to
be out in. Yet crowds filled tine streets,
for even in night storms, the great thor
oughfares are never deserted. Guilt and
wretchedness are always wakeful and
abroad. To realize the desolation of lone
illness, one must be stranger in a crowded
city, with sensitive nature, and a refine,
ment that shrinks from rude contacts, and
uncongenial companionship.
Alone IN the country, with the blue sky
| above US, and the green grass beneath our
| feet, there are charms that WOO US to for
getfulness. There is music in the running
stream and beauty in the flowers that
grow upon its banks. Some German
writer, L have forgotten who, calls flowers
the stars of earth and stars the flowers Of
heaven. Fair and radient flowers they
are and shed their rightness on the smokeg
wreathed city, but in their matchless,
softened and meliowed light seem to inger
! more pleasantly on green fields and way
ing corn.
Alone in London Dreary and desos
late reality, that swelled almost to burst
ing a weary and aching heart. The
stranger gathered his thin cloak around
his shivering from, and drew his hat over
his face, with sensitive shrinking from
the crowd that rudely jostled past him.
He was alone in London, and very poor,
To
supper.
Somewhere in dark part of the city,
where the gas lights were few, up many
pairs of stairs, was the garret in which he
slept, but in it there was nothing save the
darkness, one broken chair and wretch>
ed bed with It's scanty covering.
When he entered this desolate chamber
in nights like this, an unseen company
surrounded him, the spirits of the view
less air, and in the wailings of the wind
they told him strange mysterious tales of
wretchedness and dread, until, half wild
with dark imaginings, he rushed forth in
the night and the pelting storm. Thus
through the chilling sleet and rain he
walked the streets. looking into the bard
faces of the passers by and wondering if
in all London there was another man who
had no one to care for him, no one to
love him. And then he. thought how
deliciously strange it would seem to him
"a stranger and wandercr for many
years-to be loved.
He hoped the blessed light would dawn
upon him, but in the darkness of this
night it seemed great way off. The
cloud of poverty and gloom that wrapped
his heart was too cold and deep, he feared,
for human sympathy and love to penetrate.
He seemed to see before him, Fate,
with wierd fingers, weaving the mystic
web of his lonely destiny, and as he
watched the phantom hands with teverish
intensity, he wondered if at some future
day mantle Of brightness might not fall
upon him instead of pail. A strain of
sweet sad music broke in upon his lonely
musings. Over all refined natures music
has an absorbing power, and though it
often fills the soul with sadness, it casts
upon it the spell of an irresistible fascina-
ton; and the stranger paused in his des-
olate walk to listen to the song. The win
dows of the princely mansion were but
half vailed, and he could see the happy
group that surrounded the piano, and the
fair girl that sang the soft minor air which
sank into the listeners heart.
He was a poet, and bad written songs
of tenderness and love for others to sing.
Himself, he could not sing with such
weight upon his heart The light of
genius was in his eye, and the imagery
of fervid imagination gathered round
his brain, and the poets native impulse,
loving, warm and true, lived within his
heart
In the sensitive and gifted the longing
for sympathy and love is far more intense
than in ruder natures, and all his life
long his heart had yearned with passion
ate eagerness for the pure delights of home
and the bliss of sympathy and love.
The song was over, but still he linger-
ed, watching the firelight's fitful glow, as
it shed its ruddy sheen upon the changing
group.
Again the fair girl took her seat at
the piano and sang with inimitable grace
and beauty Home, Sweet Home,'
1t was his song!
He, the homeless wanderer, had writ
ten "Home, Sweet Home"
He stood out in darkness and night,
listening to his song, the child of his own
heart and brain, and looking in at the
window of "Home, Sweet Home" knew
that in all the world there was no home
for him.
The song ended. He sat down on
the stone steps of the stately mansion,
with the rain beating heavily upon him,
and burying his face in his hands, wept
in the bitterness of his heart
Years passed away, and still he was
homeless wanderer. Often in the streets
of London, Berlin. and Paris, he heard
''Home, Sweet Home" which in all lands
and all hearts had become household words.
Later in life he became Consul to Tunis,
and died stranger in strange land.
Never, save in his dream, had he known