The Cecil Whig. [volume] (Elkton, Md.) 1841-current, 1873-07-19

back across the sea to the scenes of their
childhood.
Not among the Jews alone do we find
this feeling but in the emotions of all peo-
Piles it seems to have had equal force
Homo has proved the shrine at which ad-
herents of all religions have bowed alike;
a touch of common feeling that has made
the whole world kin. No savage has been
found too wild to acknowledge this senti-
ment, no one too enlightened to free him.
self from it's force. Among all the winged
words that make up the vast aggregate,
we call human language, thore is none that
falls on the ear with sweeter cadence than
this. How many scenes and incidents this
idea brings up? how many faces now be-
| meath the sod ceme clustering up again to
take their old familiar places around our
native hearthstone?
1t does not matter where on our planet
we may roam, mountains may rear their
hoary SUBMITS to the Skies oceans may
roll between, or desert sands divide, imagi-
nation will still keep alive the form of every
rock, tree and shrub, familiar to our early
days, each will still bring up some recol-
lection of pleasure or of pain.
The sailor as he furls the sail or PAGES
the deck in the lonely night watch, prays
for the loved ones at home. The soldiers
dream upon the tented field, even when his
brows may be bound by the brightest
wrcaths that fame can weave, is of the
happy home and quiet joys of more peace
full days. With Bruce or Livingstone upon
the plains of Africa, Ledyard in the dreary
wilds of Liberia, or Kane bound in the ice
and eternal twilight of polar days the same
sentiment may be found.
Mrs. Heman's traveller at the source of
the Nile ';where fate had given the need
of toiling years." as along with the idea of
triumph where so many had failed, came
the thought of home with its ideas and
associations calling him back, "and with
it came the thoughts of all that lay between.
The Arabs lance, the deserts gloom, the
whrling sands, the red simoon," gathers
all it's pathos from its truth. Bruce has
not been the only one to whom the triumph's
hour has brought the bitter thought, "and
is Mss I'LL. When all the triumphs of life
would be given for one quiet hour at home.
"The stately homes of England" and
the memories of their fathers long strug
gle for freedom under " the flag that has
braved for thousand years the battle and
the breeze" has had no small part in Civ
ing her the important place she has held
in the history of the world. The French
man may be driven from his home by polit-
ical factions, but still to him i'll his lodg-
ings by the waters Of Geneva or in the
slums of London, France is the one "grande
nation" the mistress of his heart. The
German may wander by the Amazon, turn
up the soil of the prairies, or dig the golden
ore from Australian mines, still he looks
back to the "Fatherland " with much
the same feeling that Israel cherished for
Zion. The Chinaman will tell you that
Bhudda will give no repose to the man who
sleeps his last sleep among strangers, and
desires as his dying wish that his friends
will carry his bones to China and lay them
in their native soil. Even the Icelander
will tell you that his rock bound, volcano
scorched, earthquake-rocked island is the
best land the sun shines upon.
Wherever the race of man has penetrat-
ed this feeling may be found in the same
intensity; parading alike all grades of
social life, all ranks and all professions.
| IL, g
bright hills of Italy; beneath the stunted
pines of Labrador, or upon the vine-clad
hills of Spain; among the lchen-bearing
rocks of Lapland and the palace homes of
| New York; where coral isles bask in the
sunlight of the trophies, or scanty life is
found under the light of arctic auroras; in
the marts of wealth and the cottages of
plodding industry, we may trace the same
feeling with the same passionate intensity.
The Arab wandering over his deserts,
would no more exchange his state with the
English noble, than the merchant prince
would exchange his home for the ice hut of
Kamtchatka.
In poetry we meet again the intensity Of
the same idea. How many eyes have been
wet while listening to the strains of " Home,
sweet home" That simple song will be
sufficient to keep its authors memory green
as long as English is written tongue. 1t
seems strange how some simple song will
live and keep alive the memory of it's au-
thor, when more pretensious works will
perish with the era that gave them birth.
Hohenlinden is familiar to thousands who
never heard of the pleasures of Hope "
or % Gertrude of Wyoming" Kirk Whites
"Star Of Bethlehem is it authors surest
passport to immortality. Centuries after
all other relics of that gifted boy have per-
ished, an inquiring world will still ask why
he could not have been little longer spared
to the world.
Now that new tune books multiply faster
than Jacobs cattle, the question arises,
how many of hose hymns will outlive
their authors? 1t might be possible to
name few. The idea of natural selection
is in place here, the chaff will perish the
little real grain will live for the good OF
other ages. How grand some of those old
lyrics seem that come sounding down to US
along the centuries, recording for us the
ideas of true hearted toilers in all ages,
and pointing the eye Of faith to a better
home than this. No ear can listen to some
of those hymns without the heart catching
the spirit of their authors, and feeling lifted
a little farther heavenward.
One of the very Oldest of these, is Jer.
usalem my happy home" 1t has been
traced back to the third century; when the
church was one Of which the world above
ground was not worthy, when the cata
combs of Rome were the home of Chris
tanity and the graves of believers. Bann
ed by law, outcasts from earth, relentlsssly
hunted down above ground, no earthly
home possible to them, it was but natura
that their thoughts should turn to a home
beyond the tolls and prosecutions of this
life where the cruel court of Rome could
have no jurisdiction. 1t was then that the