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Its Quiet Influences

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park, Washington, D. C. · Aug 22, 1912

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 89, No. 34.

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Its Quiet Influences

By J. O. Corliss

Home Life — No. 2

Its Quiet Influences

THERE is something about the word home that suggests retirement and quiet. When one has been jostled all the day in the discharge of life's duties, the mere thought of home brings a restful feeling, because it suggests a peaceful respite from busy cares in public labor. This seems most natural when one thinks that the derivation of "home" signifies to enclose. It really means a shut-in place, where one is separate from, and guarded against, all the outside world. It is a sacred seclusion in which one's family dwells; a place of fondest ties, because of its pleasing possessions.
All nature intimates that to secure an ideal home it is necessary to be removed from busy marts and clamorous notes of human accent. The rudest aboriginal, whether animal or human, has ever instinctively sought the most secluded spot as a place of retirement, and a reliable protection for its offspring. This would seem to show that the divine Mind intended home to be a place shielded from the prying eyes and vuglar influences of the world at large.
Every family should have conveniences in the home to insure privacy for its members. One of the chief causes of extended crime in large cities has been found to spring from overcrowded dwellings, where ordinary comforts and conveniences are lacking. But in a city where rents are high, the poorer classes feel obliged to put up with inconvenient homes in order to live within a meager income. But why simply exist after this fashion? Why attempt to rear a family where no scenes of nature ever greet the eye, and where only the fetid breath of immorality is wafted in the morning air?
No city residence in a crowded thoroughfare can be a satisfactory home to one who loves nature. Every house should have ample space about it for a garden in which to grow the beautiful foliage and bright flowers, which may serve to turn the mind in gratitude toward the Creator of all things. This can not well be secured in the condensed residence space of a crowded town, especially by laboring men with scanty means of subsistence. It would be greatly to the advantage of such could they determine to make their homes in the country, and journey to and from the city to their daily work.
It may be objected that houses for rent are not plentiful in the country, and therefore such a proposition is not feasible. But if one would consider the advantage of securing a small home of this kind, and letting his monthly rental be paid toward the permanent possession of it, he would find himself endowed with new energy, and a higher ambition for an ideal home than was ever possible in a congested town. To such a home one could go with joy when the day is done, and greet his family with solid satisfaction, knowing that they have healthier bodies and purer minds for their country life. Besides, it is his own home, and not the possession of another, which he temporarily occupies. It is an anchor to hold him in check amid life's temptations. It is indeed his place of refuge from strife; a rest of pure delights, whose charms prevail against all that worldly pleasure offers or appetite suggests.
In such a home one can have the desired privacy his family interests demand. No one fears that some eavesdropper is catching words intended only for family consideration; and no one is annoyed by a near-by scolding mother or a neighbor's screaming child. Nothing comes there that would affect unfavorably the growing minds of the children, as would likely be the case were the home so exposed on either side and front and rear as to make the place of residence nearly like a great nondescript neighborhood family.
But even in such a location fatal mistakes may be made in arranging a home. Stately furnishings are apt to bring in formality and drive out genuine affection. If embellishments are too numerous or too expensive, children will be constantly warned to be careful not to touch or injure them. This repels the children, and they seek elsewhere the freedom that is denied them in their home. The children should have at least one room in the house in which to romp at pleasure, without fear of being called to order at every sound of innocent tumult.
Every home should be to the children a place to which they will look back with delight after having gone forth from it to make a home for themselves. The entire time of childhood should be a season of home education in which the taste and character have been greatly elevated. The bent of a child's matured life depends more on earlier home surroundings than most parents think. He may have been drilled regularly in the Sabbath-school lessons, and urged to be faithful in church attendance, but if he has missed the loving power of parental tenderness, his home is a cheerless place. This point is well illustrated by Will Carleton in a poem entitled "The Boy Convict's Story." The boy is represented as being in the charge of the sheriff, on his way to prison, when he began to offer advice to the officer as to how best to train his children. A few stanzas are worth repeating here, and well worth remembering. The boy told of all the stern, religious lessons he had received from his parents, and then said: —
"O, yes! I'd a good enough home, Sir, so far as the house was concerned; My parents were first-class providers — I ate full as much as I earned. My clothes were all built of good timber, and fit every day to be seen; There wasn't any lock on the pantry; my bedroom was tidy and clean; And taking the home up and down, Sir, I'd more than an average part, With one quite important exception — there wasn't any room for my heart.
"The house couldn't have been colder with snow-drifts in every room! The house needn't have been any darker to make a respectable tomb! I used to stop short on the door-step, and brace up a minute or more, And bid a good-by to the sunshine, before I would open the door; I used to feed daily on icebergs, — take in all the freeze I could hold, — Then go out and warm in the sunshine, because my poor heart was so cold!
"And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul couldn't abide, And Pleasure was all the time smiling, and motioning me to her side; And when I start out on a journey, I'm likely to go it by leaps For good or for bad; I'm no half-way — I'm one or the other for keeps.
My wild oats flew thicker and faster. I reaped the same crop that I sowed, And now I am going to market — I'm taking it over the road!
"Yes, it grieved my good father and mother to see me so sadly astray; They deeply regretted my downfall — in a strictly respectable way; They gave me some more admonition, and sent me off full of advice, And wondered to see such a villain from parents so good and precise. Indeed I have often conjectured, when full of neglect and its smart, I must have been left on the door-step of their uncongenial hearts!
"My home in the prison is waiting, it opens up clear to my sight; Hard work and no pay-day a-coming, a close cell to sleep in at night. And there I must lie sad and lonesome, with more tribulation than rest, And wake in the morning with sorrow sharp sticking like steel in my breast; Maybe the strain and the trouble won't quite so much o'er me prevail As 'twould be to some one who wasn't brought up in a kind of a jail!
"You've got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cozy and nice, And 'tisn't for a wrist-shackled convict to offer you words of advice; But this I must say: Of all places your children must visit or call, Make home the most pleasant and happy — the sweetest and best of them all; For the devil won't offer a dollar to have his world chances improved, When home is turned into a side-show, with half the attractions removed!
"Don't think I'm too bitter, good sheriff — I like you; you've been very good; I'm ever and ever so grateful — would pay it all back if I could. I didn't mean to slander my parents — I've nothing against their good name, And as for my unrighteous actions, it's mostly myself that's to blame; Still, if I'd had a home — but the prison is only one station ahead. I'm done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but don't forget what I have said."
Mountain View, Cal.