Time hangs heavily on his hands, he is tired of reading, it is too
early for repose, so he throws himself on the sofa and muses, but even
meditation calls for a truce. His heart laments its solitude, and his
tongue its silence. Nature is weary and exhausted, and sleep at last
comes to his aid. But, alas! he awakes in the morning only to resume
his dull monotonous course, and at last he fully comprehends what it
is to be alone. Women won't come to see him, for fear they might be
talked about, and those that would come would soon make him a subject
of scandal. He and the world, like two people travelling in opposite
directions, soon increase at a rapid rate the distance between them.
He loses his interest in what is going on around him, and people lose
their interest in him. If his name happens to be mentioned, it may
occasion a listless remark, "I wonder how he spends his time?" or,
"The poor devil must be lonely there."
Yes, yes, there are many folks in the world that talk of things they
don't understand, and there are precious few who appreciate the
meaning of that endearing term "home." He only knows it as I have said
who has lived in one, amid a large family, of which he is the solitary
surviving member. The change is like going from the house to the
sepulchre, with this difference only, one holds a living and the other
a dead body. Yes, if you have had a home you know what it is, but if
you have lost it, then and not till then do you feel its value.
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