omestead where
fence and wall have fallen, and house and hearth gone to dust. What
presence hallows the place? Who so fills the air about him as to seem
just ready to break into palpable vision wherever he turns? It is his
mother. Overwhelmed by a flood of memories, inspired by an immortal
faith, not less than by an immortal affection, he drops on his knees,
and cries,

Mother! thou art mother still;
Only the body dies;
Such love as bound thy heart to mine,
Death only purifies.

The same moral is drawn by Sarah Tytler in her excellent book of
"Sweet Counsel" for girls, where she says, "I do not know that I ever
told my father I was once or twice very angry with him for refusing
me this or that request. My lips will never tell him now, and beg his
pardon, and assure him that I was not worthy of him then, but that I
know all at last; my hand will never clasp his hand, my lips never
kiss his lips again. But I do not break my heart; for I think he
knows all that I ever intended to tell him, and has forgiven me long
ago. I am persuaded,

"There must be wisdom with great death;
The dead shall look me through and through."

But perhaps the most fatal influence against the growth and
perpetuation of vivid friendships between parents and children is the
disenchanting effect of familiarity. A close and constant
intercourse, long continued, usually tends to make persons arid,
commonplace, uninteresting, to each other, takes away surprise, eager
expectation, and romance. There is nothing human beings so much like
as to be able strongly to impress and be impressed. This seems to
cease to be possible in a company who fancy they have struck every
string, sounded every secret, exhausted the possibilities, in each
other. A long subjection of the same persons to the same
circumstances produces a general spirit of sameness, a flagging
tedium, a want of varied attraction and stimulation. Let a stranger,
a foreign friend, any honored guest, come in, and how his presence
quickens every thing! Life shines with novel lustre, and throbs with
new energy. Every one puts his best foot forward, exerts his best
powers to interest. The fresh pleasure every one feels gives him a
fresh power of pleasing. But, ah it would be of no use, we think, to
make any effort in the dull old circle of our familiars, who can
produce no effect on us, and on whom we, in turn, can produce no
effect. And thus life in the home becomes monotonous, torpid, and
vac