Woman, whose nature is to love

” Woman, whose nature is to love home and to cling to all home ties and associations, cannot be torn from that spot that is the little centre of joy and peace and comfort to her, without many painful regrets.  No matter however poor she may be, how low her lot in life may be cast, home to her is dear, the thought of it and the love of it clings closely to her wherever she goes.  The remembrance of it never leaves her; it is graven on her heart.  Her thoughts wander back to it across the broad waters of the ocean that are bearing her far from it.  In the new land it is still present to her mental eye, and years after she has formed another home for herself she can still recall the bowery lane, the daisied meadow, the moss-grown well, the simple hawthorn hedge that bound the garden-plot, the woodbine porch, the thatched roof and narrow casement window of her early home.  She hears the singing of the birds, the murmuring of the bees, the tinkling of the rill, and busy hum of cheerful labour from the village or the farm, when those beside her can hear only the deep cadence of the wind among the lofty forest-trees, the jangling of the cattle-bells, or strokes of the chopper’s axe in the wood.  As the seasons return she thinks of the flowers that she loved in childhood; the pale primrose, the cowslip and the blue-bell, with the humble daisy and heath-flowers; and what would she give for one, just ONE of those old familiar flowers!  No wonder that the heart of the emigrant’s wife is sometimes sad, and needs to be dealt gently with by her less sensitive partner; who if she were less devoted to home, would hardly love her more, for this attachment to home lies much of her charm as a wife and mother in his eyes—but kindness and sympathy, which she has need of, in time reconciles her to her change in life: new ties, new interests, new comforts arise; and she ceases to repine, if she does not cease to love, that which she has lost; in after life the recollection comes like some pleasant dream or a fair picture to her mind, but she has ceased to grieve or to regret; and perhaps like a wise woman she says—-‘ All things are for the best.  It is good for us to be here.’ ”

–Catherine Traill, Female Emigrant’s Guide, 1854

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