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AN INNER SHRINE.
Every man, who has a home as big as an ordinary
kennel, should take some corner of it for himself, and
hold it in possession sacred from the profaning foot of
any save whom he shall choose to admit. This is as
necessary as that he should wear his own clothes. It
should be a spot to which he may retire and commune
with himself, which he cannot do when agitated and
harassed by out-door influences; and a half-hour thus
spent would be better for him, humanly speaking, than
many dollars, if it may be measured by dollars. This
self-communion is not enough practised, and ourselves
are the least acquainted with ourselves of any that we
profess to know. Such little sanctum sanctorum is a
constant incentive to thought. Do you smoke? Yes?
Then here is just the place for you. Enter, lock your
door, light your meerschaum or cigar, throw yourself
on your easy-chair or lounge, and there think, as the
smoke curls gracefully over your head. There is a
luxury in thought at such time. The demons that came
in with you, which all day long may have haunted you
with insidious, or tantalizing, or perplexing shadows,
holding them before you like stereoscopic pictures, fly
out with the gracefully curling smoke. At such time
your mind, stormy previously, perhaps, has subsided
to a calm, having nobody to quarrel with, and gentle
fancies come in as Memory summons them, and delightful
reverie, the fairy-ground of the intellectual realm,
is entered upon through the avenue of silence. This
is luxury. Dream, now, with your eyes open. You
see and do not see the uncertain forms and scenes that
lead a mystic dance before you. Eyes long lost, that
the mould has claimed for years, look once more lovingly
rose-blush exhales, to form deathless roses in the upper
sphere, beam again upon you. Voices, that bore love
in their tones, and remained not long enough to give
love expression, again are heard! All fancy, but yet
real — impalpable, but more substantial than the coarse
world about you. The half-hour's thought or reverie is
worth a day, to your spirit, of the harsh encounter of
life. “Enter into thy closet,” and prayer becomes a
natural effluence, flowing out of the very holiness of
repose. But shut the door. White arms and pouting
lips are inveterate enemies of solitude, and they are
very obtrusive.
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