It is a distinguished folly which impels men far from their country in search of happiness. The greater portion, deceived in their hopes after having wandered amidst danger, die with regret and sorrow, worn out with vexation resulting from the broken ties and remembrances of home. Home is the last thought that comes over the departing mind. ‘Et dulces moriens reminiscitur Argos.’ _Ubi patria ibi bene_ is an adage which contains as much wise observation as elevated patriotism. Our country is our common mother. We ought to love and sustain her more firmly in her misery than in her prosperity. Whatever manners, opinions and talents we carry into another country, we are still strangers there. The manners which we adopt are new and irksome. The eye sees nothing to awaken dear and embellished remembrances; and we find in the heart of no one the reverberating chord of ancient friendship and sympathy. We always regret the places where we knew the first pleasures and the first pains, and saw the first enchanting visions of life; the cherished spots where we learned to love and be loved. If, returning there, drawn back by an invincible sentiment, after a long absence we see it again, what sorrows await us! We find ourselves strangers in our own country. We ask for our parents and friends who departed in succession. The blows were struck at long intervals. We receive them all in a moment. We return to shed tears only on the tombs of our fathers![15] Retreat and competence everywhere supply a wise man a degree of independence. Even when the sport of oppression and injustice, he yields to these evils as the caprices of destiny. He would be free in the midst of Constantinople under the government of the Sultan. Another kind of liberty is the portion of but a few in our own country--the liberty of disposing of our whole time at our choice. To those who understand not the value of time, this liberty bequeaths a heavy bondage. But to those who have learned the secret of happiness it is of inestimable value. The privilege of the favored possessor of opulence is a high one. Neither the slave of business, fashion, opinion or routine, it is in his power at awaking to say ‘this day is all my own.’[15a] But moralists exclaim, ‘you must pay your debt: you must render yourselves useful to society.’ Let me not be understood to inculcate the doctrine of indolence. Industry will have wings and power when you unite it to freedom. But how many repeat the hackneyed cry of ‘the debt to society,’ who, in the choice of their profession, had never a thought but of its honors and emoluments! This man whose industry in the pursuit of his choice proves that his toil is his pleasure, that man who is in earnest to serve every one whom he can oblige and who might have shone, had he chosen it, in the career of ambition, but who, modest, proud, studious and free, lives happily in the bosom of retreat, has this man done nothing to acquit his debt? Is his example useless to society?