Ancient saying, reported at least as early as 1847, in Joseph C. Neal, "Singleton Snippe. Who Married for a Living", Graham's Magazine (1847), p. 166: "Home is where the heart is; and Snippe's heart was a traveler—a locomotive heart, perambulating; and it had no tendencies toward circumscription and confine".
Sitting with my gin or whisky afterwards I would often manage to get into conversation with some lonely man or other – usually an exile like myself – and the talk would be about the world, air-routes and shipping-lines, drinking-places thousands of miles away. Then I felt happy, felt I had come home, because home to people like me is not a place but all places, all places except the one we happen to be in at the moment.
A man's house is his castle — et domus sua cuique est tutissimum refugium.
Edward Coke, The First Part of the Institutes of the Laws of England, or, A Commentary on Littleton (London, 1628, ed. F. Hargrave and C. Butler, 19th ed., London, 1832), Third Institute, p. 162. The exact translation of the Latin portion is: "and where shall a man be safe if it be not in his own house?", quoted from Pandects, lib. ii. tit. iv. De in Jus vocando.
A man is not really a true man until he owns his own home, and they that own their homes are made more honorable and honest and pure, true and economical and careful, by owning the home.
Home is the place where, when you have to go there, They have to take you in.
Robert Frost, The Death of the Hired Man (1914), lines 118–19, in Edward C. Lathem, ed., The Poetry of Robert Frost (1967), p. 38.
At night returning, every labour sped, He sits him down, the monarch of a shed; Smiles by his cheerful fire, and round surveys His children's looks, that brighten at the blaze; While his lov'd partner, boastful of her hoard, Displays her cleanly platter on the board.
How small of all that human hearts endure, That part which laws or kings can cause or cure! Still to ourselves in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find. With secret course, which no loud storms annoy, Glides the smooth current of domestic joy.
Appeles us'd to paint a good housewife upon a snayl; which intimated that she should be as slow from gadding abroad, and when she went she should carry her house upon her back; that is, she should make all sure at home.
I do not go quite the length of the modern philosopher, who asserts that our nature is not wholly sophisticated so long as we retain our juvenile predilection in favour of apple-dumpling; but I do think that the affection which clings to the home of our childhood — the early love which lingers round the flowers we have sown, the shrubs we have planted — is, though a simple, a sweet and purifying influence on the character. I cannot help thinking, that the drooping bough, the fairy-like rose, lend something of their own grace to one who has loved them and made them her companions.
'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home; A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which sought through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere.
John Howard Payne, Home, Sweet Home (1822), from the opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan".
The poorest man may in his cottage bid defiance to all the force of the Crown. It may be frail, its roof may shake; the wind may blow through it; the storms may enter,—the rain may enter,—but the King of England cannot enter; all his forces dare not cross the threshold of the ruined tenement!
William Pitt, 1st Earl of Chatham, Speech on the Excise Bill; reported in Henry Peter Brougham, Historical Sketches of Statesmen Who Flourished in the Time of George III (1839), vol. 1, p. 52. Lord Brougham notes, "There are other celebrated passages of his speeches in all men's mouths…. Perhaps the finest of them all is his allusion to the maxim of English law, that every man's home is his castle", given above. According to Francis Thackeray, A History of the Right Honorable William Pitt (1827), vol. 2, p. 29, the speech was delivered in 1763 in opposition to an excise tax on perry and cider.
A happy home is the single spot of rest which a man has upon this earth for the cultivation of his noblest sensibilities.
You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood, … back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame … back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time-back home to the escapes of Time and Memory.
Now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness! Shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day's work. And the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.
When the hornet hangs in the holly hock, And the brown bee drones i' the rose, And the west is a red-streaked four-o'clock, And summer is near its close— It's—Oh, for the gate, and the locust lane; And dusk, and dew, and home again!
Who hath not met with home-made bread, A heavy compound of putty and lead— And home-made wines that rack the head, And home-made liquors and waters? Home-made pop that will not foam, And home-made dishes that drive one from home— * * * * * * Home-made by the homely daughters.
Cling to thy home! If there the meanest shed Yield thee a hearth and shelter for thy head, And some poor plot, with vegetables stored, Be all that Heaven allots thee for thy board, Unsavory bread, and herbs that scatter'd grow Wild on the river-brink or mountain-brow; Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provide More heart's repose than all the world beside.
Subduing and subdued, the petty strife, Which clouds the colour of domestic life; The sober comfort, all the peace which springs From the large aggregate of little things; On these small cares of daughter, wife or friend, The almost sacred joys of home depend.
How could I go back to my home? I have people online bragging about putting dead animals through my mailbox. I’ve got some asshole in California who I’ve never talked to hiring a private investigator to stalk me. What am I going to do – go home and just wait until someone makes good on their threats? I’m scared that what it’s going to take to stop this is the death of one of the women who’s been targeted.
Though home be but homely, yet huswife is taught That home hath no fellow to such as have aught.
Thomas Tusser, Points of Huswifery, Instructions to Huswifery, VIII, p. 243. (1561).
I read within a poet's book A word that starred the page, "Stone walls do not a prison make, Nor iron bars a cage." Yes, that is true, and something more: You'll find, where'er you roam, That marble floors and gilded walls Can never make a home. But every house where Love abides And Friendship is a guest, Is surely home, and home, sweet home; For there the heart can rest.
In the homes of America are born the children of America; and from them go out into American life, American men and women. They go out with the stamp of these homes upon them; and only as these homes are what they should be, will they be what they should be.
The pleasant converse of the fireside, the simple songs of home, the words of encouragement as I bend over my school - tasks, the kiss as I lie down to rest, the patient bearing with the freaks of my restless nature, the gentle counsels mingled with reproofs and approvals, the sympathy that meets and assuages every sorrow, and sweetens every little success — all these return to me amid the responsibilities which press upon me now, and I feel as if I had once lived in heaven, and, straying, had lost my way.
I never heard my father's or mother's voice once raised in any question with each other; nor saw any angry or even slightly hurt or offended glance in the eyes of either. I never heard a servant scolded, nor even suddenly, passionately, or in any severe manner, blamed; and I never saw a moment's trouble or disorder in any household matter.
It is to Jesus Christ we owe the truth, the tenderness, the purity, the warm affection, the holy aspiration, which go together in that endearing word — home; for it is He who has made obedience so beautiful, and affection so holy; it is He who has brought the Father's home so near, and has taught us that love is of God.
The sweetest type of heaven is home — nay, heaven is the home for whose acquisition we are to strive the most strongly. Home, in one form and another, is the great object of life. It stands at the end of every day's labor, and beckons us to its bosom; and life would be cheerless and meaningless, did we not discern across the river that divides us from the life beyond, glimpses of the pleasant mansions prepared for us.
The home came from heaven. Modeled on the Father's house and the many mansions, and meant the one to be a training place for the other, the home is one of the gifts of the Lord Jesus — a special creation of Christianity.
Home and heaven are not so far separated as we sometimes think. Nay, they are not separated at all, for they are both in the same great building. Home is the lower story, and is located down here on the ground floor; heaven is above stairs, in the second and third stories; and, as one after another the family is called to come up higher, that which seemed to be such a strange place begins to wear a familiar aspect; and, when at last not one is left below, the home is transferred to heaven, and heaven is home.
Keep the home near heaven. Let it face toward the Father's house. Not only let the day begin and end with God, with mercies acknowledged and forgiveness sought, but let it be seen and felt that God is your chiefest joy, His will in all you do the absolute and sufficient reason.
It was Jesus Christ who, ever pointing to joys which do not perish in the using, wedded duty to delight, and re-opening to the Christian family a better paradise — the Father's house — placed the earthly home in the vestibule of heaven.
Home and Jesus! The two should be inseparable. Husband and wife need the clasp of that infinite love to keep their hearts true to each other. Parents need the guidance of that infinite wisdom and the power of that infinite strength, to keep them patient and long-suffering and gentle and wise in the training of immortal souls.
How rich this earth seems when we regard it — crowded with the loves of home! Yet I am now getting ready to go home — to leave this world of homes and go home. When I reach that home, shall I even then seek yet to go home? Even then, I believe, I shall seek a yet warmer, deeper, truer home in the deeper knowledge of God — in the truer love of my fellow men. Eternity will be — my heart and my faith tell me — a traveling homeward, but in jubilation and confidence and the vision of the beloved.
Then I said in my heart, "Come home with me, beloved — there is but one home for us all. When we find — in proportion as each of us finds that home, shall we be gardens of delight to each other — little chambers of rest — galleries of pictures — wells of water."