Transcribed from the 1864 Chapman and Hall “Tales of AllCountries” edition , email
It is generally supposed thatpeople who live at home,—good domestic people, who love teaand their arm-chairs, and who keep the parlour hearth-rug everwarm,—it is generally supposed that these are the peoplewho value home the most, and best appreciate all the comforts ofthat cherished institution. I am inclined to doubtthis. It is, I think, to those who live farthest away fromhome, to those who find the greatest difficulty in visiting home,that the word conveys the sweetest idea. In some distantparts of the world it may be that an Englishman acknowledges hispermanent resting place; but there are many others in which hewill not call his daily house, his home. He would, in hisown idea, desecrate the word by doing so. His home isacross the blue waters, in the little northern island, whichperhaps he may visit no more; which he has left, at any rate, forhalf his life; from which circumstances, and the necessity ofliving, have banished him. His home is still in England,and when he speaks of home his thoughts are there.
No one can understand the intensity of this feeling who hasnot seen or felt the absence of interest in life which falls tothe lot of many who have to eat their bread on distantsoils. We are all apt to think that a life in strangecountries will be a life of excitement, of stirring enterprise,and varied scenes;—that in abandoning the comforts of home,we shall receive in exchange more of movement and of adventurethan would come in our way in our own tame country; and thisfeeling has, I am sure, sent many a young man roaming. Takeany spirited fellow of twenty, and ask him whether he would liketo go to Mexico for the next ten years! Prudence and hisfather may ultimately save him from such banishment, but he willnot refuse without a pang of regret.
Alas! it is a mistake. Bread may be earned, andfortunes, perhaps, made in such countries; and as it is thedestiny of our race to spread itself over the wide face of theglobe, it is well that there should be something to gild andpaint the outward face of that lot which so many are called uponto choose. But for a life of daily excitement, there is nolife like life in England; and the farther that one goes fromEngland the more stagnant, I think, do the waters of existencebecome.
But if it be so for men, it is ten times more so forwomen. An Englishman, if he be at Guatemala or Belize, mustwork for his bread, and that work will find him in thought andexcitement. But what of his wife? Where will she findexcitement? By what pursuit will she repay herself for allthat she has left behind her at her mother’sfireside? She will love her husband. Yes; that atleast! If there be not that, there will be a hell,indeed. Then she will nurse her children, and talk ofher—home. When the time shall come that her promisedreturn thither is within a year or two of its accomplishment, herthoughts will all be fixed on that coming pleasure, as are thethoughts of a young girl on her first ball for the fortnightbefore that event comes off.
On the central plain of that portion of Central America whichis called Costa Rica stands the city of San José. Itis the capital of the Republic,—for Costa Rica is aRepublic,—and, for Central America, is a town of someimportance. It is in the middle of the coffee district,surrounded by rich soil on which the sugar-cane is produced, isblessed with a climate only moderately hot, and the nativeinhabitants are neither cut-throats nor cannibals. It maybe said, therefore, that by comparison with some other spots towhich Englishmen and others are congregated for the gatheringtogether of money, San José may be considered as a happyregion; but, nevert