The founding of a new home marks an important era in a human life. Whether you be poor or wealthy, wise or ignorant, it is all the same—you begin a new existence. The associations of childhood and youth now undergo a total change. The familiar scenes disappear suddenly. Longfellow, in his "Hanging of the Crane," writes the following touching words on the eventful day:

What sort of a home shall the new one be? Shall it be the abode of happy hearts and pure and noble lives, or shall discontent and misery prevail? Jane Welch Carlyle says truly: "If ever one is to pray—if ever one is to feel grave and anxious—if ever one is to shrink from vain show and vain babble—surely it is just on the occasion of two human beings binding themselves to one another, for better and for worse, till death part them."

Great is the difference in households. As one walks along a beautiful street in a city there is nothing in the fronts of the houses to indicate the kind of life which passes within doors. But an intimate acquaintance, such as a faithful pastor gains in the course of his labors, often reveals the fact that in some of the most magnificent houses there is no peace or joy, while in some of the humblest cottages there is a calm and loving spirit which continues and grows from year to year.

The kind of a house, even the adornments which wealth and luxury bring, do not determine the true home. The two people who establish the new household decide its quality.

That the people who occupy a home decide its quality is beautifully expressed by Nathaniel Cotton, a poet of the last century:

If those who occupy the home resolve to be happy and contented, to avoid envying persons of larger means and higher social position, to lead a life of mutual confidence and esteem, and to serve God with trustful love, their home will be to them a sacred place. I was once pastor of a church in Fulton Street, Elizabeth, N. J., where the most of the members were mechanics and laborers and on the railroad. Their circumstances were limited, and they had but little power to adorn their houses. But in some of those homes there reigned such beauty of spirit, such contentment with the condition in life, such kindliness and sympathy, such cheerfulness and patience, that it was a joy to cross the threshold and commune with the members of the plain and unambitious families. The memories of those visits are among the most delightful of my pastoral experience.

Suppose, then, your new home is plain and homely. Remember, that marble walls, and broad and polished halls, and masterpieces in painting on the walls, and a daily fare of luxuries, and table service of silver and gold, and a retinue of liveried servants do not constitute a home. Though the new home consist of only a few rooms, if mutual love and admiration reign within the narrow walls, no historical palace can be half so beautiful or attractive.

But for a home to be truly beautiful there must needs be, always, one guest—the Saviour. There were many magnificent buildings in Jerusalem when He walked its streets and performed his miraculous works of healing. But in all the land, and in all the ages, there was never one more charming than that little home in Bethany, where Lazarus and his sisters Mary and Martha constituted the household. And why was that the perfect home? Because our Lord was always the welcome Guest.