HOMES.
IT appears to be a point of honour with every decent dog to show no sentiment whatever with regard to place. In this matter he seems more a creature of reason even than a man. If taken by his master to revisit their former abode, he displays no pleasure, though it will be evident to a careful observer that he has forgotten nothing. No short-cut, no emergency exit, used or made by him in times past, has escaped his memory. If accidentally shut in or out, he will put all his knowledge into practice without pausing a moment to collect his thoughts. But evidently the house arouses no sentimental emotions in his heart—not so much as an old coat of his master's would seem to arouse. He goes away with jaunty air whenever his master goes, and makes himself "at home" at the next stopping-place. The odd thing is that it is not want of interest which causes him to net like this. So far as his limited intelli- gence permits, he understands the plan even of a large house very well. Any intelligent dog who, being in the garden, is whistled for out of an upper window will go straight to the right room. Again, his curiosity is always aroused if any part of the house he lives in is shut to him. The present writer knows a little elderly and exceedingly intelligent pet dog who moved with his family into a new maisonette during a severe attack of rheumatism- For some weeks he could not walk upstairs, and had no chance of making out who lived upon the upper story or what their rooms were like. The very first day that it became possible to climb the stairs he clambered up to explore, waited for an opportunity of inspecting the rooms which was kindly given him by the amused owner, and retired down- stairs again tired but satisfied. He has not renewed the tour of inspection. Why should he ? He now knows all he wants to. There are, we know, a few masterless dogs—the scoundrels of the dog world—who show some attachment to a locality, and beg or steal a livelihood within a very small area, refusing all offers of adoption. Such are, however, very exceptional, and would, we suspect, be regarded by average dogs as feeble- minded. Where a dog's friends are there is his home, and whether ho lives on a Scots moor or a suburban common, in a London house or a country cottage, is a matter to him of almost ostentatious indifference.
Cate feelings with regard to places are usually described as " just the reverse " of those of dogs. But we know so little of the feelings of cats that even that vague description is too definite. They love the familiar if they love anything ; but perhaps it would be more true to say that they get what to them is the essential of happiness out of the act of recognition. They certainly like comfort—fires, food, a kind cook, and con- stant consideration—but most of them will sacrifice it all rather than put up with en unfamiliar scene. Through rain and mud they will run back if they can to a cold, deserted house whose walls are familiar. If the distance is too great for instinct to serve them as a guide, they get lost and perish miserably unless, as sometimes seems to he the ease, their intelligence is so great as to enable them to realize their limitations. Then they will remain in new surroundings, taking a more or less philosophical view of the misfortune of the change, according to their indi- vidual characters, some fretting, others sulking, a few exercising resignation till the unaccustomed becomes ogee more the accustomed.
This attitude of that mysterious and very ancient animal the cat towards its home throws a good deal of light upon the instinctive feeling of the human being. Very few men and women can really say with the absolute detachment of a dog : " Where those I love are there is my home." They also have a strange attachment to the familiar scene. The feeling lies deeper than reason, indeed it almost invariably increases as reason declines. Elderly people dislike more and more to leave home, and one of the most distressing delusions which attack the very old is that they are not at home. It is for the sense of the familiar that they crave, and it is a feeling which the presence of their friends, or even of their children, is powerless to allay. If asked which of the homes in which they have lived they desire to return to, they will often name the home of their youth, and that though they have not loved it sufficiently to revisit it during their mature years. The sense of protection which home gives us is no doubt strongest in childhood, and perhaps that is the explanation of this longing in those who feel themselves near the precipice.
But to a man or woman of strong mind, when instinct is weakest and common-sense most predominant, the love of home means something other than protection. It is not easy, however, to say just what it does mean. Like patriotism, it has something to do with place, but not everything. We suppose a great number of patriotic youths who flew to arms at the first rumour of war for the sake of England do not intend to live or expect to die in their native land. Certainly the greater number of Canadians and Australians who fought for us are homesick amongst us. The word " Imperial," though it springs to our lips, does not quite explain this state of mind. We cannot define " country " or " home," but the love of both is a passion only second to religion.
What do we mean by home ? We have heard cynics, after discussing and casting aside all serious definitions, say that it is a place which a man has a right to be ill in, or a place in which a ntan has a right to give an order. To a great many it certainly means their furniture. Mrs. Tulliver, our readers may remember, experienced a great access of maternal affection after the mill was sold up and all her silver and china and beds and wardrobes and chairs were gone, for, as George Eliot satirically explained, nothing else seemed left to her. The religion which taught men to worship their household gods is not dead yet. Is home the home of one's youth or of one's children's youth ? Neither definition will do, for no Englishman regards India as his home. He may be born there and married there, and his children may be born there, but he and his wife want to " go home " as soon as they lose their youth, and that even though their grown-up children are making their careers in India and are not likely to retire during their parents lifetime. We have heard it said that no house is ever a home till we have suffered in it We ourselves should be more inclined to say that no house is ever a home till we have been extraordinarily happy in it. The memory of happiness is, we think, the greatest of all ties to a place. Many women have an almost absurd love of the homes in which they now live alone, but which were once full of children. These children may still claim their deepest affection, but they are children no longer. They do not want to live with them as men and women, but with their memories as boys and girls,
Doctors no longer seem to recommend " native air" to their patients. It is a prescription which has gone out of fashion. Perhaps, like so many other things, it will have its turn of popm larity again. As we said above, many a man never feels until his last illness any wish to revisit the scenes of his childhood- The odd thing is that his eon may feel very strongly the call of the blood, and have something like a passion for the scenes among which his ancestors passed their lives. Atavism is very noticeable where this homing feeling is concerned. The almost ludicrous interest which SWIM men take in their forbears, the delight they find in gazing on their homes and tombs, has far more to do with this call of the blood than it has with snobbish- ness. A man may feel an extraordinary wish to "go back" to a " home " which he never saw, and may without any natural tendency to sentimentality experience a strong emotion which has something analogous in it to the recognition of the long familiar when he sees for the first time " the place we all came from."
If, however, we cannot say exactly what home means, we can say what it does not mean, and it is sal to see the word prostituted. In some contexts is it not synonymous with "institution" ? " We must try to get the poor little orphan child into a home," we say, adding probably that she will have a dreary life, but there is nothing else to be done with her. We any also that some one has gone to a "nursing home," where we hope he will not suffer too much and may come out alive. We wish to goodness that some excessively disagreeable elderly person with nothing to do could be " placed in a home," so that somebody else's real home might be no longer spoiled by him or her. We advise our neighbour not to take a maid- servantfrom a home, as "she will show no interest in anything." Such " homes" should be called " Pro-homes," like Pro-Cathe- drals. In this modern sense the word is in danger of losing its vague but glowing meaning, and coming to mean something not as warm as the hearth but—we can only describe it by making use of another debased term—as cold as charity.
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