Privacy could not be maintained
in a house built for a family of five made to do duty for twelve, with one
bath-room, thin-walled bedrooms with connecting doors through which the
light streamed when one wished to sleep, and words frequently came not
intended for outsiders. Who that has experienced the two could ever think
the bachelor apartment with its neat bath-room and double-doored entrance
an objectionable feature in modern intellectual life? Ah! here is the key.
We are to-day living a life of the intellect far more than ever before,
and for that a certain amount of withdrawal from our fellow man is
needed, at least a withdrawal from that portion which finds its interest
in the affairs of others.
But if we eliminate the house itself, and the heavy furniture from the
"home" possessions, what have we left? The little girl was right: "My home
is where my dishes is." My _possessions_, whatever they are--the things I
can call my own under all circumstances make my home. These circumstances
change from time to time, but the ideal is there. As a concrete instance:
let us have books, not a lot of books, but books that are friends with
whom one may spend a comforting hour anywhere; books that have power to
charm away the gloom of discontent, books to lend gayety to festal days.
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