There Is No Place Exactly Like Home

I AM one of those unfortunate persons who have no eye for color. Indeed, I have never been able to understand in any way the particular merits or demerits of what is known among experts as a “ color scheme.” Neither have I the remotest conception of form. The shape of an object is all one to me, so long as it does not render me physically uncomfortable.

This, I am fully aware, — in view of the present renaissance of home decoration,— is a confession of appalling weakness. And yet I am even prepared to go still further and assert that the quality of woods, the disposition of furniture, the arrangement of bric-a-brac, and the historical spirit of the collector, are entirely outside of my ken. I have often amused myself, in glancing over the “ Home ” magazines, where the “ good mantelpiece ” and the “ bad mantelpiece” are printed side by side, by covering up the type and endeavoring to select the one I liked the better, and I have invariably hit upon the bad one.

Indeed, as long as I am confessing, I may as well make a clean sweep of the whole matter, and own up that I am for usefulness — and that awful, reprehensible thing: solid comfort.

In a spirit of reckless bravado and abandon, I once confided this to a married friend, at a moment when his wife was away and we were quite safe; and greatly to my surprise (after he had locked the door, and peeped through the blinds to see that no one was listening) he declared that he was in the same state with me. He proposed to me that we form a sort of secret organization, in which all the members should feel free to confess their ignorance; and no doubt the thing would have been done and have led to something, had not his wife suddenly come back, and put a stop to the whole proceeding. Afterwards, when we met, neither of us had the heart to broach the matter.

I cannot but believe, however, that there is something in the idea. I plume myself on the thought that there must be others as dull and ignorant as myself, poor, tired, overworked creatures, who have no other thought of home than an easy chair, a kindly light over one’s shoulder, a pipe that draws well, and a book within easy reach.

To these few I dare assert my views, in a sort of typographical whisper, telling them to take heart of hope, and that if at present our forces are scattered, at any moment a change may come and we may be able to present a determined front.

When it comes to a good and a bad mantelpiece, one is (in my humble opinion) about as bad as the other. So of color schemes and other arrangements. The truth is that any decoration is bad, and as hopeless as the word implies. The average house, indeed, is made to play the part of the fool. Built originally with but one object, — as a shelter, — it is now tricked out with all sorts of horrible devices. Its walls are decked with brass ornaments and blotches of color called oil paintings. Its windows are covered with filmy curtains that keep out the light and air. Glaring china closets vulgarly displaying rows of cut glass, antique sideboards (“ made in Michigan”), and stiff-back chairs, all help to add to its secret sense of shame.

For there are few homes, if they could but look at themselves in the mirror of Nature, but would blush to their roofs with mortification. Indeed —

But I cannot add more, as I have just received a message that it is housedeaning time, and I must hurry home, rehang pictures, beat the carpets, move all the furniture from one room into another, and oil up the Chippendales.