When it comes to a home, there is not a solitary dress-maker in the land, ensconced in her one little room with her geraniums, her canary, and her sewing-machine
, who cannot completely eclipse him, this being the result not of his sins, but of his sex.
Undoubtedly each reader will think, or try to think, of some exception to all this — some single man who is happy, some “jolly bachelor,” some cheerful widower.
No doubt there are those who can be happy, especially during the first half of life, without the sense of ]home.
A, with his wealth, and his paintings, and his yachts, and his delightful monologue; B, with his perpetual journeyings; C, with his six dogs; and our late Professor Sophocles
, with that family of hens which he tended, like a herdsman, with a long staff, and which he trained to take food from stakes placed upright in the ground instead of scratching in the flower-beds --all these may doubtless have found a bachelor life not inconsistent with happiness; but where, after all, is the home?
Neither yachts, nor pictures, nor steamer tickets, nor dogs, nor hens can supply that.
“Home,” says the proverb, “is where the heart is;” but if so, no man seems to have heart enough to fit out a home without a woman to help him. A woman can do it for herself: there lies her advantage.