People do not move for the sake of moving, for the pleasure to be found in ripping up and putting down carpets, packing books and trunks, having mirrors smashed and paintings gashed and china destroyed and tables scarred, for the sake of going through all the trouble of hanging curtains, driving nails, directing labor, repairing damages, living in a world of dust, and taking the risks of soaking rains on all their household gods. There are pleasanter ways of spending one's time: smoking at the club, visiting one's friends, lying on a sofa and reading novels, counting one's money are all of them more cheerful and agreeable occupations ; and when they are put by for all the excitations of moving, it is only because there is reason, and people are flying from the ills they have to those they know not of. To those they know not of, we say, because they will no sooner be established in their new quarters, where all looked as if it might be made so comfortable, than they will find the world is hollow even there; and if the drains are not out of order, then the water-pipes are, or the heaters are, or the next neighbors are, or the attic is haunted, and there is a pea-hen somewhere.
 |
| On the wing. |
Of course those people would be very foolish who endured a wrong that they saw any way of righting, but they should be very sure it is going to be righted before they bring upon themselves all the calamities of moving, reduced to a science now though moving be.
But besides the breakage and ruin and irritation and fatigue, too frequent moving brings a worse effect to pass, for it has a tendency to uproot character, and make one like floating weed; there is no sense of stability, nor much of that recognition of social responsibility which it is desirable to have in order to be saved from the Bohemian, and which a more permanent resting-place of the Lares and Penates gives. There is a certain moral support in the walls that have surrounded us for any length of time, and that are known to have done so; we share their permanence and acquire their respectability; they fit us now, and the new ones are to be broken in.
In the annual march of which we are speaking there is too often the mere desire for change, and restless dissatisfaction with circumstances that will hardly be improved by such means. The surrounding walls are different, but the discontent has removed, too, and remains the same. To these cases we would recommend the old story of the farmer who, troubled by the persistent attentions of a ghost, packed his goods for another place, and on the way encountered an inquiring neighbor:
"What! you're flitting?"
"Yes, we're flitting," says the ghost (for they had packed the spectre among their beds).
"Oh, well," says the farmer, "you flitting with us, too? Jack, turn the horses' heads, and home again!"
Better than the moving, when the family has increased, and when the circumstances are sufficiently improved to warrant a house of twice the size, would be the total disregard of unfashionable neighborhood, and the purchase or hire of the next house, turning both into one. No matter whether the street be the most desirable or not, it is the spot where home is, the spot to which we wish the children's thoughts to return when absent, and it is better to enlarge, enrich and beautify that than to move into other houses so frequently that it is impossible for them to call any place home.
Back Forward
