Patriae fumus igni alieno luculentior

Even the smoke of our own chimney shines brighter than the fire of a stranger's, for Home is home, though ever so homely. «Bos alienus subinde prospectat foras», the strange ox frequently looks to the door, ready to return to the home, whence he has been lately taken; and we know that dogs can scarcely, by any kindness, be prevented, from returning to the houses of their old masters. Chaque oiseau trouve son nid bien, the French say; and the Italians, Ad ogni uccello, il suo nido è bello, every bird prefers his own nest. As a comparatively small portion only of mankind can inhabit the temperate regions of the earth, or can acquire a larger portion of the goods of fortune, than are necessary for their subsistence, if this disposition to be contented with, and even to give a preference to our native soil, and our home, had not been implanted in us by Providence, the misery and distress, already so abundant in the world, would have been greatly increased. But we often carry this affection too far, and are thence led, not only to prefer our own possessions, as was noticed under the last adage, but to think too cheaply of, or even to despise those of our neighbours. This sort of prejudice is most seen in neighbouring countries, and cannot be better illustrated than by adverting to the contemptuous expressions used by the common people of this country when speaking of France, which, though one of the most fertile countries in the world, they seem to think that it scarcely produces sufficient for the sustenance of its inhabitants. This amor patriae is well described by Goldsmith in the following lines in his Traveller. «The shuddering tenant of the frigid zone, Boldly proclaims the happiest spot his own, Extols the treasures of his stormy seas, And his long night of revelry and ease. The naked savage panting at the line, Boasts of his golden sands, and palmy wine, Basks in the glare, or stems the tepid wave, And thanks his Gods for all the good they gave, Nor less the patriot's boast, where'er we roam, His first, best country ever is at home». The reader may not be displeased at seeing the following on the same subject. «Cling to your home, if there the meanest shed, Yield but a hearth and shelter to your head, And some poor plot, with fruitage scantly stored, Be all that Heaven allots you for your board; Unsavoured bread, and herbs that scattered grow, Wild on the river's brink, or mountain's brow; Yet e'en this cheerless mansion shall provide, More heart's repose, than all the world beside».