the walls ran dwarf book-cases of carved
oak, filled with volumes bound in every soft shade of brown and tawny
leather, with only enough of red and green to save the shelves from
monotony. Above these the wall space was covered with Cordovan leather,
stamped with gold _fleurs-de-lis_ to within a yard of the top, where a
frieze of palm-leaves led up to a ceiling of blue and brown and gold.
The whole expression of the room was of warmth and good manners. The
furniture was of oak and stamped leather. The low book-cases were
covered with bronzes, casts, and figurines, of a quality so uniformly
good that none seemed to feel the temptation either to snub or to
cringe to its neighbor. The Owari pots felt no false shame beside the
royal Satsuma; and Barbedienne's bronzes, the vases of Limoges and
Lambeth and bowls from Nankin and Corea dwelt together in the harmony
of a varied perfection.

It was an octagon room, with windows on each side of the fire-place, in
which a fire of Ohio coal was leaping and crackling with a cheerful and
unctuous noisiness. Out of one window yon could see a pretty garden of
five or six acres behind the house, and out of the other a carefully
kept lawn, extending some hundred yards from the front door to the
gates of hammered iron which opened upon a wide-paved avenue. This
street was the glory of Buff-land, a young and thriving city on Lake
Erie, which already counted a population of over two hundred thousand
souls. The people of Clairfield, a rival town, denied that there was
anything like so many inhabitants, and added that "the less we say
about 'souls' the better." But this was pure malice; Buffland was a big
city. Its air was filled with the smoke and odors of vast and
successful trade, and its sky was reddened by night with the glare of
its furnaces, rising like the hot breath of some prostrate Titan,
conquered and bowed down by the pitiless cunning of men. Its people
were, as a rule, rich and honest, especially in this avenue of which I
have spoken. If you have ever met a Bufflander, you have heard of
Algonquin Avenue. He will stand in the Champs Elysees, when all the
vice and fashion of Europe are pouring down from the Place of the Star
in the refluent tide that flows from Boulogne Wood to Paris, and calmly
tell you that "Algonquin Avenue in the sleighing season can discount
this out of sight." Something is to be pardoned to the spirit of
liberty; and the avenue is certainly a fine one. It is