street, I choose something in the
shop windows for my castle--an engraving at Williams & Everett's, a
mosaic or classic onyx at Jordan's, or a camel's hair--for a dressing
gown, of course at Hovey's. It really costs surprisingly little, and is
an agreeable exercise of taste and judgment. It is likewise an exercise
of benevolence. I select as many things for my guests as I do for
myself. My castle is never too full. Little by little my tastes change;
and little by little, I let most of my old treasures go to make room for
new ones.

But certain principles always prevail in my selections. For instance, as
my particular friend, the Reverend George Herbert, remarked, as he
looked about him on one of his visits to my castle: 'Sober handsomeness
doth bear the bell.' I cannot admit anything gaudy, needlessly exotic,
or impertinently obtruding the idea of dollars. Now a travelled lady,
who had heard of my castle, once offered me for it a buhl cabinet, of
angry and alarming redness and a huge idol of a gilded trough, standing
on bandy legs, and gorged with artificial flowers. And I thanked her for
her kind intentions, ordered a handcart, sent the lumber to auction, and
applied the proceeds to the benefit of the insane.

Tapestry, however, clever bronzes, sheathed daggers from Hassam's with
beetles crawling on the hilts, and illuminated, brazen-clasped old
tomes abound at my castle. They come to me one by one, each bringing
with it its separate pleasure. I have no fancy for buying up, at one
fell swoop, the whole establishment of some bankrupt banker or
_confiscated_ Russian nobleman. Instead of slipping at once, like a
dishonest hermit-crab, into the whole investment of somebody else, I
rather choose to come by my own, as I suppose other more happily
constituted shell-fish do, by gradual and individual accretion or
secretion.

My winter parlor looks down Beacon street. It is lofty, like all the
rest of my apartments, but otherwise small and snug. The floor is of a
dark wood, polished to the utmost. The great wood-fire loves to wink at
its own glowing face mirrored in this floor; and, when alone, I often
skate upon it. But as I do not wish to see my less sure-footed friends
disposed about it in writhing attitudes expressive of agony and broken
bones, I usually keep it covered, up to a yard's breadth from the
dark-carved wainscot, with a velvety carpet, which was woven for me at
Wilton, and represents the casting scene in the '