ing. Happy he
who can make of tapestries the _raison d'etre_ for a few months'
loitering in Europe, and can ravish the eye and intoxicate the
imagination with the storied cloths found hanging in England, in
France, in Spain, in Italy, in Sweden, and learn from them the
fascinating tales of other men's lives in other men's times.

Then, when the tour is finished and a modest tapestry is hung at home,
it represents to its instructed owner the concentrated tale of all he
has seen and learned. In the weave he sees the ancient craftsman
sitting at his loom. In the pattern is the drawing of the artist of
the day, in the colours, the dyes most rare and costly; in the metal,
the gold and silver of a duke or prince; and in the tale told by the
figures he reads a romance of chivalry or history, which has the
glamour given by the haze of distant time to human action.

To enter a house where tapestries abound, is to feel oneself welcomed
even before the host appears. The bending verdure invites, the
animated figures welcome, and at once the atmosphere of elegance and
cordiality envelopes the happy visitor.

To live in a house abundantly hung with old tapestries, to live there
day by day, makes of labour a pleasure and of leisure a delight. It is
no small satisfaction in our work-a-day life to live amidst beauty, to
be sure that every time the eyes are raised from the labour of writing
or sewing--or of bridge whist, if you like--they encounter something
worthy and lovely. In the big living-room of the home, when the hours
come in which the family gathers, on a rainy morning, or on any
afternoon when the shadows grow grim outside and the afternoon
tea-tray is brought in whispering its discreet tune of friendly
communion, the tapestries on the walls seem to gather closer, to
enfold in loving embrace the sheltered group, to promise protection
and to augment brotherly love.

In the dining-room the glorious company assembles, so that he who eats
therein, attends a feast on Olympus, even though the dyspeptic's fast
be his lot. If the eyes gaze on Coypel's gracious ladies, under fruit
and roses, with adolescent gods adoring, what matters if the palate is
chastised? In a dining-room soft-hung with piquant scenes, even
buttermilk and dog-biscuit, burnt canvasback and cold Burgundy lose
half their bitterness.

When night is well started in its flight, perhaps one only, one lover
of the silence and the solitude, loath to give away to sof