not go to them; they must needs go to it. The consequence was,
almost every room, like a philosophical system, was in itself an
entry, or passage-way to other rooms, and systems of rooms--a
whole suite of entries, in fact. Going through the house, you
seem to be forever going somewhere, and getting nowhere. It is
like losing one's self in the woods; round and round the chimney
you go, and if you arrive at all, it is just where you started,
and so you begin again, and again get nowhere. Indeed--though I
say it not in the way of faultfinding at all--never was there so
labyrinthine an abode. Guests will tarry with me several weeks
and every now and then, be anew astonished at some unforseen
apartment.

The puzzling nature of the mansion, resulting from the chimney,
is peculiarly noticeable in the dining-room, which has no less
than nine doors, opening in all directions, and into all sorts of
places. A stranger for the first time entering this dining-room,
and naturally taking no special heed at which door he entered,
will, upon rising to depart, commit the strangest blunders. Such,
for instance, as opening the first door that comes handy, and
finding himself stealing up-stairs by the back passage. Shutting
that he will proceed to another, and be aghast at the cellar
yawning at his feet. Trying a third, he surprises the housemaid
at her work. In the end, no more relying on his own unaided
efforts, he procures a trusty guide in some passing person, and
in good time successfully emerges. Perhaps as curious a blunder
as any, was that of a certain stylish young gentleman, a great
exquisite, in whose judicious eyes my daughter Anna had found
especial favor. He called upon the young lady one evening, and
found her alone in the dining-room at her needlework. He stayed