farthest from the end he sought. The fine house requires that its
accessories should be in kind. All things within and without, the
approach, the grounds, the furniture, must be brought up to the same
pitch, and kept there. And when all is done, it is not done, but
forever demands retouching. What is got in this kind cannot be paid
for with money, nor finished once for all, but is a never-sated
absorbent of time, thought, life. And it attacks the owner, too; he
must conform, in his dress, his equipage, and his habits generally;
he must be as fine as his house. The nicer his taste the more any
incongruity will offend him, and the greater the danger of his
becoming more or less an appendage to his house.

Much of that chronic ailment of our society, the "trials of
housekeeping," is traceable to this source. This is a complicated
trouble, and probably other causes have their share in it. But we
cannot fail to recognize in these seemingly accidental obstructions
a stern, but beneficent adjustment of our circumstances to enforce a
simplicity which we should else neglect. One cannot greatly
deprecate the terrors of high rents and long bills, and the
sufferings from clumsy and careless domestics, if they help to keep
down senseless profusion and display.

Our problem is, in truth, one of greater difficulty than at first
appears. For we are each of us striving to do, by the skill and
forethought of one man, what naturally accomplishes itself in a
succession of generations and with the aid of circumstances. It is
from our freedom that the trouble arises. Were our society composed
of few classes, widely and permanently distinct, a fitting style for
each would naturally arise and become established and perfected.
There would be fewer occasions for new houses, and the new house