SPARE ROOMS.
I think it is a most excellent plan to have the bedrooms on one floor of
a house furnished as much as possible alike; that is to say, if economy
be an object, and also if, as in several houses I know, the rooms open
out either on a square landing or into a corridor that leads past them
all.
Of course, the papers need not be alike, neither need they all have
cretonne dados; but the paint should harmonise, and so should the
wall-coverings, while the curtains and carpets should be identically the
same; as if one have to move, or the cretonnes shrink in the wash, and
the carpets become worn in patches, one thing can be made to supplement
the other, and so a large outlay to replace old things--always the most
worrying kind of outlay, I think--is avoided.
I have been constantly much entertained at seeing the shifts people have
been put to to prevent things wearing out, but perhaps quite the most
hideous thing seen in this way was a succession of extra bits of carpet
edged all round with woolly black fringe to simulate mats, which were
arranged on every spot on the carpet where especial wear could be
expected, and these monstrosities were carefully put by each side of the
bed, and in front of the looking-glass, washing-stand, and fireplace,
with an especial tiny dab by the door. The consequence was that, when
one was dressed for dinner in a long garment, all these mats were neatly
rolled up in different corners of the room, and not only looked hideous,
but were positively useless.
Now I see no use in preparing these species of save-alls in a room that
is not always in use. If a thing be worn, then cover it; but I can’t
bear anything to be covered over to be saved. Better let all fade
decently together, and do your patching out of a second carpet or a
second material that has already done duty in another room. It is
useless, I think, to cover handsome things; much better rub down the
gorgeousness and subdue the splendour altogether, for nothing looks
worse or, in my eyes, more atrociously vulgar than a room utterly unlike
one’s usual chamber, grandly prepared for the reception of ‘company.’
Once one’s acquaintances and friends are given satin chairs to sit on,
instead of the usual cretonne, they become bores to me at least, and,
unless they can be satisfied to see me as I always am, I would rather
they stayed away. There is always a stiffness and uncomfortableness in
any gathering to entertain which we have felt it necessary to uncover
our chairs.
In the same way let us in our upper chambers wear our things out
equally. Splashers have become almost unknown since the invention of the
high tiled-backed washing-stands, and so in another way mats have ceased
to exist because bath-rooms are now almost universal possessions, and as
most people--I will not say all--know how to behave themselves in one’s
house, there is no need even to put down the conventional square by the
washing-stand that really was necessary when a washing-stand was one’s
only chance of properly performing one’s ablutions.
Now most people have bath-rooms; but, if they have not, the bath can be
prepared in the same way in the bedroom as described in our last chapter
for the dressing-room.
I think every one who possibly can should possess something in the shape
of a spare room, although, as I remarked in one of my former chapters, I
have suffered so much from my visitors that I approach the subject
feeling as if I at least could not have very much sympathy with it. And
in no case will I advise any one to set apart for the use of the
occasional visitor one of the best rooms in the house, as is far too
often the case in those houses where the spare room should be either the
nursery itself or a room for some of the children of the house! I have
once or twice been literally so horrified at finding the room I should
have at once given for the children set apart for visitors as a matter
of course, and quite without a second thought, that I am compelled to
speak rather more emphatically, perhaps, on this subject than I
otherwise should do; but, after all, the house is the children’s home,
and for their sake I must beg attention from those who, as a matter of
course, take the best rooms themselves, the second and third best for
visitors, and then any rooms that may be over for the little ones,
keeping the worst of all for ‘the boys,’ as if boys were raging beasts,
to be put out of sight and hearing as far as ever the limits of the
house would allow. Whilst recognising that a spare room is a necessary
and pleasant thing, at once, so as to disarm criticism, I must ask my
kind, good readers to ponder for a moment on what putting aside the very
best room for one’s friends means in an ordinary building where there
are at the most three or four rooms on the floor above the ‘reception’
rooms, to use a house-agent’s term, which said term means a great deal
more than perhaps meets the eye at first.
It means keeping empty, perhaps, three parts of the year the brightest
and most cheerful apartments, and it means relegating the children to
inferior rooms, which, with a little taste and common-sense, can be made
pretty, comfortable, and charming for your friends, who come presumably
to see you, and not to spend the best part of their time in their
bedrooms, for if they do they may just as well have stopped at home.
Now there is a great deal, to my mind, that can be written about the
ethics of visiting that insensibly calls for attention, when we ponder
over that problem of a spare room, and that may perhaps not be out of
place, so I dwell for a few moments upon them before going into the
decorative details of this particular chamber. One of the latest fads of
social life is to do away with introductions at parties, and another is
to ask people to stay with us, and, from the moment they enter our doors
to the moment they leave them, to go on with our own occupations and
engagements, exactly as if we had no friends staying with us; or rather
as if we kept an hotel, and the comings in and goings out of our guests
had no more to do with us than have those of the people staying in an
inn to the people who keep it.
Perhaps the position and the luxurious comfort of the chamber prepared
for their reception--half sitting-room, half bedroom as it is--suggests
to the guest more than it is meant to do, and therefore should be
altered before hospitality has ceased from the face of the earth and
become a mere empty mockery.
I have often enough seen all sorts and descriptions of ideas for writing
tables and other conveniences in a spare room, but of this I will have
none; if I ask people to come and see me I want them to be with me, and
not in their own rooms half the time; and letters can surely be written
either in my company, or in the dining-room, should I be occupied in my
own sanctum: while work of all sorts can be brought down after
breakfast, when the members of the male sex have gone off to business,
and there need be no reason for secluding oneself in one’s bedroom to do
one’s mending.
I maintain that guests staying in one’s house should be treated to what
servants call company manners, and that we should make a difference for
them, and try and make their visits pleasant to them, considering that
they have come to us for a holiday; that leaving them to themselves, and
going our own way while they go theirs, is distinctly averse to all the
laws of old-fashioned and true hospitality; and that by making the spare
room into a species of boudoir we appear to hint to them that we do not
want them with us, except after dinner or for the afternoon drive, or
really on any occasion when we can possibly do without them.
I should take as nice a room as I could for my guests after my
children’s convenience has been thought of--I like mine as near me as
possible, and if possible on the same floor, with a schoolroom upstairs,
a most invaluable possession in childish ailments, when change of room
is wanted without any risks of draughts run by going downstairs--and
though, of course, our proverbial bride and bridegroom will not have to
think of all this for some years to come, I find I have had so many
readers beside the bride for whom I meant to write this book that I
cannot help being a little discursive for their sakes, the while I beg
Angelina not to take the best room in the house for her guests, because
she will hesitate so very much more, if she does, over dismantling the
pretty room when the ‘king comes’ to his kingdom, and Miss or Master
Baby arrives to rule the household with an iron rod.
Some of the charming painted suites of furniture are as nice as anything
for the spare room, and take a great deal of raiment, and I strongly
advise Angelina always to ask her guests if the boxes may be removed
from the room. As soon as they are unpacked they can be put in the
box-room until required, even if the visit is only for a few days, for a
dirty travelling trunk can do a great deal of mischief, and, if put
against the wall, has often enough ruined the paper, and dug holes in
the plaster by being continually opened and shut as things were taken in
and out. The paper and paint of the spare room should be a matter for
great and careful consideration, too, and here I very strongly advise a
dado of some kind or other. I always advise a dado in a bedroom of
cretonne or matting, however the bed is placed, as nothing saves the
walls so long from the tender mercies of the housemaid, and so keeps the
room looking nice.
I heard of a bedroom in the country the other day that seemed to me the
very ideal bedroom for a guest. The paint was white, and the paper was
the very faintest possible shade of eau-de-Nil. There was a dado of
eau-de-Nil and white chintz, with, I believe, a pattern of
lilies-of-the-valley on, and the curtains were of the same. The bed had
an eider-down quilt in green silk--rather extravagant this--and the
furniture was all in white wood, with green and white mats &c. about.
The effect in summer was simply perfect. I am, however, afraid in
winter the effect would be too cold; but to be equally pleasant then,
however, the cold effect could be obviated by putting pink cretonne
curtains instead of the green chintz, and putting pink mats and a pink
cover to the eider-down; but the pink must be very carefully chosen, and
be either very faint or else almost terra-cotta, or it would look
tawdry, I am sure.
The eider-down should always have a cover made of cretonne, like that
used for the curtains, or else of a contrasting hue. The usual cover for
an eider-down in turkey red would spoil any room, and as a motive of
economy, if not of beauty, an extra cover is a very good thing; it makes
the eider-down wear twice as long, and is able to be washed, a great
advantage to anything that has to do with a bed.
There should always be four pillows and four or five good blankets to
the spare-room bed, three pairs of sheets, the top one edged with Cash’s
patent frilling two inches wide, and a large red monogram on the centre
of the top sheet, and at least twelve pillow-cases, with four extra ones
frilled, and with monograms in the centre, which should be removed at
bedtime and folded up. The counterpane should be a honeycomb one, with a
deep fringe all round, and these are the only counterpanes that should
be bought for real use. They always look very much better than any
others, and look as well after they are washed as they do before. A
Madras muslin quilt thrown over the bed in summer looks very nice; in
winter the eider-down is all that is required, though I dare say I shall
shock my readers by telling them that I never put away my eider-downs
anywhere through the house in summer. I rarely find it warm enough at
night, sleeping as I do with my windows open, to do without them.
If we can only afford one spare room, that room should have a double bed
in, as often married folk would like to come to us for a night or two,
and I have found it very awkward myself, never being able to take in any
one, save a girl or a young man, because I personally have in my present
house no such accommodation, and a small room does not matter for one
night, if the bed be comfortable and large enough.
Maple’s brass or black and brass bedsteads and ‘Excelsior’ mattresses
are the most inexpensive bedsteads I know; a brass one should be chosen
if one can afford this possibly, but a very nice black and brass one can
be bought for 2_l._ 5_s._; mattress (‘Excelsior’) at 2_l._ 9_s._; hair
mattress at 3_l._ 10_s._; bolster at 17_s._ 6_d._, and good pillows at
5_s._ each. A room can be nicely and entirely furnished for 34_l._ 9_s._
8_d._ in good furniture that will wear, though, of course, cheaper and
less reliable furniture may be purchased. I actually hear that at
Cardiff excellent suites of furniture in walnut can be bought for
12_l._, but I must believe these are simply veneered, and will fall to
pieces at the least move or the smallest amount possible of wear and
tear. There is no doubt that a great deal of thought has to be expended
on a spare room, but there is not the smallest doubt that it ought to
look as nice without (please forgive me for being insistent on this)
suggesting a sitting-room, that our guests should feel at home in it at
once. A flowery paper, like the old-fashioned chintzes, is bright and
pleasant, but must not be too scrawly, or it will not be nice should
sickness overtake our guest; but it should be lively and charming, and
suggestive of pleasant thoughts, and then I am sure we shall be repaid
by hearing our friends exclaim, ‘Oh, what a sweet room! Why, I feel
rested already.’
And now let me whisper one or two little sentences in Angelina’s ear,
suggested by what I have let slip above about possible sickness
overtaking a guest, for very few people ever contemplate this side of
the guest-chamber question.
It may be terribly bad for such a thing to happen in our new sweet room,
but, however horrid it is for us, let us all recollect it is just one
thousand times worse for the unfortunate ‘sick and ill,’ as the children
say; for, in addition to his or her own pain and sufferings, he has the
mental agony of knowing he has committed the one unpardonable sin, and
that he has dared to fall sick in some one else’s house, that he is some
miles from his own doctor (and who believes, I should like to know, in
any one’s doctor except one’s very own?), and that servants, hostess,
and host are all vowing vengeance on him for his untoward behaviour.
But it is on such occasions as this that the hostess rises to the
occasion, shows her real self, and demonstrates the true lengths to
which a hospitable soul will go. She laughs his apologies to scorn,
declares she loves nursing, and so manages that the convalescent blesses
the hour when he fell ill under such tender handling, and in consequence
improves twice as soon as he otherwise would have done, had he fretted
and worried over the bother he was giving, and had he been shown plainly
he was as great a nuisance as he undoubtedly is.
I am not writing on this subject ‘without book,’ as the saying is.
Naturally we should all exclaim indignantly, We should all do our very
best for any one who falls ill under our care; and you, most of you,
smile at me, doubtless, for daring to insinuate you would not; but I
know cases where, especially to relatives, the hostess’s conduct was so
chillingly all it ought to be, so freezingly polite, so intent on
perpetually telling the unfortunate he was no trouble at all, in a
martyr’s voice, that disclosed all her words sought to conceal, that I
must be forgiven if I say it needs real Christian charity, and the heart
and temper of a saint, to show real hospitality when sickness happens;
and it will not do any harm for any of us to contemplate circumstances
in which we may all of us some day be placed.
One other special thing to remember as regards the spare room is that it
must always be in such order that, if necessary, it can be ready for
occupation in half an hour. I knew a most excellent housekeeper who,
scarcely before the last box of her friend had been carried downstairs,
had put her room into ‘curl-papers’ as it were, carefully banishing
everything from the light of day until such times as it was necessary to
prepare the chamber once more, with much ceremony, for a new-comer.
Now I much object to this sort of thing. When I have brought a pleasant
visit to an end in a friend’s house, it gives me a positive pang to see
the pillows bereft of their cases and the bed of its sheets, and all
covered over with a species of holland pinafore. I hate to see the
toilet-covers taken off and folded up; and though this may be done when
I am not there to see, it gives me such an unpleasant feeling that I
never have the courage to put my spare room to bed; a room shrouded,
gloomy, and unoccupied in a house always seeming to me like the
unpleasant corpse of bygone pleasure, and as such to be strenuously
avoided.
Then another reason, besides the mere sentimental one of disliking to
see that one’s visit is really over and done with, is that such a
dismantling of the room often puts it out of one’s power to entertain a
sudden or unexpected guest, who comes down perhaps to dinner, and would
be glad to spend the night, that may have turned out wet or cold, or
that pleasantest of all pleasant visits, the Saturday to Monday sojourn,
becomes impossible too, for it is not worth while to get the room ready
for such a short time, when so much of Saturday would be taken up in
airing the beds, and unpinning and putting up curtains, and shaking out
toilet-covers, &c.
Now if the room be always straight, and requires nothing but the sheets
on the bed, there is no trouble in the matter, and we are neither
flurried ourselves nor allow our guests to be uncomfortably conscious
that their arrival has made any difference to our domestic arrangements
at all. I am quite sure, too, that it is a most excellent thing for most
people to have some one staying in the house with them occasionally;
much, secretly, as I dislike it myself, excusing myself to myself for my
boorishness by saying my work prevents me being really able to entertain
my visitors, still I never part with a guest without quite as secretly
acknowledging that it has done us all an immense amount of good to be
shaken out of our grooves--ay, even if our own special chair has been
taken, and the newspapers read and the magazines cut before I have
looked at them, another fad of mine, for, _entre nous_, nothing tries my
otherwise angelic temper more than for some one to read out choice bits
of news before I have seen them myself, or to read all the magazines
before I have carefully gone over them, peeping at the pictures, and
reading here and there a scrap, before settling down to them regularly
one after the other.
One cannot help recognising these evil habits even in one’s own self,
and knowing that nothing makes a person more selfish, and therefore more
unendurable, than to have no one to interfere with one’s puerile little
fancies and equally puerile little rules and regulations! In a small
household rules and regulations that touch the servants, of course, must
be simply ‘Median and Persian,’ or the house would never get along at
all; but it puts no one out except ourselves, should we have to take the
left side of the fireplace instead of the right, and it does us more
good than I can say to have to control our small irritations at having
our routine of life broken into, and to be shown that the world will not
stop if we do go out in the morning instead of the afternoon, and that
nothing appalling will happen should we be obliged to talk at breakfast,
instead of, as usual, burying ourselves in our letters and our papers
generally.
A constant supply of guests for the night, or on the Saturday-to-Monday
principle, insures a constant change in our ideas and thoughts, and does
away with that ‘Englishman’s house is his castle’ notion that is so very
pernicious, and that puts a stop to so much inexpensive and common-sense
hospitality; while a new, cheerful face at the dinner-table relieves the
strain of domesticity between husband and wife, and often insures a game
of chess, or music, instead of the books and silence which would
otherwise, perhaps, have been the order of the day.
Another thing also to recollect about the spare room, too, is, not to
get into the habit of using the shelves and drawers in the wardrobe as a
species of store-place. I know nothing more enraging than to be shown
into a charming-looking room, with a beautiful great cupboard, and a
gallant chest of drawers, that seem to promise us ample breathing-room
for one’s things, and to discover half the space we were so very
gleefully looking forward to appropriating is already taken up by all
sorts and conditions of household plenishing, or of last year’s
garments, or even the garments of the year before. I remember quite well
once having such a receptacle turned out for me; and I saw carried away,
the hostess’s wedding dress and veil of some ten years back, all the
long clothes and short clothes of the babies, small and great, several
venerable opera-cloaks and fans, and, finally, a store of old linen put
by against emergencies. You can all of you imagine what I endured. Not
that I should have asked for this to be done, by the way, but the maid
came in to take my boxes, and I was obliged to say I could not part with
them, because if I did I should have nowhere to put my belongings. Of
course this insured the shelves being cleared, with the uncomfortable
result to me described above. I never dared ask what had become of all I
had turned out, but I cut my visit short and went on somewhere else, I
felt so unhappy at thinking of all the unfortunate garments bereft of
their usual resting-place.
The spare room should be a cheerful, flowery-looking room, as, indeed,
should all bedrooms if possible, and, if a sofa cannot be squeezed in,
one of Maple’s charming sofa-ottomans should be put there, and also an
arm-chair and small table for books &c., for one’s guests sometimes have
headaches, and, especially if we live in town and have up our country
cousins, require occasionally half an hour’s rest after a long day’s
sight-seeing; or after the drive in the sleepy country air, if the cases
are reversed, and we, in our turn, are country cousins entertaining our
London friends with our own special sights and sounds.
No matter where the house is situated, every bedroom window should open
at the top. This in London obviates a great many blacks flying in, as
they do when the sash is thrown wide open at the bottom; an inch at the
top seems to do more good than a yard anywhere else, and in the country
prevents the deluges and spoiled paint and carpets caused by a sudden
storm in the night, or, indeed, in the daytime, when the open window
allows the tempest to enter bodily, as it were--unrecognised in the
night, of course, unless one is awakened by any specially violent gust;
and unseen by the housemaid in the day, who, whoever she may be, never
seems to remember that such weather means that the windows should be
immediately closed.
Every single thing belonging to the spare room should be religiously
kept for its own use: the brass can for hot water, the palm-leaf
soiled-linen basket, the little black cupboard for boots, which also
serves as a table, the pin-trays, and the pincushion--all should never
be allowed to stray away, and matches in a box nailed to the wall should
also never be forgotten any more than the candles in their fixed stands,
and the various little ornaments upon the mantelpiece, which should
include a very regularly wound and most trustworthy clock.
If possible, I should have some pretty framed photographs on the wall,
and, above all, a small bookcase, with a cupboard below for medicine and
toilet bottles. I cannot bear the look of bottles standing about, and,
besides that, medicine bottles are apt to be put down after the medicine
is poured out, and sundry drops run down, and a sticky ring is left on
the new toilet-cover as a reminder of one’s guest, which is not as nice
as one could wish. The medicine cupboard conveys a hint the most obtuse
must take, and, as they only cost about 6_s._ 9_d._, are within the
reach of almost every one. A few judiciously chosen amusing novels and
good poetry can well be spared for the spare room, and often are of
considerable service to guests who may not go about provided with their
own literature. Reading often will lure back sleep, or pass away an hour
profitably; and should we breakfast later or go to bed earlier than our
guest is accustomed to at home, he takes a book and forgets he is
waiting, and blesses instead of ‘cusses’ the difference in our household
routine.
It seems to me even now that I have not said half as much on the mere
relation of guest to host and hostess as I could have done, though I
have hardly yet mentioned the word ‘furniture,’ so a few more hints may
be dropped here. Never should any one be allowed to come to stay without
the hostess herself seeing that a new nice square of soap is in the
newly-washed soap-dish; that the towels are folded right, the water
fresh and pure in the ewer, and also in the artistic jug, bought, if she
be wise, at Douglas’s, in Piccadilly, in tints to match the ewer; and
making sure all is perfectly clean and in order. A small glass of
flowers should stand on the toilet-table as a special greeting to one’s
friend, and all should suggest that personal thought and care has been
given to the special shrine set apart for his or her reception.
I wonder who ever forgets their first visit from home, or who can cease
to remember the sense of importance given to us, who once were brides,
when our first guest arrived to stay with us, and inspect our new home,
which we were then perfectly convinced was far prettier, neater,
brighter, and more redolent of love and perfection than any place had
ever been before, or could possibly be in the future. Ah! thank Heaven
for memory! _Tout lasse, tout passe, tout casse_, but memory never dies;
and if we in our first start in life have charming surroundings and
pleasant homes, even if they only are of the simplest nature, as long as
we live they are ours, and none can ever take them away from us.
Then another thing in the spare room to be particularly looked to is the
arrangement for lighting it. Here gas is a _sine quâ non_. Candles are
most dangerous; a careless guest drops the grease about, or maids cannot
resist taking them about too, and more harm is done by candles in a
house than almost anything else. At the same time, if gas be not laid on
anywhere, the useful brass fixed brackets for candles are necessary; but
they should be fixed one or two above the looking-glass, one above the
bed, and one above the washing-stand, all the candles guarded by glass
shields, and none loose, able to be carried about in a careless or
heedless way. If there be no gas, a nightlight should always be
provided, with a bracket for its reception, for there are some people
who cannot sleep without a light, and nothing is so disagreeable as to
have to ask for these little things, and to find that by making such a
request we have upset the whole house; though, if a guest be
thoughtful, and has these little fads, she should take nightlights &c.
about with her. A quite model guest of mine the other day arrived with
her own hot-water bottle. Could thoughtfulness go further than this?
If gas be in the house, there should always be a bracket as near the bed
as possible. It cannot hurt any one to read in bed if there be no danger
of setting the house on fire; and I am so fond of this pernicious habit,
and feel so unhappy myself if I cannot indulge in it, that I always, if
possible, make provision for my guests to read too, if they are ‘so
minded,’ as the people in Dorsetshire always say.
So, before I describe one or two other arrangements of colours that
might be tried in the spare room, I may mention two things that should
never be lacking there. One is a clock; the other a list of the hours of
the household and the postal arrangements--two things that will go some
way to insure punctuality.
I could at once sit down and write a chapter all to itself on the
inestimable blessings of punctuality, and the extreme rudeness of being
unpunctual in the house of a friend.
In a small, or indeed in any ordinary, house, unpunctuality means
disorder and waste of time, and, in consequence, of money. It means loss
of temper both for mistress and servants, and it means throwing out all
the little rules and routine on which so much depends. If a clock be
provided in the spare room the two pet excuses, ‘Oh! I forgot to wind my
watch,’ or ‘My watch lost an hour in the night,’ are done away with;
while the hours of breakfast &c. contain a hint that cannot well be lost
on the most obtuse person possible.
What does being late for breakfast mean? Let all lie-a-beds think over
that problem, and if they cannot solve it for themselves, if they apply
to me I will do so for them.
After all is said and done, I think blue and some shades of green (not
arsenical shades--pray remember that) are the most restful colours for
bedrooms, though terra-cotta can be used to great advantage in rooms
where there is not much sun, and, while I like ivory paint if
judiciously used with a brilliant paper, I cannot imagine anything more
wretched than the little white bedroom old-time heroines used to rush up
to, and cast themselves down in, when their lovers proved faithless and
they wished to be alone. Nothing is colder-looking and more _un_restful
than white, and I do not like for a bedroom these white-enamelled suites
of furniture that one can buy. I much prefer them enamelled turquoise
blue. Nothing is so pretty as this for a spare room, or the room set
apart for the daughter of the house, except, of course, good ash
furniture with brass fittings. This I should always have, were I able to
afford it, in all my rooms, for I do not, and never shall, like dark
woods or dark furniture in a bedroom, or indeed, as far as that goes, in
any room, but a really good light wood is always pleasant to look at,
and in consequence is to be preferred to enamelled furniture, which
shines terribly somehow, and rather annoys me on the whole. I am now
speaking about bedroom furniture not about drawing-room furniture, where
the enamelled chairs and cabinets look charming and are all that they
ought to be, but simply of the bedroom furniture I would have if one
could afford it; but if one cannot afford really beautiful wood, I then
much prefer to paint the things a charming colour, than to see common
wood or the grained and stained horrors one used to be obliged to put up
with, before Aspinall’s came to our aid and suggested blue or white,
instead of the yellow streaks that were our portion in those unhappy
days.
Now here is, I consider, one of the prettiest rooms I have yet succeeded
in doing. It has Maple’s floral paper, a design that is just as pretty
as ever it can be; the paint is all cream-coloured and ‘flatted,’ so
that it washes just as a boarded floor does; there is a red and white
matting dado, a dado rail painted cream-colour, and the cretonne, also
Maple’s, at 1_s._ 4½_d._ a yard, almost matches the paper, and looks
really charming. The floral paper has a sort of flowery scroll all over
it, and at first I was rather afraid it would turn out to be fidgety. I
feared the flowers would run after each other over the walls, and refuse
to be peaceable and quiet, but they are just what they ought to be, and
never seem to move at all, while the cheerful effect of the blues, reds,
and creams, that appear to make up the design without interfering with
each other in the least, is really wonderful. I have had the ceiling
papered with a very pretty blue and white paper, and on the walls I have
a great many pictures, and have surrounded the dark over-mantel with
Japanese fans and brackets, while the stove and mantelpiece came from
Mr. Shuffery, and are, in consequence, all that they ought to be.
I have matting and rugs about the floor, and have light ash furniture,
which I think looks better in a bedroom than anything else, and is to be
preferred to all enamelled or painted suites, on which I fall back as a
_pis aller_, when I cannot afford really good light wood, as I remarked
before.
This would make a charming room for the best spare room, particularly if
quilt and toilet-cover and pincushion box were covered with Russian
embroideries in red and blue; in this case, the towels and sheets and
pillow-cases should be worked with red and blue monograms too; in all
cases should the towels be worked to match the pillow-cases. This does
not take long, and at once gives an air of culture that nothing else
does.
Perhaps a few words on the subject of a spare room set apart for
bachelors would not be out of place; for young men, as a rule, are so
careless that they require special legislating for. A quite charming and
very cheap room can be made by using a delightful little blue and white
paper sold by Messrs. Chappell and Payne, 11 Queen Street, Cheapside, at
10½_d._ a piece--it is 1,044; with this a dado of the willow-pattern
cretonne could be used, and the paint could be all cream, or the
grey-blue of the paper; the ceiling should be terra-cotta, and the floor
should be stained, and some dhurries put about; the curtains could be
dhurries too, or else terra-cotta ‘Queen Anne’ cretonne, sold by
Burnett, and the furniture simply enamelled grey or terra-cotta. The
hours of the household should be prominently displayed over the
mantelpiece, while the gas should be placed near the bed to allow of
reading, and no candles allowed, else may we run the risk of being
burned in our beds; one of Drew’s handy little 1_s._ 6_d._ lamps with
shades being quite enough light should anything be forgotten downstairs,
and it should be thought necessary to keep a light in a room, that we
can carry about. Candles do an immense amount of damage, and are very
costly: two excellent reasons why we should impress upon ourselves and
our readers never to use them unless we cannot positively avoid doing
so.