with what an Englishman with one-tenth of his income would deem the barest necessaries.  The Australian Croesus is generally very little of a snob, though often his ‘lady’ has a taste for display.  When this desire for grandeur has led them to furnish expensively, they are unable to furnish prettily, and usually feel much less comfortable in their drawing-room, in which they never set foot except when there is company—­than when their chairs and tables were made by a working carpenter or with their own hands out of a few deal boards.

One or two millionaires have had upholsterers out from Gillow’s and Jackson and Graham’s to furnish their houses in the latest and most correct fashion, and many colonists who go on a trip to England bring back with them drawing and dining room suites; but even then there is an entire want of individuality about the Australian’s house—­which is the more remarkable seeing how much his individuality has been brought out by his career, and shows itself in his general actions and opinions.  He may know how to dogmatize on theology and politics, but when he gets down to furniture he confesses that his eye is out of focus.  The furniture imported or (in Melbourne) made by the large upholsterers is, with few exceptions, more gorgeous than pretty; whence one may reasonably infer that the taste of their customers—­when they have any—­is better suited by the grandiose than the artistic.  But most of the expensively furnished houses show plainly that the upholsterer has been given carte blanche to do what he will.  Look at his shop-window, and you may make a shrewd guess at his customer’s drawing-room.

Nor is the furniture universal in Australia, as one would naturally suppose, after the style of that in Italy and the South of France.  The frowsy carpets and heavy solid chairs of England’s cold and foggy climate reign supreme beneath the Austral sun.  The Exhibitions have done something towards reforming our domestic interiors, but it will be a long time before the renaissance of art as applied to households, which appears to be taking place in England, makes its way here in any considerable force.

But instead of generalizing, it is time we should go through Muttonwool’s house room by room.  On entering the drawing-room the first thing that strikes the eye is the carpet, with a stiff set pattern large enough to knock you down, and of a rich gaudy colour.  You raise your eyes—­find opposite them the regulation white marble mantelpiece, more or less carved, and a gilt mirror, which we will hope is not protected from the flies by green netting.  Having made a grimace, you sit down upon one of the chairs.  There are nine in the room besides the sofa—­perhaps an ottoman—­and you can take your choice between the ‘gent’s’ armchair, the lady’s low-chair, and the six high ones.  If they are not in their night-shirts you can examine the covering—­usually satin or perhaps cretonne.  The pattern is unique, being, I should think, specially manufactured for the colonial market.  Bright hues prevail.  Occasional chairs have only lately been introduced, and the whole suite is in unison, though harmony with the carpet has been overlooked, or rather never thought of, the two things having been chosen separately, and without any idea that it would be an improvement if they were to match.