Be a House here ever so small, there’s always some Apartment in it uninhabited, which is the finest Part of the Building. ’Tis a Sanctuary whereof the upper Servant Maid of the House is the grand Priestess. She has so profound a Respect for this unfrequented Place that she never enters it without putting off her Shoes, for fear of soiling the Floor, which is held in so great Veneration that they pay it a Sort of Worship: ’Tis the Residence of the Houshold Gods, and one is sure of incurring the Indignation both of the Mistress and the Maids, if one does not shew the same Veneration to their Floor as they do. Whoever enters the House, must first rub their Feet upon a Mat at the Door, and be sure not to spit, were they in Danger of being choak’d, unless they find a little Basket of Sand laid there for the Purpose; and if a Person should but happen to drop the least Thing capable of spotting the Floor, I am not sure that the Priestesses would not sacrifice the Delinquent to their Idol, and that we should not see the Revival of the Story of _Orpheus_ and the _Bacchantes_. There are however some particular Days in the Year when the Priestesses give their Masters Leave to enter these Sanctuaries, and therein to receive Company; but the very next Day, this Place, which in the Language of the Country is called _Besse-Kamer_ (i. e. _the best Room_) is wash’d and purify’d, as our Churches are after they have been profaned. I don’t make Things a jot worse than they are in reality, and I am sure there are some Rooms that are not opened four times in a Year, unless it be to air the Goods. ’Tis the same with a thousand fine Things in the _Amsterdammers_ Possession, which they don’t make use of for fear of spoiling them: Thus they live in the midst of Abundance, and of Wealth, without the Hearts to enjoy what they have. Nevertheless, within these few Years past, they begin to have some Taste of Life: They give into Equipage, Furniture, and Rural Entertainments, and their Women into Dress and Splendor. The old Men exclaim against new Fashions, and say the Republic is in a declining State, in which they resemble one of our Emperors, who observing that his Master of the Horse had changed the Cord-Traces, which had been the Fashion of his Court, into Leather Traces, cry’d out, That _Luxury would be the Ruin of his Family, and his Government_.