Many an armchair have I mellowed in my time; leaning backwards in it until the obstinate back gives way, with a comfortable crash; grinding its sturdy legs firmly into the floor till the needless and inconvenient castors are wrenched off and roll happily away. The mere softening of the crudity of a piece of furniture by practice and experiment may, no doubt, be an advantage; and only the other day, when I had just mellowed a large sofa, and the servants were picking up the pieces, they were compelled to admit that I had taken away altogether that unhomely, shiny look as of something just come from a shop which had previously offended the eye. But while I am willing to give to any piece of furniture another and a bolder shape merely by sitting on it, there are limits to this disruptive process. There comes a point in the life of every chair when its owner should emphatically make up his mind whether he wishes to use the chair for a chair or to use the chair for firewood. Both courses are practical; nay, both are poetical. It may be even that the chair is more lovely when crowned with an aureole of ardent flames than when merely surmounted by a somewhat shapeless journalist. But a compromise between those two courses is emphatically to be discouraged. I strongly object to sitting on the most comfortable chair if three legs of it are being used for support, while one leg is being used for firewood.
— The Illustrated London News, 9 July 1910.