But the brown Rookwood will overshadow the Copenhagen, and the multicolored Cloisonné will kill the Iris, and so each piece must have a congenial companion if any. And above all, don't crowd! Bric-a-brac needs breathing room, and individual beauty is lost in the jumbling together of many pieces in a heterogeneous maze of color, which confuses and wearies the eye. All the fine-art product asks is to be let alone—a small boon to grant to so great worth.
"Tip-overable" flower holders defeat their own ends—utility—but there are many which are well balanced and beautiful, too: tall, wide-mouthed cut, Bohemian, or more simple glass for long-stemmed roses, carnations, or daisies; brown Van Briggle, Grueby, or Rookwood bowls for nasturtiums, golden rod, and black-eyed Susans; green for hollyhocks, dull red for dahlias, gladioli, etc., flowers and receptacles thus forming a true color symphony.
Parian and Carrara marble, immortally beautiful, we can but gaze at from afar, but masterpieces of the sculptor's chisel are ours at small cost in ivory-tinted plaster reproductions of the Venus de Milo, the Winged Victory, busts and medallions of famous personages, etc., which may with truth be called "art for art's sake."
Dining-room bric-a-brac generally consists of whatever occupies the plate rail—an interesting array of plates, pitchers, bowls, jars, cups and saucers, steins, cider mugs, and tankards. And here our cherished ancestral china finds a safe haven from which it surveys its young, modern descendants with benignant toleration.
BOOKS
A spirit of friendliness and companionship radiates from a good book—a geniality to be not only felt, but cultivated and enjoyed. The friendship of man is sometimes short-lived and evanescent, but the friendship of books abideth ever. Paraphrasing "Thanatopsis":
"For our gayer hours
They have a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and they glide
Into our darker musings, with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness, ere we are aware."
Truly, a book for every mood, and a mood for every book,
THEIR SELECTION
The true measure of a book is not "How well does it entertain," but "How much help does it give in the daily struggle to overcome the bad with the good," and as one makes friends with muscle-giving authors the fancy for light-minded acquaintances among books gradually wears away. Although different tastes require special gratification in certain directions, yet some few books must have place in every well-balanced library. First always, the Bible, with concordance complete for study purposes, a set of Shakespeare in small, easily handled volumes, a set of encyclopaedias, and a standard dictionary. Then some of the best known poets—Milton, Spenser, Pope, Goldsmith, Burns, Wordsworth, Keats, Shelley, the Brownings, Byron, Homer, Dante, etc., with Longfellow, Riley, and some others of our best-loved American poets—for though we may not care for poetry we cannot afford to deny ourselves its elevating influence; standard histories of our own and other countries; familiar letters of great men which also mirror their times—Horace Walpole, Lord Macaulay, etc.; essays of Bacon, Addison, DeQuincey, Lamb, Irving, Emerson, Lowell, and Holmes; and certain works of fiction which have stood the test of time and criticism, with Dickens and Thackeray heading the list. Indulgence in all the so-called "popular" novels of the day, like any other dissipation, profits nothing, and vitiates one's taste for good literature at the same time. Therefore, hold fast that which is known to be good in novels, with here and there just a little spice of recent fiction; for man cannot live by spice alone, which causes a sort of mental dyspepsia which is very hard to overcome.