ndows into which the sun can shine cheerily; a few good
books (and who need be without a few good books in these days of
universal cheapness?)--no duns at the door, and the cupboard well
supplied, and with a flower in your room! There is none so poor as not
to have about him these elements of pleasure.

But why not, besides the beauty of Nature, have a taste for the beauty
of Art? Why not hang up a picture in the room? Ingenious methods have
been discovered--some of them quite recently--for almost infinitely
multiplying works of art, by means of wood engravings, lithographs,
photographs, and autotypes, which render it possible for every person to
furnish his rooms with beautiful pictures. Skill and science have thus
brought Art within reach of the poorest.

Any picture, print, or engraving, that represents a noble thought, that
depicts a heroic act, or that brings a bit of nature from the fields or
the streets into our room, is a teacher, a means of education, and a
help to self-culture. It serves to make the home more pleasant and
attractive. It sweetens domestic life, and sheds a grace and beauty
about it. It draws the gazer away from mere considerations of self, and
increases his store of delightful associations with the world without,
as well as with the world within.

The portrait of a great man, for instance, helps us to read his life. It
invests him with a personal interest. Looking at his features, we feel
as if we knew him better, and were more closely related to him. Such a
portrait, hung up before us daily, at our meals and during our leisure
hours, unconsciously serves to lift us up and sustain us. It is a link
that in some way binds us to a higher and nobler nature.

It is said of a Catholic money-lender that when about to cheat, he was
wont to draw a veil over the face of his favourite saint. Thus the
portraiture of a great and virtuous man is in some measure a
companionship of something better than ourselves; and though we may not
reach the standard of the hero, we may to a certain extent be influenced
by his likeness on our walls.

It is not necessary that a picture should be high-priced in order to be
beautiful and good. We have seen things for which hundreds of guineas
have been paid, that have not one-hundredth part of the meaning or
beauty that is to be found in Linton's woodcut of Rafaelle's Madonna,
which may be had for twopence. The head reminds one of the observation
made by Hazlitt upon a p