Character, in reality, has everything to do with it. Rooms tell us much of their inhabitants. No one will doubt who remembers the stiff, formal arrangement of the drawing-room 'at school,' where the chairs stood in the primmest rows and couples, and the whole place breathed such an air of strict propriety, that we doubted whether a hearty laugh would not be unbecoming in it; or the uncomfortable, seldom used, conventional drawing-room, which has such fine-looking, unreadable books on its polished tables; or the cheerful tiny room of the friend who has very little money, but very much taste, and who hangs an engraving there, and puts flowers here, and makes a shrine out of an ordinary garret. In some rooms, we see that life is respectably got through in a routine of eating, sleeping, comfort-loving; in others, that it glances to the stars, and lives with the flowers; in others, again, that it finds out good in shady nooks or crowded cities, and is filled with affection and intelligence. There are very few rooms, except among the poorest and most degraded, that have not in them some indications of the love of beauty, which is so universal in human nature. Influenced by the same feeling, the cottager's wife scours her tins, arranges her little cupboard of cups and saucers, buys barbarous delineations of 'Noah in the Ark,' or 'Christ with the Elders,' from the pedler; and the nobleman collects around him all he thinks precious in bronze or painting. Cleanliness and order are certainly the simplest manifestations of the love of the beautiful in the household--the germ, which the feeling in its highest development must include; but too many among us remain satisfied with the lower form, and from some reason or other, fail to see the further gratification that is possible to all. Nature, however, stimulates and satisfies this love everywhere, and society in many directions is following in her footsteps. Let us see what can be done in the matter. After all, rooms must still retain the impress of the character of their inhabitants. Yes; but there are certain general rules which all who do arrange them would do well to remember. In the first place, they should be well lighted, and as thoroughly ventilated as they can be made; the eye should be pleased with their general effect; no detail of colouring or furniture should mar it; they should be filled with gentle relief, not uniformity of colour; and there should be as many waving lines, instead of angles, as possible. They should contain all things necessary to their several characters, but nothing very superfluous; and their whole arrangement should indicate, and be subservient to, the idea that prompted it. Above all, they should have in them some thing, or things, to soothe the thoughts, stimulate the fancy, and suggest something higher than the ordinary uses which they serve. Human beings, even in the life of a day, experience many fluctuations of mood, of joy or sadness; and there should be some