If the dining-room be large, it is desirable to have two sideboards, one larger than the other. The breakfast things should adorn (for that is what they really ought to do) the smaller sideboard. With all the beauty and comparative cheapness of our Worcester and other pottery, we ought, in every family, to possess such a collection of beautiful objects for daily use as should for ever prevent our sighing after the palmy days of Greek art. I was at Sèvres not long ago, and while going over the porcelain factory there, I mentioned that I had been over that at Worcester. "Ah, then, madame," said the official, "we can show you no more; you have indeed seen all." And had we no careless and ever-changing servants to shatter our elegant treasures, we might have in daily use objects which would enrich a museum, and train our eyes to a higher perception of beauty; and we should learn to value our porcelain, not for its rarity, but for its intrinsic merit. Look at our picturesque coffee and tea pots, our elegant cups, and well-painted bowls. Why should they always be concealed in china closets, or consigned to kitchen-dressers, while our dining-room walls are too often bare and cheerless?--a few dismal prints, hung too high to be seen or easily dusted, being frequently the only adornments of a darkened room, like a waiting-room at a railway station for emptiness of anything to occupy the mind, yet which ought to be one of the pleasantest and brightest in the house. Instead of which cheerful appearance, here is a sketch of a regulation dining-room in one of London's broadest brown streets: a room always dark in winter, but in summer exposed to glaring sun and a plague of flies. As soon as a window is opened to cool the stifling air, a simoom of dust rushes in from the road, and from the dust carts heavily moving to the slow music of the "Trovatore's" _Miserere_, adding a bass to the noise of cabs whirling by to the waltz tunes of "Daughter Angot" and "La belle Hélène."