There is one of Lungren's pictures of the Western plains; and a picture of the Grand Canyon; and one by a Scandinavian artist who could see the fierce picturesqueness of workaday Pittsburgh; and sketches of the White House by Sargent and by Hopkinson Smith.
The books are everywhere.

There are as many in the north room and in the parlor--is drawing-room a more appropriate name than parlor ?--as in the library; the gun-room at the top of the house, which incidentally has the loveliest view of all, contains more books than any of the other rooms; and they are particularly delightful books to browse among, just because they have not much relevance to one another, this being one of the reasons why they are relegated to their present abode.

But the books have overflowed into all the other rooms too.
I could not name any principle upon which the books have been gathered.
Books are almost as individual as friends.

There is no earthly use in laying down general laws about them.

Some meet the needs of one person, and some of another; and each person should beware of the booklover's besetting sin, of what Mr.Edgar Allan Poe calls "the mad pride of intellectuality," taking the shape of arrogant pity for the man who does not like the same kind of books.