hich is hard on us Chicago
folks. If we had any mountainous or rocky tracts we should not live in
them. If we possessed a Mount Vesuvius we should use it for getting up
bogus eruptions to draw tourists to our hotels, and we should tap the
foot of the mountain to draw off the lava for our streets.

Lydia's finery had a subduing effect upon me, who had bounded my
aspirations to what was distinctly within my grasp--namely, things

Plain, but not sordid--though not splendid, clean.

Lydia was an expert housekeeper. "I love a little house that I can
clean all over," said she. She would have liked a Roman villa made of
polished marble, that could be scrubbed from top to bottom, or a house
of the melted and dyed cobble-stones that some genius has promised to
give us. Her china-closet was a picture, with platters in rows and cups
hanging on little brass hooks under the shelves. Our whole house was
exquisite, and became quite renowned for its elegance and charm.
Lydia's exuberant vitality was attractive: her relations and friends
liked to come there. Some of our friends were of the high, haughty,
tone-y sort, which would have been well enough if we had not incurred
debts in our housekeeping.

What and how great the merit and the art
To live on little with a thankful heart!

Lydia's rich uncle, Nathan Stene, gave us a bookcase that caused my
heart to sink with an appalling premonition at its first appearance, it
was so huge and high. How we got it into our parlor without cutting off
the top and bottom words cannot explain. That bookcase was my first
step toward ruin. I had a good many books--not of scientific but of
delightful literature, the best works of the best authors--and my books
were as shabby as Charles Lamb's library. There never were such
dilapidated volumes as my De Quinceys. Lydia had _Young Mrs. Jardine_
and lots of other

Stickjaw pudding that tires the chin,
With the marmalade spread ever so thin;

and her books were new-looking. She said mine looked disgustingly dirty
in our new bookcase, so I had them rebound; and this was my next step
toward ruin. Lydia wanted a long peacock-feather duster to dust the top
of the bookcase. I bought that. Our only long tablecloth was a damask,
engarlanded and diapered and resplendent with a colored border
warranted to wash. I had to buy napkins to go with it. I bought a
butter-knife to match a solid silver butter-dish, and a set of
individual salt-spoons to mat