We are great readers of the distinguished magazines
and of first-rate books, and our taste for art is keen. When we go
abroad we don't care so much for mountains and rivers--they are like
potatoes and pork to a man who is visiting: we have them at home--but
we _are_ after art. Ruskin says no people can be great in art unless it
lives among beautiful natural objects; which 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.
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