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 match salt-cellars, and nut-picks and crackers to match something else.  Moreover, there was a magnificent opera-glass that required to be matched with theatre-going—­not as I was wont to go, in an old overcoat having its pockets stuffed with old playbills.  But why enumerate?

On the strength of her wedding-presents Lydia became a gladiatrix in the arena of society.  She already belonged to three clubs:  she joined four more—­Private Theatrical, a History of Art, a Conversation and a Suffrage Club.  I myself belong to but one, the Cremation Club—­am an officer in that:  I split kindlings.  As the bordered tablecloth was suitable for lunch-parties, Lydia entertained her friends at an hour when I was about town looking up paragraphs, but I have no doubt she carried it off bravely, and their discussions were as important as those of a poultry convention on the question of feathers or no feathers on chickens’ legs.

At this time I found that great feasts make small comforts scarce.  Often, on coming home and finding Lydia out, I had Ionic hours alone, when I refreshed myself with the great shouting, cheering and laughter of the Greek armies and people that gladden our dull hearts even now, and for want of anything better I regaled myself on the feasts offered by Machaon (first Scotchman) in the Iliad, and by Nestor, on the table with azure feet and in the goblet with four handles and four feet, with gold turtles drinking at the brim from the handles.  Or I supped with Achilles while Patroclus turned the meat on the bed of wide, glowing embers and the tent brightened in the blaze.  Once, when I was seeking something for that newspaper bore,