Dear Friend: Appearances—to make a very original remark—are deceitful. To the traveler who may chance to cast his eyes upon this little brown, house, a little brown house it will be to him, 'and nothing more.' He will not even notice the woodbines that are flinging their arms around the windows, nor will he dwell for an instant upon the thrifty cotton-woods that guard the door, or bestow more than a casual glance on the artistically arranged garden-beds, wherein I have anxiously watched tulips and radishes sprouting into existence. Anxiously—for winter has been writing a somewhat lengthy postscript to his annual message, and the modest, gentle-mannered spring retreats in lady-like fright before his furious blasts.
Now we are having an interval of hazy warmth—the really royal weather of the year—red sunshine, the hills purple and blue in the distance, and the still air savory with the smoke of brush-burnings and the wild breath of new-lifed vegetation. Lovelier than the Indian summer, for mingled with all things is the consciousness of the flowering and fruiting to come. The Indian summer has a sweet sadness. The spring is full of hope and promise, and the heart buds with the flowers.
Out in the midst of all this country springtime freshness, our 'Hermitage' looks up from its shrubberies and rejoices within itself, and does not care for the traveler's careless glances. The traveler may call it stupid and ugly, if he calls it at all; our Hermitage still patiently wears its havelock of weather-beaten shingles, for it knows that beneath its lowly roof—radiant with whitewash and fresh paper—are cozy, coolly curtained rooms, where friendly books look down from the wall, and drowsy arm-chairs woo from the corners.
Yes, many Wisconsin banks have yielded up their lives in the past year, and in one of these fatal safes our little pile of 'ready' irrevocably evaporated! Ah! the palmy days! when we had rooms at the ——; when our tables were marble-topped and our mirrors presented full-length portraits of us; when every dinner was a feast for epicures; when servants awaited our nod or beck; when Davis's best turn-out bowled us away to the purple bluffs yonder, at every sunset, and bowled us back again happy in pocket and in heart! Those days have gemmed themselves in the past.
We find it necessary to 'put in for repairs,' as they say of a steamboat when her smoke-stacks are snapped off by a Lake Pepin gale, and she goes ashore. At no distant day we will again go out into the tide. From any quantity of 'wild lands'—which we have the felicity of paying taxes on—we have selected a ten-acre patch in the neighborhood of the city, and are living something after the style of Thoreau, except that we have a better cook!
From our modestly architectured porch we look out upon the broad, far-stretching valley of the Mississippi. It is a vast view—so that a shower becomes a part of the landscape, and it is delightful to watch it trailing over the hills. Alexander Smith is ahead of me in this idea, but no matter. East and west the picturesque bluffs mingle in hazy softness with the sky; the roofs and steeples of the city glimmer in the sunny distance; now and then, away through the wooded banks we see columns of pearly steam, as some stately boat goes gliding by. I shall always have a weakness for these proud, screeching steamboats, for there is one among them—the dear old 'Milwaukee'—for which I entertain a confirmed infirmity! We went honey-mooning in the 'Milwaukee.' Its musical and far-heard whistle is doomed for evermore to deluge my soul in a 'sea of soft-blue memories.'
Our carpets are of matting and oil-cloth, islanded here and there with a choice bit of rug. My little kitchen is exultant in shining tins, a glittering 'Hotspur,' patented 1860, and a capacious cupboard, through the glass doors of which shines forth a complete set of 'Ironstone.' On Mondays a little Bohemian—with surprising strength in her diminutive person—comes, and out from the fury of suds and steam issues a line of snowy, flapping clothes. She receives her 'tri shealing' and trots home. Aside from washing, I am addicted to that unpoetical, homely, dry, and utterly plebeian practice of doing my own work. Think you I could endure to have a poetic mood burst in upon by a red-faced girl, smelling of dish-water, exclaiming, 'The tay's out'? Besides, I never was born to, had thrust upon me, or achieved, any surplus amount of 'greatness,' consequently my laurels will not suffer from being in contact with sauce-pans and toasting-forks. (But fancy the idea of Mrs. Browning a-frying flapjacks!) I have lived for the most part in the country, you know, and at the old home I was applauded on by an appreciative mamma to rare feats in this department of humble life. I combine the artist with the cook—the ideal with the material. I consult color and the nice shades of taste. Indeed, I make cooking and furniture-arranging an art. The emerald lettuce I mingle with the ruby radish; the carefully browned trout I surround with a wall of snowy and hot potatoes; the roseate shavings of beef and ham flank the golden butter, which is stamped in a very superior manner, I may say, with the American Eagle; the amber honey sides with the royal purple of grape-jelly; and the creamy biscuit contrasts with the deep chrome of the sponge-cake beside it, etc., etc. Of various pastries and entrees—of which I alone hold the original recipes—I will not speak. Suffice to say, that it may be of interest to some housekeepers to send me a prepaid envelope!
Should you go Minnehahaing this summer, I shall hope that you may fail to make connections with the St. Paul Packet Company, so that while waiting a boat you may find it convenient to immortalize 'The Hermitage' by breaking fast beneath its humble roof.
Hermetically thine,
Marie.
We would that we could. Alas! there is very little 'ha-ha-ing' of any kind this serious 'battle-summer'—least of all for us toward the rosy West. Well, a time may come, and when it does, of a verity the Hermitage shall become well known to 'Esquire Continental.'