Marriage of a Cousin--A Pretty Bride--Letters--Home Circle Complete--A
Letter of Adventures--Wedding Cards--A Musical Marriage--Housekeeping
under Difficulties--Telegraphic Blunders--A Bust of Mr. Greeley--More
Visitors.
_September 10_.
A letter yesterday from our cousin Estelle Greeley, signed, however, by
a new name, for she was married last week. Estelle is Aunt Arminda's
youngest daughter, and although not yet eighteen, was before the death
of Theresa's children a great-aunt. She sent us her picture, taken
with her husband. She is a very pretty girl, with large, dreamy, blue
eyes, and lashes so long and dark as to cast deep shadows--a
languishing effect often produced on city belles by artificial means.
Her hair is of that sunny brown shade peculiar to so many of our
cousins, and she has hitherto worn it floating over her shoulders _à la
belle sauvage_; but now I suppose she thinks so _negligée_ and girlish
a coiffure incompatible with her new dignity as a married woman, for I
observed in her picture that it was wreathed into an imposing diadem
braid.
Although Estelle is rather young to have married, the match has
received the cordial approbation of tho entire family. She was married
at home, but has now gone to live at Columbus, Pennsylvania, where her
father-in-law is a prominent merchant. Her letter was full of
enthusiasm over her happiness, but I was glad to learn that she did not
intend, like so many young brides, to give up her music in the
excitement of her new married life.
Our mail was not large this morning, for our friends are now returning
to the city, and are busy with the demands of upholsterers and
dress-makers in anticipation of the gayeties of the coming season; some
few, however, are still enjoying this delicious September weather by
the seaside or inland.
Our friend, Mrs. Cutler, the pretty Virginia novelist and society star,
is now in Westchester County, and promises us a visit very soon. She
speaks with deep feeling of the pleasure it will afford her to visit
dear uncle's loved home, and in conclusion sends many kind messages to
mamma's "bouquet of girls."
One of my most intimate friends, Marguerite Aymar, after having visited
several watering-places, and contributed sparkling letters to different
New York journals this summer, has now come to Westchester County to
pass away quietly the remainder of the season, and gather up strength
for her literary labors during the coming winter. I learn by a letter
received from her yesterday, that she is boarding within driving
distance of Chappaqua--a very agreeable prospect for me, for Marguerite
and I are much given to long talks together, and are very fond of an
exchange of ideas over our many literary plans.
Miss Aymar is a clever young writer, by no means confining herself to
the graceful poems, stories, and sketches that she dashes off with such
ease, but evincing talent and tact in her more thoughtful magazine
articles. She is now, she tells me, at work upon a novel.
_September 13_.
Our home circle is once more complete, for Mrs. Lamson, who left us
some weeks ago to visit friends in Connecticut, has now returned to
remain with us until we go down to the city.
Mrs. Lamson was one of dear uncle's earliest friends, their
acquaintance dating back indeed to the days of Poultney--and we are all
deeply attached to her.
_September 15_.
Arthur's name, I believe, has not yet been mentioned in my journal
since he left us early in August. He is a very tormenting
correspondent, for he never writes with the promptitude that would be
agreeable, but his letters when they do come are always entertaining,
and one that arrived this morning, detailing his adventures since his
departure from Chappaqua, we found especially so. Before making some
extracts from it, I must explain that he left us to join a number of
young men from Chappaqua, headed by our neighbor, Mr. Carpenter, who
were to camp out at Rye Beach, and indulge in unlimited fishing
parties. This out-of-doors life delighted Arthur, accustomed as he had
been to foot journeys in Europe, and when the party broke up he bought
a waterproof suit, hired a boat and a tent, and rowed up the Sound to
Boston, where he lives, sleeping meantime on land or in his boat, as
best suited his caprice. I will now give his exploits in his own words.
"I remained on the beach some time after Mr. Carpenter and the others
left, caught and made food of many fishes, and came near making myself
food for them, for in hauling up anchor in a rough sea I tipped out of
the boat, but luckily saved myself by clutching its side, and lifting
myself in at imminent risk of turning the whole concern bottom upwards.
"Being wrapped in slumber on the rocks one night with a big fire
burning beside me, my bed of dry seaweed caught fire, and woke me by
its fierce breath; but escaping an evil fate for the present, I came
safely home to Boston, which I felt keen joy to see once more.
"I have gone into the office of a lawyer here, and am engaged in the
delightful occupation of 'sooing folks' (as the old fellow pronounces
it). You may imagine me seated on the extreme top of a high stool,
forging like a young Cyclops with malignant pleasure, the writs and
summonses which are presently to be flourished by the Sheriff in the
face of the astonished Defendant."
Among our other letters this morning was a package from London
containing the dainty wedding-cards of a beautiful young American
pianist (Teresa Carreño) and her handsome violinist husband,
accompanied by a long letter from the bride. The letter was
overflowing with happiness, and the naïveté with which she described
all the little annoyances of her new married life, and especially the
trials of a young housekeeper, was quite delicious. Her furniture had
not yet come from Paris, and there were but two chairs in the parlor;
consequently, when a visitor came, her husband was obliged to stand,
she said, with the greatest ceremony. She sat by the kitchen table to
write to me, and the cook overturned her ink, making a blot upon the
page: all of these little details made up a perfect picture of her
life. Of course the letter was full of "my husband," and the signature
was no longer the impulsive, girlish--"With a thousand kisses, my
darling, ever your own Teresita," but a decorous and matronly ending:
"Yours affectionately, Teresa Carreño Sauret."
Two more letters by the evening mail; one having the features of the
"Re Galantuomo" upon the postage stamps, is from a young American music
student in Florence, a pupil of Hans Von Bülow, who will, upon her
return to her own country, be known as one of our finest amateur
pianists.
There is also a letter from our estimable friend, Miss Booth, the
accomplished Editress of Harper's Bazar. She will spend next Saturday
with us, accompanied by her friend, Mrs. Wright.
_September 20_.
Ida went down to the city yesterday, to see both her lawyer and
dress-maker, saying that she would return by the half past six o'clock
train. We went down accordingly to meet the cars, but she did not
arrive upon them; a telegram, however, was shortly sent up to the
house, announcing that she would come on the eight o'clock train,
accompanied by Mrs. and Miss Wiss.
"Mrs. Wiss!" exclaimed mamma, upon reading the telegram, "who can she
be? I do not know any such person."
Gabrielle could not remember any one by the name of Wiss among Ida's
friends, and suggested that the ladies might be old friends of her
father's, whom Ida had never before seen; so remarking that the eight
o'clock train was a late one for ladies to travel upon alone, mamma
rang for Minna, and told her to delay our tea an hour and a half longer.
When we heard the footsteps of the travellers upon the piazza, we all
went out with some curiosity to meet our unknown visitors. For a
moment we were speechless, as we recognized in the matron of the party,
Ida's charming Southern friend, Mrs. Ives, and in the tall young man
(her son) who accompanied her, the supposed Miss Wiss. How the
telegraph operator could have so confused the names, no one could
imagine.
Mrs. Ives is a brilliant talker, and a woman of great polish and high
family connections. She has lived North for several years, but will
return to Baltimore this winter to our great regret, for her
picturesque home near the Manhattanville Convent was a most delightful
place to spend an hour, while listening to the entertaining
conversation of the hostess, and the exquisite harp-playing of her
sister.
_September 25_.
A letter this morning from the little sculptress, Vinnie Ream. She is
at Washington, and writes me that she has sold her bust of dear uncle
to the Cornell University. I have not seen the bust since it was put
into marble, but when I saw it in clay at her New York studio two years
ago, I considered it a spirited and excellent likeness. Vinnie is full
of the high courage that never deserts her through all of her trials
from public and private criticism, and she has my best wishes for a
bright and successful future.
_September 28_.
Two arrivals by the morning train: Mrs. Gibbons, a friend of many years
of dear uncle, Aunt Mary, and mamma, and a lady at whose hospitable
residence uncle often found a pleasant home, when his family were
absent, and Lucy White, an intimate friend of Ida and myself.
Miss White has just returned from a three months' visit to Europe, and
she gave us a very lively account of her gay season in London, and her
visit to Paris. I was glad to learn from her that my favorite Italian
and Spanish pictures again occupied their accustomed places in the
_Salon Carré_ at the Louvre, and that the diadem mode of dressing the
hair, so becoming to my tiny figure, was by no means out of style in
Paris, but was, on the contrary, more fashionable than ever.
_September 30_.
A letter this morning from Katie Sinclair. I rejoice to learn that her
health is improving, for, when we visited her some weeks ago, her
cheeks were almost as white as the pillows upon which they rested.
We were disappointed that we could not hear Katie sing that day, for we
had anticipated quite a little musical matinée; but her sister Mary,
who is an enthusiastic pianoforte student, made amends by playing with
much taste and expression, a dreamy "Melody," by Rubenstein.