ROSAMONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERS.

Danville, December 2, 1851.

At last, I have found a spot where, for myself, there can be no want; where I can sit and write in peace letters to you, my friend, and stories for the magazines. By the last, I shall win money, and, perhaps, laurels; although, I confess, I care little now for them—that is, for the laurels—if I can earn money. If I have genius, this may truly seem a poor aim; but, if I have genius, so have I along with it such a dread of what is heavy, and sordid, and perpetually toilsome—of extreme poverty; in short, so have I a longing for beauty, for ease, for a still home of plenty, so that sometimes I could stretch out my hands and cry, with an imploring voice—not as good Agar did, but—“Give me riches, oh! give me riches.” Yet, Heaven knows that it is not to be greatly rich that I desire; but to be so far supplied, that there need be no forebodings whenever it is seen that my parents’ steps begin already to be slow, and their eyes dull; so that there may be beautiful things in our home, and land about it which is ours, on which we may tread with independence, on which we may see the trees and the plants growing, on which God’s sunshine shall fall, and His rain, and His dews, so that we may feel him near, and know that our mother Earth is to us a good mother.

This is what I long for, when shut up in our close rooms in the city, morning, noon, and night. In the night, tears of yearning—mingled with the fear that it is never to be satisfied—go drop, drop on my pillow, until my head is ready to burst. Then I brush them away, and say—“God forgive me, his poor child, if, in my longing for what I have not, I forget the gratitude due for what I have.” Then come penitential feelings and, again weeping, I say—“Father, do with me as seemeth good in thy sight!” I would be able to say this at all seasons, working still with cheerfulness and trust in God’s ways: but He knows I cannot; that often when I would praise Him I can only pray, and beg Him to do that for me which I feel to be my great need.

But hear! I complain, I sigh. I sit here, buried in my own egotism, while the bright sunshine lies on the pure white fields, hills, and mountains, and the troops of merriest birds play with the new-fallen snow. I shall go and see them, and feed them with crumbs, as once a brown-haired boy, who now is gray-headed—my father—used to do.

Evening.

Uncle Hedelquiver said this morning, as he folded his paper, after breakfast was over—

“You had better ride this morning, Monde. Take Kate, she is hard on the bit; but all the better. I like this grappling with tough-bitted circumstances. It is exactly what you need to do. You have the name your old grandmother Hedelquiver had in her day. You can see yourself that you are like that portrait up there; and I want you to get hold of her energy—her kind of life. You have been an idle child compared with her, I fancy.”

“No doubt of it, uncle,” said I, with tears choking me. “But, because I have been so penned up there in the city, and by our bad circumstances, I could not do any thing but fold my hands and sigh, and long for better things to come to me.”

“Well, well, there is room here you see,” tossing his hand a little toward the window, through which we see the pine-covered Green Mountains that are near, and the snowy White Hills that are far, but gigantic and splendid to see. “You had better go the road we went yesterday,” preparing to leave the room, “over the hills. It is stinging cold up there, but all the better for that.”

Aunt dreaded the hills—

“I would let her go down the other way,” begged she.

“No—if she is wise, she will face the cold and wind—see the snow-birds out there!—and you are a little bit wise aint you, Monde?” with a smile the sweetest and most beaming one ever sees on mortal face. It is the more enlivening to see, because his brow when he is grave is so dark, heavy, and over-arching. It is pleasant therefore that he smiles often, when he is talking—that is, if he talks of the things that he values.

“O, I don’t know, uncle,” I replied. “I fear I have little wisdom or little any thing worth having. But I would like the bracing wind and this gleaming sunshine on the hills, at any rate. It must be glorious!—Is Kate fond of being mounted? Has any one ever rode her?”

“Many times. As I said before, she is hard-bited, but kind.” This is all uncle would have said; for he looks forward, leaving the dead to bury their dead. But aunt said, with drooping figure and dreamy voice—

“Poor Alice used to ride her very often when Alfred was here—at any other time she was afraid. But, then, he used to ride John, and urge her out. He was always anxious that she should ride often, although I am sure I don’t know why.” No, aunt seldom knows why things are thus and so, which is something of an annoyance to uncle, to whom most things in physics and metaphysics are merest transparencies. “John was such a headstrong horse,” resumed aunt, looking dreamily down on the crumb of bread she was rolling along the table-cover; “he was so headstrong, and Alfred not accustomed to the saddle—living in the city, as he has, for so many years. I was never easy when they were gone. I was always expecting that something bad would happen to them in some way.”

“There was never the least danger—not the least danger!” said uncle. “They were much too cautious for this. It was laughable, seeing the jog-trot they kept. Monde, your aunt will make a coward of you, if she can. She, for her own part, gets ten thousand needless hurts as she goes along in dread of their coming upon herself, or some of the rest of us. Isn’t this true, Alice?”

“I don’t know, I am sure. Perhaps I do,” replied aunt.

“You certainly do. Say, Monde, will you ride?” with an impatient jerk of his fine shaggy head.

“Yes, sir,” said I, springing promptly to my feet; for I felt, as I often do when he speaks to me, as if the current of his own electrical force ran through my brain and limbs—“over the hills, uncle mine, or anywhere!”

“That’s sensible,” replied he, with a look of hearty approbation. “Put on your things—I will have Kate at the door in five minutes.”

Heavens! how gorgeous is the winter landscape, when our sky is as blue as Italy’s, when the sun is on hills and mountains, and the blue shadows are in all the valleys and beside all the little knolls; when the dark firs, and pines, and hemlocks, and the black-hazel-blossoms are fringed and tufted with the new-fallen snow, and the crows and jays go screaming, and the blood in all one’s veins is astir with the new life that comes on every breath.

“Father,” I said, lifting reverently upward the eyes that had been wandering over the beautified scene, “Father, accept Thou the love of Thy child. Help her to be always thankful to Thee.”

But, directly, between me and the Father, between me and His glorious earth came dark visions of my poor home, and of my parents, held back from a clear strong life, by their shame-faced poverty and pride. For you must be told, friend of mine, that we are much poorer than even you, who have seen us all and our home many and many a time, believe; and that we grow really poorer every day, because, with all our pains-taking and studiously-contrived appearances of competency, my father makes no head-way in engrossing popularity, and, therewith, the business that pays liberally. We brush and brush—or papa and mamma do—to move the dust and bring back the old polish and prime, and then go forth with lofty heads and independent feet; and papa talks in a brisk way of “My client A—; my clients, Messrs. B— and C—;” of the case of D— versus E—, and F— versus G—. Meanwhile, you have seen what mamma does—with what care she preserves her fine complexion, her natural graceful curls, into which the threads of silver are already coming; her cashmere long shawl and black silk gown, that were hers at her marriage—they look no older than most shawls and gowns do after five years’ service, and they have seen twenty-five. In these she goes out to the shops, and looks at carpets and mirrors and tÊte-À-tÊtes, as if she were a duchess. And she lets it be known, if it will come in gracefully in any way, that she is Mrs. Hedelquiver, and that her husband is Jerome Hedelquiver, Attorney at Law, V— Street. My father really did get a case, worth a hundred dollars to him, of a dealer, who hoped that, in compliment thereto, my mother would spend all the fee and other additional fees for his upholstery.

We laughed over it. My father called it “capital;” but he and my mother both sighed after it. I presume their souls—so deep within them, so gentle toned as seldom to be heard above the clamor that “the strong circumstances” make in controlling the hands, the lips, and the brain—spake then so as to be heeded, though not long. The hands, the lips, and the brain soon took up again their worldly, time-serving ways. My father talked again of his clients, my mother priced velvets and Axminsters. I would not say this to you, dear Edith, but that you have already seen the same when visiting us; and but that you are the friend of my soul, to whom I must speak of that which is so poor and so sorrowful to me, especially now that I have looked attentively upon uncle’s sincere, manly life.

Uncle’s circumstances are very different to my father’s—this is true. He is a very wealthy and distinguished man. Yet if he were as poor as my father—he would never mind this—he would keep Truth close beside him wherever he went, in whatever action he performed, in whatever words he spake. This would make him free and strong, indeed; and the freedom and strength would lay hold on success. Thus, in seeking first the kingdom of heaven, all these things for which the poor man seeks now first, and last, and at all times, would without pains-taking on his part, be added unto him. Would that he could see it—would that he were more quiet—happier! for I pity him so!

And I have seen men poorer than he, and less distinguished in learning and in an agreeable exterior, whom I cannot, by any view of their condition, bring myself to commiserate, any more than I can commiserate Christ. And you know, dear Edith, we may look at his life on earth as we will, at the hunger, the dusty journeyings, the thorns, the spear, the bitter cup, the blind revilings that came with them all, and the death of shame and lengthened agony, still it fills our hearts with praise—it is the sublimest destiny ever fulfilled on the earth! I will tell you what I desire more and more; what I desire now, at this still hour, above every other thing—and this is, to be so much like Christ, as to attain a perfect mastery of myself, so that none of the outward things shall move me. Christ’s excellence lay in this—did you ever think of it? Proffered crowns and kingdoms, the trammels of time-honored usages, threats at his side and a cross before him, all fell short of moving his soul. This never swerved a hair’s breadth from its high purpose, from beginning to end. And I would be able to look out from a quiet, inward life, and say to the world—“Poor world! enslaved and enslaving! Struggling, vain world; we love thee, we pity thee—poor world! We would die for thee, if the time might come when our blood would have the efficacy of a good martyr’s in healing thee. But we bow to thee, we follow thee, take up thy mummeries no more. For within us, the life breathed into us of God, the life that is divine and glorious—far beyond all that thou hast to offer, comes gently forward for its development into our daily thought and action. Poor world! dear world! after this, the God of the true life helping us, while with thee we are above thee!”

But, my dear child Edith, I remember that you like short sermons, while, on the other hand, tales may be ever so long, ever so often told. I have no tale for you yet. We will wait and see what will come hereafter. Thine, dear,

Monde Hedelquiver.

——