MONDE TO EDITH.

Danville, Dec. 29, 1851.

Isn’t this outrageous bad, Edith? Mr. Marsden brought along, when he came back, a note from Alfred Cullen, saying that he will come to D——; a box of oysters from him for uncle, another of figs for aunt, (and she wants to see me eat them every five minutes; I think it is much the same as if she saw me eating the giver.)

Aunt is so glad to have him come that she hardly knows her head from her feet. She is in danger of stumbling over Ponto, or a foot-cushion, at every turn. She gives more directions to Bessy and Hamlet than ten Bessys and Hamlets could follow. It is well for them that she revokes half of them on the spot; that she modifies the rest according to their liking, and ends with telling them both to go on and do just what they see needs to be done, and to do it in the way they think best. She has no doubt, she says, that it will be done better than she can advise. And so it will assuredly. Bessy has been in the family ten years, Hamlet three; they both have clear brains and strong hands, and, as Bessy says, “have got the hang of every thing from garret to cellar.” This is no light achievement, for one does not often see so large a house, or such overflowing abundance. By the by, do you know that uncle has paid our house rent for the last ten years, and given us money and other things beside? I am thinking that, if you do not, you may be calling him “a miserly old fellow.” He has offered my father land, but my mother dreads leaving the city where she was reared. Now I hope you think, as Aunt Alice and I do, that uncle is the best man on earth, except Kossuth—I must say, except Kossuth always; for I believe he is the best man that breathes, or that has breathed, since the days of Christ. Uncle and I talk about him, we read his speeches, and I keep saying in my heart—“the Christ of the nations! the Christ of the nations!” And often a great fear comes over me, that, in another sense than his truth, his self-immolating goodness, his destiny is to be like that of the Christ. My heart is aching for him now—still I can put back the pain, and say, “Father, let it be as seemeth good in Thy sight; for, whether he lives or dies, in him the great cause of freedom and human progress shall be glorified; and he is strong and patient to drink of the cup that Thou givest him.”

Tuesday, 30th.

I think this Alfred Cullen, who will come to D—— to-morrow or next day, must be altogether precious. Even uncle is moved a little. He gives Hamlet orders touching John, and John’s harness, and the oats John must have, that he and his trappings may be in good condition for Alfred’s use. Aunt looks at me and adds some suggestions about Kate. Kate must be fed well and made sleek as can be; for—perhaps—. Aunt goes no further than this “perhaps” of hers, lately—she has seen, I presume, that her plans which embrace Alfred Cullen and me jointly, annoy me. Indeed, I was quite savage over them before she gave them up. Bessy bakes pies, and loaves of all sorts of cake and ginger-bread, without number, and wipes the dust out of every corner. Aunt praises all that she does and all that Hamlet does, puts her caps in order and sponges her dresses. Paulina Monroe, meanwhile, comes in often to look at my collars, under-sleeves and cuffs, that she may make her some like them. Her dress-maker hurries her sewing on a brown Thibet like mine, made like mine, that it may be finished before to-morrow night. Paulina smiles incessantly, has flutter in her manner, and a red spot on each cheek; so that Ponto and I are the only two who go our ways precisely in the usual mode. In truth, I am not sure that Ponto and I are entirely unaffected; we are out of doors more than heretofore, and when in the house are a little less sedate; I can’t bring my mind to my writing as usual, and I shall be glad when his face is set again toward Boston.

Good-night! I shall finish my letter after he comes. I shall tell you now, however, what a beautiful gift I had yesterday from uncle—a plumed Kossuth hat. This is for me to wear when riding. I wore it to-day, and uncle walked round it and me, saying with kindling eyes—“That is splendid! You never looked half so well, Monde, in any thing!” And according to the revelations of the long mirror, I think I never did. But it is a fact, Edith, my fair one, that I am as brown as a berry. Good-bye.

Wednesday, 31st.

Well! Alfred Cullen came this morning while I was gone to ride. We did not expect him until evening, because it is a day’s journey from Boston. But he stopped last evening at St. C——, where he had friends and business, and this morning was brought over.

“Guess who’s in the sitting-room with your uncle and aunt,” said Hamlet, with a broad smile, as he came to help me out of the saddle.

“Paulina, I dare say, Hamlet.”

“No. You go in an’ see who ’t is. Come, Katy.”

I came in straightway, expecting to see Hamlet’s pretty sister, Fanny; but saw, instead, a man of about thirty years; by no means tall, (for a man, that is; he is a little above me,) by no means large, but noble and graceful, and with a look in the highest degree animated and gentle. He and uncle stood face to face, talking energetically and laughing.

“Here she is!” said uncle, as soon as he saw me. “Here’s Monde. Monde, our friend, Mr. Cullen. Our niece, Miss Hedelquiver, Alfred. Ponto, be still; behave yourself, Ponto.”

Ponto wouldn’t behave himself at all, in the way uncle proposed; he was quite too glad to see me. When I would have stepped forward a little to meet Mr. Cullen, he was jumping on my long skirts and catching them in his teeth; and when I would have shaken hands with him, he sprang up between us, and was so unmanageable, that we were forced to dispense with the hand’s-shaking altogether. We called him a vicious puppy and boxed his soft ears a little; but, as we laughed all the while, he only dragged my skirts the more pertinaciously and jumped the higher. And judge you whether I was not glad that he did; glad that I must be busy scolding him and getting my skirts and gloves and riding-stick away from him; for uncle said, turning to Mr. Cullen—

“How do you like Monde’s hat, Alfred?”

“I was just thinking that it is the most becoming thing I ever saw,” replied he.

“I think so,” said uncle.

I can’t very well bear having any thing about my person commended, you know; especially if it brings such eyes as uncle’s and Mr. Cullen’s to bear upon my figure; and so I was glad enough to have aunt come into the room, and forward into our midst, that the survey might be broken.

But it was not long, for aunt looked down on my long train, and then said:

“Paulina has been trying to persuade Rosamonde to put on a Bloomer with her, she didn’t like to adopt it alone. But I think Rosamonde is wise in clinging to the long skirts, especially for riding. Do you like the Bloomers, Alfred?”

“Not at all! not at all!” and his eye ran over my figure again.

“Nor I,” said uncle. “To tell the truth,”—with his eyes on my face—“Monde wrote us spirited letters; I remembered a certain sort of dash and courage in her character, and I was more than half afraid that she would come amongst us looking up out of a Bloomer, and that the first thing she began to talk about would be Women’s Rights. Not, as Heaven knows,” added uncle, with increasing seriousness, “because there is not need of changes here, as every where else; but because the changes proposed are, as it appears to me, poor, one-sided things. I would not, therefore, like to hear so thoroughly sensible a girl as Monde, clamoring for them.”

“You will make Monde blush,” said aunt.

“Not at all,” Aunt Alice, replied I, doffing my hat, “I can bear very well having my brain praised, you know, at any time. Ponto—Ponto, bring me my glove.”

“Yes, that is true,” said aunt. And added, after a moment’s pause—“I can never make much out of this Woman’s Rights business. With sister Eunice it is ‘equal rights, equal privileges, equal pantaloons,’ and some more, I don’t know what else. I never pretend to understand a word of it.”

This was cunning in aunt. We all had a hearty laugh over it. But good-night, dearest; I will finish in the morning.

Morning.

When I returned to the parlor, after changing my dress, yesterday, uncle and Mr. Cullen sat in their arm-chairs, face to face, talking with thoughtful eyes of Congress and Hungary. If Congress would do thus and so, then Hungary could do so and thus, so and thus. If Congress would not, then God help Hungary. They had their eyes on each other’s face; they appeared as if they two could sit there and talk forever, never once lacking themes of interest, never once tiring of each other’s discourse. And uncle—dear, good man that he is!—let me have a part now and then, by saying—“Yes, this is what I was saying to you yesterday, you remember, Monde.” And then again—“And Monde, I see, thinks the same.” So that he and Mr. Cullen soon came to speak as much to me as to each other.

Aunt came in, in a jet black dress, and rich black lace cap, with scarlet trimmings. She looked happy, and was as fresh and graceful as a girl—only her cap and collar were both awry, and a lock of hair straggled. Her eyes sought Mr. Cullen’s directly.

“Mother,” said he, answering her smile with one as genial, “I am as hungry as a wolf. What are you going to have for dinner, I wonder.”

“Guess.”

“A chicken-pie.”

“Yes! as true as you live. I remembered how you liked them, and we made this on purpose for you.”

“Thank you! you are always kind. What else have you? I am so hungry!”

“Pumpkin pies and toasted brown bread; it will be ready in less than five minutes.”

“Ah, this is good! there is nothing I love so well. But, Ponto, let this paper alone. Here, you little rascal!” (For Ponto was running off with the “Era;” going sideways in a highly comical way, that he might not step on it.) “Ponto grows more roguish: I am afraid you help to spoil him, Miss Hedelquiver.”

And in all that he said and did—I mean Mr. Cullen, of course—he was like a good son, running over with delight and sociability at finding himself beneath the home-roof once more.

“The handsomest pie I ever saw,” said he, as uncle was beginning to carve it.

I looked at aunt, but she would not look at me. She would say—“I think so too. Rosamonde put on the cross and border. Neither Bessy nor I should ever have thought of such a thing.”

Mr. Cullen looked up to me, I know, and uncle, too; but I was drinking, and kept my eyes down in my tumbler of water. “I am vexed,” thought I, for one moment, “for this is what she will keep doing.” But the next moment I looked about me undauntedly, and thought—“Yet, if she does, I wont be vexed. I will only do those things that I do in such a way that she can’t hold me up for admiration. Good! I fancy Mr. Cullen will see something not quite so pretty as that chicken-pie, before many days.” And I was full of mirth at thought of the hodge-podge I will perpetrate if I am troubled.

Mr. Cullen went over to Mr. Monroe’s after dinner, and brought Paulina back with him to take her supper with us and spend the evening. She was in the new Thibet, the new collar and under-sleeves, so that she was rather stiff, rather careful about her ways, but pretty as a rose and lily tied together, and Mr. Cullen evidently thought the same. He ate a part of her Baldwin apple, when she complained of its being so large that she could neither hold it with both her hands (and she spread them before him to let him see how much too small they were for that) nor eat it if she could hold it. She didn’t allow Ponto to come very near her new Thibet, or new under-sleeves, and so Mr. Cullen let the little fellow run over himself and me. He played backgammon with her, game after game, as he talked with the rest, and allowed her to beat him in every game; whereupon she patted his shoulder with her dice-box and called him a careless goose.

“Rosamonde Hedelquiver,” said she to me, as she was putting on her furs to go, “what made you keep on this common-looking dress, and these plain duds,” touching her finger to my linen cuffs and collar. “I thought you would be all dressed up in your best, and so I put these on. I was mad with myself for my pains when I saw you.”

“Ah, this is nothing, any way, Paulina. Here is your hood; it is a beauty.”

“Yes, I like it pretty well. I suppose you’ll ride every day on horseback, just as you have done?”

“I presume so. Let me tie your hood for you. You can’t find the strings, can you?”

“No, my fingers are all thumbs to-night. I suppose Alfred will ride with you. Aunt will teaze him to. He used to ride with Alice; but he never liked it so well as walking, or going in a carriage. But he is one of those who will do every thing that is required of him.”

She was putting on her over-shoes, so that I could not see what sort of expression accompanied these words.

“You needn’t expect to see him here again to-night, Aunt Alice,” said she, hanging on his arm, at the parlor door. “I shall keep him. We’re going to have something for breakfast that he likes best of any thing; and I know he’ll stay for this, if not for any thing else. Wont you, Alfred?”

“No, no, Paulina. Let him come back,” said aunt. “We want him here to-night. Don’t stay, Alfred.”

“No, I will not, mother,” bowing to go.

“Then I will call you an obstinate and real cross pig, if you don’t,” I heard Paulina say, in tones half-laughing, half-pouting, in the hall.

Uncle took up the Tribune; aunt and I drew near the stove to toast our feet a little.

“I think he attends to her and humors her more and more,” said aunt at length, in a dreamy tone. She had been watching a chink in the stove where the flickering blaze was seen. “Don’t you think he does, Frederic? Frederic, don’t you think Alfred really means to make a wife of Paulina?”

“I think likely he does,” replied uncle, at the same time that he went on with his reading, as if he had not spoken, or aunt either.

Aunt kept her eyes on the stove after this until I rose to leave the room. “Good-night dear,” said she then, kissing me lovingly. She looked as if the last of ever so many cherished hopes was on its flight.

I write in a little library that opens out of the back-parlor, and is warmed by the book-parlor stove. Mr. Cullen has just entered the parlor; where he talks softly to Ponto, and rummages the newspapers. Now aunt comes in, and after the morning greetings, she says, clearing her throat—“So you think Paulina improves?”

“In some respects; don’t you?”

“Yes, I suppose she does. But breakfast is quite ready, Alfred. Monde, dear—” coming this way.

“Yes, dear aunt, I come.”

Evening.

This has been the busiest day! I couldn’t even find time to get this already longest of all letters ready for the mail. I will therefore sit here, now that it is all over, now that all have gone to rest but me, and tell you about it; and let me do it in little skirmishing scenes like this.

Scene 1. The Breakfast Table.

Judge Hedelquiver. “So Burchard & Bean are lending their interests to the Nicaragua route?”

Mr. Cullen. “Yes; and so are Cornish & Brothers. They are much more substantial.”

Mrs. Hedelquiver. “The Nicaragua route, the Panama rail-road, free trade, and so on—Frederic and Rosamonde think that these are going to do not a little toward making this world all over new. They think they are going to do their part in putting down wars and every sort of thing that isn’t brotherly and according to what the gospel enjoins. Monde, have you water? Oh yes, I see. Now I’ve tried again and again to see what connection there can possibly be between peace and the Panama rail-road, for instance; and I can’t. I don’t half believe there is any—do you, Alfred?”

Mr. Cullen, laughing. “Oh yes, mother?”

Mrs. Hedelquiver. “Yes, I suppose you do. You and Frederic, and Monde think just alike about every thing, I see. Have some more chocolate, Alfred.”

Scene 2. The Hall.

Mrs. Hedelquiver. “What do you want to say to me, dear?”

Monde. “I want to tell you—why, aunt, you see I want to write mornings, and then ride when I am tired of it—just as I have done all along. And I have been thinking that Mr. Cullen may feel that it belongs to him to—why, to see to me some, perhaps sometimes to ride with me. But it don’t, you know. I would rather attend to myself, and go alone, as I have done. So you wont let him think, will you, dear aunt, that it is necessary for him on any account, or at any time, to go with me any where.”

Mrs. Hedelquiver. “Why?”

Monde. “Because, if you do, aunt, it will put a disagreeable restraint upon him, and make me very unhappy. I have always been used, you know, to depending upon myself. I have never been a favorite of the gentlemen, or of anybody, except a few kind people who would see that there was something in me somewhere that deserved to be loved.”

Mrs. Hedelquiver. “And this has been a grief to you, dear, Monde? and is at this minute, as I know by the sound of your voice.”

Monde. “Sometimes it grieves me; and then again I am thankful. For it has made me self-reliant, and very loving toward Him who will always be near His child, and love her. Aunt, dear, you will promise not to hint it to him, in the remotest way, that he ought to ride with me, or wait on me at any time?”

Mrs. Hedelquiver, dreamily, and as if again hopes were flying. “Yes, I will promise. But I can’t see what objections you can have to his riding with you. There’s John almost always, you know, in the stable. There is nothing to hinder his going.”

Monde. “Nothing to hinder, if it is his own spontaneous will and wish; otherwise, every thing, in my way of thinking. Come, aunt, you are freezing.”

Scene 3. Outside the Gate.

Judge Hedelquiver. “Ready, Monde?”

Monde. “Ready, uncle.”

Judge Hedelquiver. “Wait a moment. I want to tell you, Monde, that I overheard what you said to your aunt in the hall, this morning.”

Monde. “Did you, uncle?”

Judge Hedelquiver. “Yes; but never mind it: It was only a new proof that you are the most sensible girl in creation. It is just the way you ought to feel about it. What he will do of his own accord, let him do; but I will help you in this. I will take care that he don’t do any thing for you because he sees you in need of him.”

Monde. “You are the dearest, best uncle that any poor child ever had! Now, if you will help me.”

Judge Hedelquiver. “There you are! You mount as if you had some little wings up there among the plumes of your hat. I will bet you have.”

Mr. Cullen, appearing at the door with a book in his hand. “What, are you going to ride this morning, Miss Hedelquiver?”

Monde. “Yes, Mr. Cullen.”

Mr. Cullen. “And alone?”

Monde. “Yes, sir. Uncle, my stick, if you please.”

Mr. Cullen, springing forward to pick up the stick. “Now I protest against this! I have been thinking that I wanted to ride—and (laughing a little) that I wanted to ride with you. Let me help you off, now, for a few minutes. I will have John ready in—John is in the stable, isn’t he, judge?”

Judge Hedelquiver. “Yes, and at your service, if Monde will wait—if she wants you to go. You haven’t asked her.”

Mr. Cullen. “No! presuming blockhead that I am! Do you want me to go with you, Monde?”

Monde. “If you want to.”

Mr. Cullen. “As I most certainly do. Let me help you. Only I am sorry to give you so much trouble. I am sorry I didn’t know, in the first of it, that you were going. You will tell me next time, wont you?” (opening the gate for Monde to pass in.)

Monde. “I—I believe I sha’n’t promise you.”

Mr. Cullen. “Promise at any rate to let me know it, whenever you are willing to have me with you.”

Monde, with the door half shut between her and him. “I believe I sha’n’t promise that either.”

Mr. Cullen, on his way, with the Judge, to the stable. “Then I will always make you wait for me like this.”

Well, well! I see I might write all night, with my scenes first to twentieth, inclusive. But I sha’n’t. I shall go to bed, after I have told you that the morning ride was altogether delightful. I never knew such a splendid morning. I never had so agreeable a companion in ride, or ramble, or—I shall say it, Edith, for it is the truth—or any where. And I fancy that he found me—quite tolerable. One could not well be otherwise with him about.

We found company here when we returned—two of the professors from Woodstock, together with Judge Brentwood, and his wife and daughter, from Craftsburg. They all dined here; and things never went off so strongly. I sat by aunt, and helped her serve the guests. When I do this, and she can now and then look over the table into uncle’s always clear, calm face, and listen to his manly expression, she can know pretty well what she is doing, even if she does sometimes venture upon a little conversation.

While we were giving them our adieus at the door, two other sleighs came up with high-headed horses and loud-jingling bells, taking along fresh visitors to spend the rest of the day and the evening with us. They were wealthy farmers, who wanted to talk of horses and oxen, and different breeds of sheep, with uncle; and farmers’ wives, who talked with most interest with aunt, when it was upon butter and cheese, and preserves and bread-making. This, as you must see, left Mr. Cullen and me pretty much to ourselves. But we were at no loss. I can’t see how one can ever be at a loss with him; for his vigorous and fresh thought readily comprehends all the philosophy of nature, of morals, and of life; and he communicates himself, as it were, and all that is in him, so magically that—

But, see if I am going to write all night! A happy New Year, dearest. Extend the greetings of the season to all in your house.

Thy Loving Monde.

——