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 Carreno) and her handsome violinist husband, accompanied by a long letter from the bride.  The letter was overflowing with happiness, and the naivete 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 Carreno Sauret.”