Wedding-cards have been pouring in till the contagion has reached us;
Edith will be married next Thursday. The wedding-dress is being
fashioned, and the bridesmaids and groomsmen have arrived. Edith has
requested me to be special mistress of ceremonies on Thursday evening,
and I have told this terrible little rebel, who talks nothing but blood
and thunder, yet faints at the sight of a worm, that if I fill that
office no one shall mention war or politics during the whole evening, on
pain of expulsion.

_March 10, 1861._--The excitement in this house has risen to fever-heat
during the past week. The four gentlemen have each a different plan for
saving the country, and now that the bridal bouquets have faded, the
three ladies have again turned to public affairs; Lincoln's inauguration
and the story of the disguise in which he traveled to Washington is a
never-ending source of gossip. The family board being the common forum,
each gentleman as he appears first unloads his pockets of papers from
all the Southern States, and then his overflowing heart to his eager
female listeners, who in turn relate, inquire, sympathize, or cheer. If
I dare express a doubt that the path to victory will be a flowery one,
eyes flash, cheeks burn, and tongues clatter, till all are checked up
suddenly by a warning for "Order, order!" from the amiable lady
presiding. Thus we swallow politics with every meal. We take a mouthful
and read a telegram, one eye on table, the other on the paper. One must
be made of cool stuff to keep calm and collected, but I say but little.
This war fever has banished small talk. Through all the black servants
move about quietly, never seeming to notice that this is all about them.

"How can you speak so plainly before them?" I say.