He. Are you dumb, woman? Have you naught to say?

She (gleefully, aside). I had no idea I had married an Othello! (She sees the pillow on the sofa, and, crossing to it quietly, hides the pillow behind the sofa.)

He (aside). What did she mean by that?—(Aloud, fiercely.) Do you intend to deny—

She (interrupting). I have nothing to deny, I have nothing to conceal.

He. Do you deny that you confessed these fellows sought to make love to you?

She. I do not deny that. (Mischievously.) But I never thought you would worry about such trifles.

He. Trifles! madam? Trifles, indeed! (Glances in book, and quoting:)

She (surprised aside). Where did he get his blank verse?

He (aside). That seemed to tell. I’ll give her some more. (Glancing in pamphlet, and quoting:)

She (aside, jumping up with indignation). Why, it is Othello he is quoting! He is acting! He is positively playing a part! It is shameful of him! It’s not real jealousy: it’s a sham. Oh, the wretch! But I’ll pay him back! I’ll make him jealous without any make-believe.

He (aside). I’m getting on capitally. I’m making a strong impression: I am rousing her out of her nervousness. I doubt if she will want any more private theatricals now. I don’t think I shall have to repeat the lesson. This Guide to the Passions is a first-rate book: I’ll keep one in the house all the time.

She (aside). If he plays Othello, I can play Iago. I’ll give his jealousy something to feed on. I have no blank verse for him, but I’ll make him blank enough before I am done with him. Oh, the villain!

He (aside). Now let me try threatening. (Glancing in book:) “Pity the sorrows of a poor old man”—I’ve got the wrong place. That’s not threatening—that’s senility. (Turning over page.) Ah, here it is.

She (aside). And he thinks he can jest with a woman’s heart and not be punished? Oh, the wickedness of man!—(Forcibly.) Oh, if mamma were only here, now!

He (threateningly). Who are these fellows? This Tom, Dick and Harry are—are they—(hesitates, and glances in pamphlet) are they “framed to make women false?”

She (aside). Why, he’s got a book! It’s my Guide to the Passions. The wretch has actually been copying his jealousy out of my own book. (Aloud, with pretended emotion.) Dear me, Jack, you never before objected to my little flirtations. (Aside, watching him.) How will he like that?

He (aside, puzzled). “Little flirtations!” I don’t like that—I don’t like it at all.

She. They have all been attentive, of course—

He (aside). “Of course!” I don’t like that, either.

She. But I did not think you would so take to heart a few innocent endearments.

He (starting). “Innocent endearments!” Do you mean to say that they offer you any “innocent endearments?”

She (quietly). Don’t be so boisterous, Jack: you will crush my book.

He (looking at pamphlet crushed in his hand, and throwing it from him, aside). Confound the book! I do not need any prompting now.—(Aloud.) Which of these men has dared to offer you any “innocent endearments?”

She (hesitatingly). Well—I don’t know—that I ought to tell you—since you take things so queerly. But Tom—

He (forcibly). Tom?

She. Mr. Thursby, I mean. He and I are very old friends, you know—I believe we are third cousins or so—and of course I don’t stand on ceremony with him.

He. And he does not stand on ceremony with you, I suppose?

She. Oh, no. In fact, we are first-rate friends. Indeed, when Dick Carey wanted to make love to me, he was quite jealous.

He. Oh, he was jealous, was he? The fellow’s impudence is amazing! When I meet him I’ll give him a piece of my mind.

She (demurely). Are you sure you can spare it!

He. Don’t irritate me too far, Jenny: I’ve a temper of my own.

She. You seem to have lost it now.

He. Do you not see that I am in a heat about this thing? How can you sit there so calmly? You keep cool like a—(hesitates) like a—

She (interrupting). Like a burning-glass, I keep cool myself while setting you on fire? Exactly so, and I suppose you would prefer me to be a looking-glass in which you could see only yourself?

He. A wife should reflect her husband’s image, and not that of a pack of fools.

She. Come, come, Jack, you are not jealous?

He. “Jealous!” Of course I am not jealous, but I am very much annoyed.

She. I am glad that you are not jealous, for I have always heard that a jealous man has a very poor opinion of himself.—(Aside.) There’s one for him.

He. I am not jealous, but I will probe this thing to the bottom; I must know the truth.

She (aside). He is jealous now; and this is real: I am sure it is.

He. Go on, tell me more: I must get at the bottom facts. There’s nothing like truth.

She (aside). There is nothing like it in what he’s learning.

He (aside). This Carey is harmless enough, and he can’t help talking. He’s a—he’s a telescope; you have only to draw him out, and anybody can see through him. I’ll get hold of him, draw him out, and then shut him up! (Crossing excitedly.)

She (aside). How much more his real jealousy moves me than his pretence of it! He seems very much affected: no man could be as jealous as he is unless he was very much in love.

He (with affected coolness). You have told me about Tom and Dick; pray, have you nothing to say about Harry?

She. Mr. Wylde? (Enthusiastically.) He is a man after my own heart!

He. So he is after it? (Savagely.) Just let me get after him!

She (coolly). Well, if you do not like his attentions, you can take him apart and tell him so.

He (vindictively). If I took him apart he’d never get put together again!

She. Mr. Wylde is very much afraid of his wife, but when she is not there he is more devoted than either of the others.

He. “More devoted!” What else shall I hear, I wonder?

She. It was he who had to kiss me.

He (startled). What?

She. I told him not to do it. I knew I should blush if he kissed me: I always do.

He (in great agitation). You always do? Has this man ever—(breaking down.) Oh, Jenny! Jenny! you do not know what you are doing. I do not blame you—it is not your fault: it is mine. I did not know how much I loved you, and I find it out now, when it is perhaps too late.

She (aside). How I have longed for a few words of love like these! and they have come at last!

He. I have been too selfish; I have thought too much of my work and too little of your happiness. I see now what a mistake I have made.

She (aside). I cannot sit still here and see him waste his love in the air like this.

He. I shall turn over a new leaf. If you will let me I shall devote myself to you, taking care of you and making you happy.

She (aside). If he had only spoken like that before!

He. I will try to win you away from these associates: I am sure that in your heart you do not care for them. (Crossing to her.) You know that I love you: can I not hope to win you back to me?

She (aside). Once before he spoke to me of his love: I can remember every tone of his voice, every word he said.

He. Jenny, is my task hopeless?

She (quietly crossing to arm-chair). The task is easy, Jack. (Smiling.) Perhaps you think too much of these associates: perhaps you think a good deal more of them than I do. In fact, I am sure that to-night you were the one who took to private theatricals first. By the way, where’s my Guide to the Passions? Have you seen it lately?

He (half comprehending). Your Guide to the Passions? A book with a yellow cover? I think I have seen it.

She. I saw it last in your hand—just after you had been quoting Othello.

He. Othello? Oh, then you know—

She (smiling). Yes, I know. I saw, I understood, and I retaliated on the spot.

He. You retaliated?

She. I paid you off in your own coin—counterfeit, like yours.

He (joyfully). Then Tom did not make love to you?

She. Oh, yes he did—in the play.

He. And Dick is not devoted?

She. Yes, he is—in the play.

He. And Harry did not try to kiss you?

She. Indeed he did—in the play.

He. Then you have been playing a part?

She. Haven’t you?

He. Haven’t I? Certainly not. At least—Well, at least I will say nothing more about Tom or Dick or Harry.

She. And I will say nothing more of Mrs. Lightfoot.

He (dropping in chair to her right). Mrs. Lightfoot is a fine woman, my dear (she looks up), but she is not my style at all. Besides, you know, it was only as a matter of business, for the sake of our future prospects, that I took her part.

She (throwing him skein of wool). And it is only for the sake of our future happiness that I have been playing mine.

He holds the wool and she winds the ball, and the curtain falls, leaving them in the same position its rising discovered them in.

LOVE IN OLD CLOATHES.

Newe York, yᵉ 1ˢᵗ Aprile, 1883.

Yᵉ worste of my ailment is this, yᵗ it groweth not Less with much nursinge, but is like to those fevres wᶜʰ yᵉ leeches Starve, ’tis saide, for that yᵉ more Bloode there be in yᵉ Sicke man’s Bodie, yᵉ more foode is there for yᵉ Distemper to feede upon.—And it is moste fittinge yᵗ I come backe to yᵉ my Journall (wherein I have not writt a Lyne these manye months) on yᵉ 1ˢᵗ of Aprile, beinge in some Sort myne owne foole and yᵉ foole of Love, and a poore Butt on whome his hearte hath play’d a Sorry tricke.—

For it is surelie a strange happenninge, that I, who am ofte accompted a man of yᵉ Worlde, (as yᵉ Phrase goes,) sholde be soe Overtaken and caste downe lyke a Schoole-boy or a countrie Bumpkin, by a meere Mayde, & sholde set to Groaninge and Sighinge, &, for that She will not have me Sighe to Her, to Groaninge and Sighinge on paper, wᶜʰ is yᵉ greter Foolishnesse in Me, yᵗ some one maye reade it Here-after, who hath taken his dose of yᵉ same Physicke, and made no Wrye faces over it; in wᶜʰ case I doubte I shall be much laugh’d at.—Yet soe much am I a foole, and soe enamour’d of my Foolishnesse, yᵗ I have a sorte of Shamefull Joye in tellinge, even to my Journall, yᵗ I am mightie deepe in Love withe yᵉ yonge Daughter of Mistresse Ffrench, and all maye knowe what an Angell is yᵉ Daughter, since I have chose Mʳˢ. French for my Mother in Lawe.—(Though she will have none of my choosinge.)—and I likewise take comforte in yᵉ Fancie, yᵗ this poore Sheete, whᵒⁿ I write, may be made of yᵉ Raggs of some lucklesse Lover, and maye yᵉ more readilie drinke up my complaininge Inke.—

This muche I have learnt yᵗ Fraunce distilles not, nor yᵉ Indies growe not, yᵉ Remedie for my Aile.—For when I 1ˢᵗ became sensible of yᵉ folly of my Suite, I tooke to drynkinge & smoakinge, thinkinge to cure my minde, but all I got was a head ache, for fellowe to my Hearte ache.—A sorrie Payre!—I then made Shifte, for a while, withe a Bicycle, but breakinge of Bones mendes no breakinge of Heartes, and 60 myles a Daye bringes me no nearer to a Weddinge.—This being Lowe Sondaye, (wᶜʰ my Hearte telleth me better than yᵉ Allmanack,) I will goe to Churche; wh. I maye chaunce to see her.—Laste weeke, her Eastre bonnett vastlie pleas’d me, beinge most cunninglie devys’d in yᵉ mode of oure Grandmothers, and verie lyke to a coales Scuttle, of white satine.—

2ⁿᵈ Aprile.

I trust I make no more moane, than is just for a man in my case, but there is small comforte in lookinge at yᵉ backe of a white Satine bonnett for two Houres, and I maye saye as much.—Neither any cheere in Her goinge out of yᵉ Churche, & Walkinge downe yᵉ Avenue, with a Puppe by yᵉ name of Williamson.

4ᵗʰ Aprile.

Because a man have a Hatt with a Brimme to it like yᵉ Poope-Decke of a Steam-Shippe, and breeches lyke yᵉ Case of an umbrella, and have loste money on Hindoo, he is not therefore in yᵉ beste Societie.—I made this observation, at yᵉ Clubbe, last nighte, in yᵉ hearinge of Wᵐˢᵒⁿ, who made a mightie Pretence to reade yᵉ Spᵗ of yᵉ Tymes.—I doubte it was scurvie of me, but it did me muche goode.

7ᵗʰ Aprile.

Yᵉ manner of my meetinge with Her and fallinge in Love with Her (for yᵉ two were of one date) is thus.—I was made acquainte withe Her on a Wednesdaie, at yᵉ House of Mistresse Varick, (’twas a Reception,) but did not hear Her Name, nor She myne, by reason of yᵉ noise, and of Mʳˢˢᵉ Varick having but lately a newe sett of Teethe, of wh. she had not yet gott, as it were, yᵉ just Pitche and accordance.—I sayde to Her that yᵉ Weather was warm for that season of yᵉ yeare.—She made answer She thought I was right, for Mʳ Williamson had saide yᵉ same thinge to Her not a minute past.—I tolde Her She muste not holde it originall or an Invention of Wᵐˢᵒⁿ, for yᵉ Speache had beene manie yeares in my Familie.—Answer was made, She wolde be muche bounden to me if I wolde maintaine yᵉ Rightes of my Familie, and lett all others from usinge of my propertie, when perceivinge Her to be of a livelie Witt, I went about to ingage her in converse, if onlie so I mightie looke into Her Eyes, wh. were of a coloure suche as I have never seene before, more like to a Pansie, or some such flower, than anything else I can compair with them.—Shortlie we grew most friendlie, so that She did aske me if I colde keepe a Secrett.—I answering I colde, She saide She was anhungered, having Shopp’d all yᵉ forenoone since Breakfast.—She pray’d me to gett Her some Foode.—What, I ask’d.—She answer’d merrilie, a Beafesteake.—I tolde Her yᵗ that Confection was not on yᵉ Side-Boarde; but I presentlie brought Her such as there was, & She beinge behinde a Screane, I stoode in yᵉ waie, so yᵗ none mighte see Her, & She did eate and drynke as followeth, to witt—

together with divers small cates and comfeits whᵒᶠ I know not yᵉ names.

So yᵗ I was grievously afeared for Her Digestion, leste it be over-tax’d. Saide this to Her, however addinge it was my Conceite, yᵗ by some Processe, lyke Alchemie, whᵇʸ yᵉ baser metals are transmuted into golde, so yᵉ grosse mortall foode was on Her lippes chang’d to yᵉ fabled Nectar & Ambrosia of yᵉ Gods.—She tolde me ’t was a sillie Speache, yet seam’d not ill-pleas’d withall.—She hath a verie prettie Fashion, or Tricke, of smilinge, when She hath made an end of speakinge, and layinge Her finger upon Her nether Lippe, like as She wolde bid it be stille.—After some more Talke, whⁱⁿ She show’d that Her Witt was more deepe, and Her minde more seriouslie inclin’d, than I had Thoughte from our first Jestinge, She beinge call’d to go thence, I did see Her mother, whose face I knewe, & was made sensible, yᵗ I had given my Hearte to yᵉ daughter of a House wh. with myne owne had longe been at grievous Feud, for yᵉ folly of oure Auncestres.—Havinge come to wh. heavie momente in my Tale, I have no Patience to write more to-nighte.

22ⁿᵈ Aprile.

I was mynded to write no more in yˢ journall, for verie Shame’s sake, yᵗ I shoude so complayne, lyke a Childe, whose toie is taken fᵐ him, butt (mayhapp for it is nowe yᵉ fulle Moone, & a moste greavous period for them yᵗ are Love-strucke) I am fayne, lyke yᵉ Drunkarde who maye not abstayne fᵐ his cupp, to sett me anewe to recordinge of My Dolorous mishapp.—When I sawe Her agayn, She beinge aware of my name, & of yᵉ division betwixt oure Houses, wolde have none of me, butt I wolde not be putt Off, & made bolde to question Her, why She sholde showe me suche exceedᵍ Coldness.—She answer’d ’twas wel knowne what Wronge my Grandefather had done Her G.father.—I saide, She confounded me with My G.father—we were nott yᵉ same Persone, he beinge muche my Elder, & besydes Dead.—She wᵈ have it, ’twas no matter for jestinge.—I tolde Her I wolde be resolv’d, what grete Wronge yⁱˢ was.—Yᵉ more for to make Speache thⁿ for mine owne advertisemᵗ, for I knewe wel yᵉ whole Knaverie, wh. She rehears’d, Howe my G.father had cheated Her G.father of Landes upp yᵉ River, with more, howe my G.father had impounded yᵉ Cattle of Hern.—I made answer, ’twas foolishnesse, in my mynde, for yᵉ iiiᵈ Generation to so quarrell over a Parsel of rascallie Landes, yᵗ had long ago beene solde for Taxes, yᵗ as to yᵉ Cowes, I wolde make them goode, & thʳ Produce & Offspringe, if it tooke yᵉ whole Washᵗⁿ Markett.—She however tolde me yᵗ yᵉ Ffrenche family had yᵉ where wᵃˡ to buye what they lack’d in Butter, Beafe & Milke, and likewise in Veale, wh. laste I tooke muche to Hearte, wh. She seeinge, became more gracious &, on my pleadinge, accorded yᵗ I sholde have yᵉ Privilege to speake with Her when we next met.—Butt neyther then, nor at any other Tyme thᵃᶠᵗᵉʳ wolde She suffer me to visitt Her. So I was harde putt to it to compass waies of gettinge to see Her at such Houses as She mighte be att, for Routs or Feasts, or yᵉ lyke.—

But though I sawe Her manie tymes, oure converse was ever of yⁱˢ Complexⁿ, & yᵉ accursed G.father satt downe, and rose upp with us.—Yet colde I see by Her aspecte, yᵗ I had in some sorte Her favoure, & yᵗ I mislyk’d Her not so gretelie as She wᵈ have me thinke.—So yᵗ one daie, (’twas in Januarie, & verie colde,) I, beinge moste distrackt, saide to Her, I had tho’t ’twolde pleasure Her more, to be friends w. a man, who had a knave for a G.father, yⁿ with One who had no G.father att alle, lyke Wᵐˢᵒⁿ (yᵉ Puppe).—She made answer, I was exceedinge fresshe, or some such matter. She cloath’d her thoughte in phrase more befittinge a Gentlewoman.—Att this I colde no longer contayne myself, but tolde Her roundlie, I lov’d Her, & ’twas my Love made me soe unmannerlie.—And w. yⁱˢ speache I att yᵉ leaste made an End of my Uncertantie, for She bade me speake w. Her no more.—I wolde be determin’d, whether I was Naught to Her.—She made Answer She colde not justlie say I was Naught, seeing yᵗ whᵉᵛᵉʳ She mighte bee, I was One too manie.—I saide, ’twas some Comforte, I had even a Place in Her thoughtes, were it onlie in Her disfavour.—She saide, my Solace was indeede grete, if it kept pace with yᵉ measure of Her Disfavour, for, in plain Terms, She hated me, & on her intreatinge of me to goe, I went.—Yⁱˢ happ’d att ye house of Mʳˢˢ Varicke, wh. I 1ˢᵗ met Her, who (Mʳˢˢ Varicke) was for staying me, yᵗ I might eate some Ic’d Cream, butt of a Truth I was chill’d to my Taste allreadie.—Albeit I afterwards tooke to walkinge of yᵉ Streets till near Midnight.—’Twas as I saide before in Januarie & exceedinge colde.

20ᵗʰ Maie.

How wearie is yⁱˢ dulle procession of yᵉ Yeare! For it irketh my Soule yᵗ each Monthe shoude come so aptlie after yᵉ Month afore, & Nature looke so Smug, as She had done some grete thinge.—Surelie if she make no Change, she hath work’d no Miracle, for we knowe wel, what we maye look for.—Yᵉ Vine under my Window hath broughte forth Purple Blossoms, as itt hath eache Springe these xii Yeares.—I wolde have had them Redd, or Blue, or I knowe not what Coloure, for I am sicke of likinge of Purple a Dozen Springes in Order.—And wh. moste galls me is yⁱˢ, I knowe howe yⁱˢ sadd Rounde will goe on, & Maie give Place to June, & she to July, & onlie my Hearte blossom not nor my Love growe no greener.

2ⁿᵈ June.

I and my Foolishnesse, we laye Awake last night till yᵉ Sunrise gun, wh. was Shott att 4½ o’ck, & wh. beinge hearde in yᵗ stillnesse fm. an Incredible Distance, seem’d lyke as ’t were a Full Stopp, or Period putt to yⁱˢ Wakinge-Dreminge, whᵃᵗ I did turne a newe Leafe in my Counsells, and after much Meditation, have commenc’t a newe Chapter, wh. I hope maye leade to a better Conclusion, than them yᵗ came afore.—For I am nowe resolv’d, & havinge begunn wil carry to an Ende, yᵗ if I maie not over-come my Passion, I maye at yᵉ least over-com yᵉ Melanchollie, & Spleene, borne yᵒᶠ, & beinge a Lover, be none yᵉ lesse a Man.—To wh. Ende I have come to yⁱˢ Resolution, to depart fm. yᵉ Towne, & to goe to yᵉ Countrie-House of my Frend, Will Winthrop, who has often intreated me, & has instantly urg’d, yᵗ I sholde make him a Visitt.—And I take much Shame to myselfe, yᵗ I have not given him yⁱˢ Satisfaction since he was married, wh. is nowe ii Yeares.—A goode Fellowe, & I minde me a grete Burden to his Frends when he was in Love, in wh. Plight I mockt him, who am nowe, I much feare me, mockt myselfe.

3ʳᵈ June.

Pack’d my cloathes, beinge Sundaye. Yᵉ better yᵉ Daie, yᵉ better yᵉ Deede.

4ᵗʰ June.

Goe downe to Babylon to-daye.

5ᵗʰ June.

Att Babylon, att yᵉ Cottage of Will Winthrop, wh. is no Cottage, but a grete House, Red, w. Verandahs, & builded in yᵉ Fashⁿ of Her Maiestie Q. Anne.—Found a mighty Housefull of People.—Will, his Wife, a verie proper fayre Ladie, who gave me moste gracious Reception, Mʳˢˢ Smithe, yᵉ ii Gresham girles (knowne as yᵉ Titteringe Twins), Bob White, Virginia Kinge & her Mothʳ, Clarence Winthrop, & yᵉ whole Alexander Family.—A grete Gatheringe for so earlie in yᵉ Summer.—In yᵉ Afternoone play’d Lawne-Tenniss.—Had for Partner one of yᵉ Twinns, agˢᵗ Clarence Winthrop & yᵉ other Twinn, wh. by beinge Confus’d, I loste iii games.—Was voted a Duffer.—Clarence Winthrop moste unmannerlie merrie.—He call’d me yᵉ Sad-Ey’d Romeo, & lykewise cut down yᵉ Hammocke whⁱⁿ I laye, allso tied up my Cloathes wh. we were att Bath.—He sayde, he Chaw’d them, a moste barbarous worde for a moste barbarous Use.—Wh. we were Boyes, & he did yⁱˢ thinge, I was wont to trounce him Soundlie, but nowe had to contente Myselfe w. beatinge of him iii games of Billyardes in yᵉ Evg., & w. daringe of him to putt on yᵉ Gloves w. me, for Funne, wh. he mighte not doe, for I coude knocke him colde.

10ᵗʰ June.

Beinge gon to my Roome somewhatt earlie, for I found myselfe of a peevish humour, Clarence came to me, and prayᵈ a few minutes’ Speache.—Sayde ’twas Love made him so Rude & Boysterous, he was privilie betroth’d to his Cozen, Angelica Robertes, she whose Father lives at Islipp, & colde not containe Himselfe for Joye.—I sayinge, there was a Breache in yᵉ Familie, he made Answer, ’twas true, her Father & His, beinge Cozens, did hate each other moste heartilie, butt for him he cared not for that, & for Angelica, She gave not a Continentall.—But, sayde I, Your Consideration matters mightie Little, synce yᵉ Governours will not heare to it.—He answered ’twas for that he came to me, I must be his allie, for reason of oure olde Friendˢᵖ. With that I had no Hearte to heare more, he made so Light of suche a Division as parted me & my Happinesse, but tolde him I was his Frend, wolde serve him when he had Neede of me, & presentlie seeing my Humour, he made excuse to goe, & left me to write downe this, sicke in Mynde, and thinkinge ever of yᵉ Woman who wil not oute of my Thoughtes for any change of Place, neither of employe.—For indeede I doe love Her moste heartilie, so yᵗ my Wordes can not saye it, nor will yⁱˢ Booke containe it.—So I wil even goe to Sleepe, yᵗ in my Dreames perchaunce my Fancie maye do my Hearte better Service.

12ᵗʰ June.

She is here.—What Spyte is yⁱˢ of Fate & yᵉ alter’d gods! That I, who mighte nott gett to see Her when to See was to Hope, muste nowe daylie have Her in my Sight, stucke lyke a fayre Apple under olde Tantalus his Nose.—Goinge downe to yᵉ Hotell to-day, for to gett me some Tobackoe, was made aware yᵗ yᵉ Ffrench familie had hyred one of yᵉ Cottages round-abouts.—’Tis a goodlie Dwellinge Without—Would I coude speake with as much Assurance of yᵉ Innsyde!

13ᵗʰ June.

Goinge downe to yᵉ Hotell againe To-day for more Tobackoe, sawe yᵉ accursed name of Wᵐˢᵒⁿ on yᵉ Registre.—Went about to a neighboringe Farm & satt me downe behynd yᵉ Barne, for a ½ an Houre.—Frighted yᵉ Horned Cattle w. talkinge to My Selfe.

15ᵗʰ June.

I wil make an Ende to yⁱˢ Businesse.—Wil make no onger Staye here.—Sawe Her to-day, driven Home fm. ye Beache, about 4½ of yᵉ Afternoone, by Wᵐˢᵒⁿ in his Dogge-Carte, wh. yᵉ Cadde has broughten here.—Wil betake me to yᵉ Boundlesse Weste—Not yᵗ I care aught for yᵉ Boundlesse Weste, butt yᵗ I shal doe wel if haplie I leave my Memourie amᵍ yᵉ Apaches & bringe Home my Scalpe.

16ᵗʰ June.

To Fyre Islande, in Winthrop’s Yacht—yᵉ Twinnes w. us, so Titteringe & Choppinge Laughter, yᵗ ’twas worse yⁿ a Flocke of Sandpipers.—Found a grete Concourse of people there, Her amonge them, in a Suite of blue, yᵗ became Her bravelie.—She swimms lyke to a Fishe, butt everie Stroke of Her white Arms (of a lovelie Roundnesse) cleft, as ’twere my Hearte, rather yⁿ yᵉ Water.—She bow’d to me, on goinge into yᵉ Water, w. muche Dignitie, & agayn on Cominge out, but yⁱˢ Tyme w. lesse Dignitie, by reason of yᵉ Water in Her Cloathes, & Her Haire in Her Eyes.—

17ᵗʰ June.

Was for goinge awaie To-morrow, but Clarence cominge againe to my Chamber, & mightilie purswadinge of me, I feare I am comitted to a verie sillie Undertakinge.—For I am promis’d to Help him secretlie to wedd his Cozen.—He wolde take no Deniall, wolde have it, his Brother car’d Naughte, ’twas but yᵉ Fighte of theyre Fathers, he was bounde it sholde be done, & ’twere best I stoode his Witnesse, who was wel lyked of bothe yᵉ Braunches of yᵉ Family.—So ’twas agree’d, yᵗ I shal staye Home to-morrowe fm. yᵉ Expedition to Fyre Islande, feigning a Head-Ache, (wh. indeede I meante to do, in any Happ, for I cannot see Her againe,) & shall meet him at yᵉ little Churche on yᵉ Southe Roade.—He to drive to Islipp to fetch Angelica, lykewise her Witnesse, who sholde be some One of yᵉ Girles, she hadd not yet made her Choice.—I made yⁱˢ Condition, it sholde not be either of yᵉ Twinnes.—No, nor Bothe, for that matter.—Inquiringe as to yᵉ Clergyman, he sayde yᵉ Dominie was allreadie Squar’d.

Newe York, yᵉ Buckingham Hotell, 19ᵗʰ June.

I am come to yᵉ laste Entrie I shall ever putt downe in yˢ Booke, and needes must yᵗ I putt it downe quicklie, for all hath Happ’d in so short a Space, yᵗ my Heade whirles w. thynkinge of it. Yᵉ after-noone of Yesterdaye, I set about Counterfeittinge of a Head-Ache, & so wel did I compasse it, yᵗ I verilie thinke one of yᵉ Twinnes was mynded to Stay Home & nurse me.—All havinge gone off, & Clarence on his waye to Islipp, I sett forth for yᵉ Churche, where arriv’d I founde it emptie, w. yᵉ Door open.—Went in & writh’d on yᵉ hard Benches a ¼ of an Houre, when, hearinge a Sounde, I look’d up & saw standinge in yᵉ Door-waye, Katherine Ffrench.—She seem’d muche astonished, saying You Here! or yᵉ lyke.—I made Answer & sayde yᵗ though my Familie were greate Sinners, yet had they never been Excommunicate by yᵉ Churche.—She sayde, they colde not Putt Out what never was in.—While I was bethynkinge me wh. I mighte answer to yⁱˢ, she went on, sayinge I must excuse Her, She wolde goe upp in yᵉ Organ-Lofte.—I enquiring what for? She sayde to practice on yᵉ Organ.—She turn’d verie Redd, of a warm Coloure, as She sayde this.—I ask’d Do you come hither often? She replyinge Yes, I enquir’d how yᵉ Organ lyked Her.—She sayde Right well, when I made question more curiously (for She grew more Redd eache moment) how was yᵉ Action? yᵉ Tone? how manie Stopps? Whᵃᵗ She growinge gretelie Confus’d, I led Her into yᵉ Churche, & show’d Her yᵗ there was no Organ, yᵗ Choire beinge indeede a Band, of i Tuninge-Forke, i Kitt, & i Horse-Fiddle.—At this She fell to Smilinge & Blushinge att one Tyme.—She perceiv’d our Errandes were yᵉ Same, & crav’d Pardon for Her Fibb.—I tolde Her, If She came Thither to be Witness at her Frend’s Weddinge, ’twas no greate Fibb, ’twolde indeede be Practice for Her.—This havinge a rude Sound, I added I thankt yᵉ Starrs yᵗ had bro’t us Together. She sayde if yᵉ Starrs appoint’d us to meete no oftener yⁿ this Couple shoude be Wedded, She was wel content. This cominge on me lyke a last Buffett of Fate, that She shoude so despitefully intreate me, I was suddenlie Seized with so Sorrie a Humour, & withal so angrie, yᵗ I colde scarce Containe myselfe, but went & Sat downe neare yᵉ Doore, lookinge out till Clarence shd. come w. his Bride.—Looking over my Sholder, I sawe yᵗ She wente fm. Windowe to Windowe within, Pluckinge yᵉ Blossoms fm. yᵉ Vines, & settinge them in her Girdle.—She seem’d most tall and faire, & swete to look uponn, & itt Anger’d me yᵉ More.—Meanwhiles, She discours’d pleasantlie, asking me manie questions, to the wh. I gave but shorte and churlish answers. She ask’d Did I nott Knowe Angelica Roberts was Her best Frend? How longe had I knowne of yᵉ Betrothal? Did I thinke ’twolde knitt yᵉ House together, & Was it not Sad to see a Familie thus Divided?—I answer’d Her, I wd. not robb a Man of yᵉ precious Righte to Quarrell with his Relations.—And then, with meditatinge on yᵉ goode Lucke of Clarence, & my owne harde Case, I had suche a sudden Rage of peevishness yᵗ I knewe scarcelie what I did.—Soe when she ask’d me merrilie why I turn’d my Backe on Her, I made Reply I had turn’d my Backe on much Follie.—Wh. was no sooner oute of my Mouthe than I was mightilie Sorrie for it, and turninge aboute, I perceiv’d She was in Teares & weepinge bitterlie. Whᵃᵗ my Hearte wolde holde no More, & I rose upp & tooke Her in my arms & Kiss’d & Comforted Her, She makinge no Denyal, but seeminge greatlie to Neede such Solace, wh. I was not Loathe to give Her.—Whiles we were at This, onlie She had gott to Smilinge, & to sayinge of Things which even yⁱˢ paper shal not knowe, came in yᵉ Dominie, sayinge He judg’d We were the Couple he came to Wed.—With him yᵉ Sexton & yᵉ Sexton’s Wife.—My swete Kate, alle as rosey as Venus’s Nape, was for Denyinge of yⁱˢ, butt I wolde not have it, & sayde Yes.—She remonstrating w. me, privilie, I tolde Her She must not make me Out a Liar, yᵗ to Deceave yᵉ Man of God were a greavous Sinn, yᵗ I had gott Her nowe, & wd. not lett her Slipp from me, & did soe Talke Her Downe, & w. such Strengthe of joie, yᵗ allmost before She knewe it, we Stoode upp, & were Wed, w. a Ringe (tho’ She Knewe it nott) wh. belong’d to My G father. (Him yᵗ Cheated Herⁿ.)—

Wh was no sooner done, than in came Clarence & Angelica, & were Wedded in theyre Turn.—The Clergyman greatelie surprised, but more att yᵉ Largeness of his Fee.

This Businesse being Ended, we fled by yᵉ Trayne of 4½ o’cke, to yⁱˢ Place, where we wait till yᵉ Bloode of all yᵉ Ffrenches have Tyme to coole downe, for yᵉ wise Mann who meeteth his Mother in Lawe yᵉ 1ˢᵗ tyme, wil meete her when she is Milde.—

And so I close yⁱˢ Journall, wh., tho’ for yᵉ moste Parte ’tis but a peevish Scrawle, hath one Page of Golde, whᵒⁿ I have writt yᵉ laste strange Happ whᵇʸ I have layd Williamson by yᵉ Heeles & found me yᵉ sweetest Wife yᵗ ever stopp’d a man’s Mouthe w. kisses for writinge of Her Prayses.

Stories by American Authors

Messrs. Charles Scribner’s Sons have in hand a publication of unusual importance and interest, in the volumes of “Stories by American Authors,” of which they have just begun the issue.

The books carry their sufficient explanation in their brief title. They are collections of the more noteworthy short stories contributed by American writers during the last twenty-five years—and especially during the last ten—either to periodicals or publications now for some reason not easily accessible.

It is surprising that such a collection has not been attempted earlier, in view of the extraordinarily large proportion of strong work in American fiction which has been cast in the form of the short story.

If the publishers of the present collection are right, it will not only show the remarkably large number of contemporary American authors who have won general acknowledgment of their excellence in this field, but will surprise most readers by the number of capital and striking stories by less frequent writers, which are scattered through our recent periodical literature.

In England, in the well-known “Tales from Blackwood,” the experiment was tried of publishing such stories taken from a single magazine within a limited time. But the noticeable feature of the present volumes will be seen to be the extent of the field from which they draw, and their fully representative character.

Cloth, 16mo, 50 cents each.

The following is an alphabetical list of the stories contained in the first six volumes of the series which are now ready:

Balacchi Brothers, The. By Rebecca Harding Davis. Vol. I.

Brother Sebastian’s Friendship. By Harold Frederic. Vol. VI.

Denver Express, The. By A. A. Hayes. Vol. VI.

Dinner Party, A. By John Eddy. Vol. II.

Documents in the Case, The. By Brander Matthews and H. C. Bunner. Vol. I.

End of New York, The. By Park Benjamin. Vol. V.

Friend Barton’s Concern. By Mary Hallock Foote. Vol. IV.

Heartbreak Cameo, The. By Lizzie W. Champney. Vol. VI.

Inspired Lobbyist, An. By J. W. De Forest. Vol. IV.

Light Man, A. By Henry James. Vol. V.

Lost in the Fog. By Noah Brooks. Vol. IV.

Love in Old Cloathes. By H. C. Bunner. Vol. IV.

Martyr to Science, A. By Mary Putnam Jacobi, M.D. Vol. II.

Memorable Murder, A. By Celia Thaxter. Vol. III.

Miss Grief. By Constance Fenimore Woolson. Vol. IV.

Miss Eunice’s Glove. By Albert Webster. Vol. VI.

Misfortunes of Bro’ Thomas Wheatley, The. By Lina Redwood Fairfax. Vol. VI.

Mount of Sorrow, The. By Harriet Prescott Spofford. Vol. II.

Mrs. Knollys. By “J. S. of Dale.” Vol. II.

Operation in Money, An. By Albert Webster. Vol. I.

Poor Ogla-Moga. By David D. Lloyd. Vol. III.

Sister Silvia. By Mary Agnes Tincker. Vol. II.

Spider’s Eye, The. By Lucretia P. Hale. Vol. III.

Story of the Latin Quarter, A. By Frances Hodgson Burnett. Vol. III.

Tachypomp, The. By E. P. Mitchell. Vol. V.

Thirty Pieces, One of the. By W. H. Bishop. Vol. I.

Transferred Ghost, The. By Frank R. Stockton. Vol. II.

Two Buckets in a Well. By N. P. Willis. Vol. IV.

Two Purse Companions. By George Parsons Lathrop. Vol. III.

Venetian Glass. By Brander Matthews. Vol. III.

Village Convict, The. By C. H. White. Vol. VI.

Who was She? By Bayard Taylor. Vol. I.

Why Thomas was Discharged. By George Arnold. Vol. V.

Yatil. By F. D. Millet. Vol. V.