“It seems curious, doesn’t it?” and Uncle Larry tried to warm himself by

two or three sharp pulls at his fiery little cigar. “And the circumstances

are quite as curious as the fact itself. You see, Miss Sutton wouldn’t be

married for a year after her mother’s death, so she and Duncan had lots

of time to tell each other all they knew. Eliphalet, he got to know a

good deal about the girls she went to school with, and Kitty, she learned

all about his family. He didn’t tell her about the title for a long time,

as he wasn’t one to brag. But he described to her the little old house

at Salem. And one evening toward the end of the summer, the wedding-day

having been appointed for early in September, she told him that she didn’t

want a bridal tour at all; she just wanted to go down to the little old

house at Salem to spend her honeymoon in peace and quiet, with nothing to

do and nobody to bother them. Well, Eliphalet jumped at the suggestion:

it suited him down to the ground. All of a sudden he remembered the

spooks, and it knocked him all of a heap. He had told her about the Duncan

banshee, and the idea of having an ancestral ghost in personal attendance

on her husband tickled her immensely. But he had never said anything about

the ghost which haunted the little old house at Salem. He knew she would

be frightened out of her wits if the house ghost revealed itself to her,

and he saw at once that it would be impossible to go to Salem on their

wedding trip. So he told her all about it, and how whenever he went to

Salem the two ghosts interfered, and gave dark séances and manifested and

materialized and made the place absolutely impossible. Kitty, she listened

in silence, and Eliphalet, he thought she had changed her mind. But she

hadn’t done anything of the kind.”

“Just like a man--to think she was going to,” remarked Baby Van Rensselaer.

“She just told him she could not bear ghosts herself, but she would not

marry a man who was afraid of them.”

“Just like a girl--to be so inconsistent,” remarked Dear Jones.

Uncle Larry’s tiny cigar had long been extinct. He lighted a new one,

and continued: “Eliphalet protested in vain. Kitty said her mind was

made up. She was determined to pass her honeymoon in the little old

house at Salem, and she was equally determined not to go there as long as

there were any ghosts there. Until he could assure her that the spectral

tenant had received notice to quit, and that there was no danger of

manifestations and materializing, she refused to be married at all. She

did not intend to have her honeymoon interrupted by two wrangling ghosts,

and the wedding could be postponed until he had made ready the house for

her.”

“She was an unreasonable young woman,” said the Duchess.

“Well, that’s what Eliphalet thought, much as he was in love with her. And

he believed he could talk her out of her determination. But he couldn’t.

She was set. And when a girl is set, there’s nothing to do but to yield to

the inevitable. And that’s just what Eliphalet did. He saw he would either

have to give her up or to get the ghosts out; and as he loved her and did

not care for the ghosts, he resolved to tackle the ghosts. He had clear

grit, Eliphalet had--he was half Scotch and half Yankee, and neither breed

turns tail in a hurry. So he made his plans and he went down to Salem. As

he said good-by to Kitty he had an impression that she was sorry she had

made him go, but she kept up bravely, and put a bold face on it, and saw

him off, and went home and cried for an hour, and was perfectly miserable

until he came back the next day.”

“Did he succeed in driving the ghosts away?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer,

with great interest.

“That’s just what I’m coming to,” said Uncle Larry, pausing at the

critical moment, in the manner of the trained story-teller. “You see,

Eliphalet had got a rather tough job, and he would gladly have had an

extension of time on the contract, but he had to choose between the girl

and the ghosts, and he wanted the girl. He tried to invent or remember

some short and easy way with ghosts, but he couldn’t. He wished that

somebody had invented a specific for spooks--something that would make the

ghosts come out of the house and die in the yard. He wondered if he could

not tempt the ghosts to run in debt, so that he might get the sheriff to

help him. He wondered also whether the ghosts could not be overcome with

strong drink--a dissipated spook, a spook with delirium tremens, might

be committed to the inebriate asylum. But none of these things seemed

feasible.”

“What did he do?” interrupted Dear Jones. “The learned counsel will please

speak to the point.”

“You will regret this unseemly haste,” said Uncle Larry, gravely, “when

you know what really happened.”

“What was it, Uncle Larry?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer. “I’m all

impatience.”

And Uncle Larry proceeded:

“Eliphalet went down to the little old house at Salem, and as soon as

the clock struck twelve the rival ghosts began wrangling as before. Raps

here, there, and everywhere, ringing bells, banging tambourines, strumming

banjos sailing about the room, and all the other manifestations and

materializations followed one another just as they had the summer before.

The only difference Eliphalet could detect was a stronger flavor in the

spectral profanity; and this, of course, was only a vague impression, for

he did not actually hear a single word. He waited awhile in patience,

listening and watching. Of course he never saw either of the ghosts,

because neither of them could appear to him. At last he got his dander

up, and he thought it was about time to interfere, so he rapped on the

table, and asked for silence. As soon as he felt that the spooks were

listening to him he explained the situation to them. He told them he was

in love, and that he could not marry unless they vacated the house. He

appealed to them as old friends, and he laid claim to their gratitude.

The titular ghost had been sheltered by the Duncan family for hundreds of

years, and the domiciliary ghost had had free lodging in the little old

house at Salem for nearly two centuries. He implored them to settle their

differences, and to get him out of his difficulty at once. He suggested

that they had better fight it out then and there, and see who was master.

He had brought down with him all needful weapons. And he pulled out his

valise, and spread on the table a pair of navy revolvers, a pair of

shot-guns, a pair of duelling swords, and a couple of bowie-knives. He

offered to serve as second for both parties, and to give the word when

to begin. He also took out of his valise a pack of cards and a bottle

of poison, telling them that if they wished to avoid carnage they might

cut the cards to see which one should take the poison. Then he waited

anxiously for their reply. For a little space there was silence. Then he

became conscious of a tremulous shivering in one corner of the room, and

he remembered that he had heard from that direction what sounded like a

frightened sigh when he made the first suggestion of the duel. Something

told him that this was the domiciliary ghost, and that it was badly

scared. Then he was impressed by a certain movement in the opposite corner

of the room, as though the titular ghost were drawing himself up with

offended dignity. Eliphalet couldn’t exactly see these things, because he

never saw the ghosts, but he felt them. After a silence of nearly a minute

a voice came from the corner where the family ghost stood--a voice strong

and full, but trembling slightly with suppressed passion. And this voice

told Eliphalet it was plain enough that he had not long been the head of

the Duncans, and that he had never properly considered the characteristics

of his race if now he supposed that one of his blood could draw his sword

against a woman. Eliphalet said he had never suggested that the Duncan

ghost should raise his hand against a woman, and all he wanted was that

the Duncan ghost should fight the other ghost. And then the voice told

Eliphalet that the other ghost was a woman.”

“What?” said Dear Jones, sitting up suddenly. “You don’t mean to tell me

that the ghost which haunted the house was a woman?”

“Those were the very words Eliphalet Duncan used,” said Uncle Larry;

“but he did not need to wait for the answer. All at once he recalled the

traditions about the domiciliary ghost, and he knew that what the titular

ghost said was the fact. He had never thought of the sex of a spook,

but there was no doubt whatever that the house ghost was a woman. No

sooner was this firmly fixed in Eliphalet’s mind than he saw his way out

of the difficulty. The ghosts must be married!--for then there would be

no more interference, no more quarrelling, no more manifestations and

materializations, no more dark séances, with their raps and bells and

tambourines and banjos. At first the ghosts would not hear of it. The

voice in the corner declared that the Duncan wraith had never thought of

matrimony. But Eliphalet argued with them, and pleaded and persuaded and

coaxed, and dwelt on the advantages of matrimony. He had to confess, of

course, that he did not know how to get a clergyman to marry them; but the

voice from the corner gravely told him that there need be no difficulty

in regard to that, as there was no lack of spiritual chaplains. Then, for

the first time, the house ghost spoke, in a low, clear, gentle voice, and

with a quaint, old-fashioned New England accent, which contrasted sharply

with the broad Scotch speech of the family ghost. She said that Eliphalet

Duncan seemed to have forgotten that she was married. But this did not

upset Eliphalet at all; he remembered the whole case clearly, and he told

her she was not a married ghost, but a widow, since her husband had been

hung for murdering her. Then the Duncan ghost drew attention to the great

disparity in their ages, saying that he was nearly four hundred and fifty

years old, while she was barely two hundred. But Eliphalet had not talked

to juries for nothing; he just buckled to, and coaxed those ghosts into

matrimony. Afterward he came to the conclusion that they were willing to

be coaxed, but at the time he thought he had pretty hard work to convince

them of the advantages of the plan.”

“Did he succeed?” asked Baby Van Rensselaer, with a young lady’s interest

in matrimony.

“He did,” said Uncle Larry. “He talked the wraith of the Duncans and the

spectre of the little old house at Salem into a matrimonial engagement.

And from the time they were engaged he had no more trouble with them.

They were rival ghosts no longer. They were married by their spiritual

chaplain the very same day that Eliphalet Duncan met Kitty Sutton in front

of the railing of Grace Church. The ghostly bride and bridegroom went away

at once on their bridal tour, and Lord and Lady Duncan went down to the

little old house at Salem to pass their honeymoon.”

Uncle Larry stopped. His tiny cigar was out again. The tale of the rival

ghosts was told. A solemn silence fell on the little party on the deck of

the ocean steamer, broken harshly by the hoarse roar of the fog-horn.

A LETTER AND A PARAGRAPH.

BY H. C. BUNNER.

I.

THE LETTER.

NEW YORK, Nov. 16, 1883.

MY DEAR WILL:--

You cannot be expected to remember it, but this is the fifth anniversary

of my wedding-day, and to-morrow--it will be to-morrow before this letter

is closed--is my birthday--my fortieth. My head is full of those thoughts

which the habit of my life moves me to put on paper, where I can best

express them; and yet which must be written for only the friendliest of

eyes. It is not the least of my happiness in this life that I have one

friend to whom I can unlock my heart as I can to you.

The wife has just been putting your namesake to sleep. Don’t infer that,

even on the occasion of this family feast, he has been allowed to sit up

until half past eleven. He went to bed properly enough, with a tear or

two, at eight; but when his mother stole into his room just now, after her

custom, I heard his small voice raised in drowsy inquiry; and I followed

her, and slipped the curtain of the doorway aside, and looked. But I did

not go into the room.

The shaded lamp was making a yellow glory in one spot--the head of the

little brass crib where my wife knelt by my boy. I saw the little face,

so like hers, turned up to her. There was a smile on it that I knew was a

reflection of hers. He was winking in a merry half-attempt to keep awake;

but wakefulness was slipping away from him under the charm of that smile

that I could not see. His brown eyes closed, and opened for an instant,

and closed again as the tender, happy hush of a child’s sleep settled down

upon him, and he was gone where we in our heavier slumbers shall hardly

follow him. Then, before I could see my wife’s face as she bent and kissed

him, I let the curtain fall, and crept back here, to sit by the last of

the fire, and see that sacred sight again with the spiritual eyes, and

to dream wonderingly over the unspeakable happiness that has in some

mysterious way come to me, undeserving.

I tell you, Will, that moment was to me like one of those moments of

waking that we know in childhood, when we catch the going of a dream too

subtly sweet to belong to this earth--a glad vision, gone before our eyes

can open wide; not to be figured into any earthly idea, leaving in its

passage a joy so high and fine that the poets tell us it is a memory of

some heaven from which our young souls are yet fresh.

You can understand how it is that I find it hard to realize that there can

be such things in my life; for you know what that life was up to a few

years ago. I am like a man who has spent his first thirty years in a cave.

It takes more than a decade above ground to make him quite believe in the

sun and the blue of the sky.

I was sitting just now before the hearth, with my feet in the bearskin

rug you sent us two Christmases ago. The light of the low wood fire was

chasing the shadows around the room, over my books and my pictures, and

all the fine and gracious luxuries with which I may now make my eyes and

my heart glad, and pamper the tastes that grow with feeding. I was taking

count, so to speak, of my prosperity--the material treasures, the better

treasure that I find in such portion of fame as the world has allotted me,

and the treasure of treasures across the threshold of the next room--in

the next room? No--there, here, in every room, in every corner of the

house, filling it with peace, is the gentle and holy spirit of love.

As I sat and thought, my mind went back to the day that you and I first

met, twenty-two years ago--twenty-two in February next. In twenty-two

years more I could not forget that hideous first day in the city room of

the _Morning Record_. I can see the great gloomy room, with its meagre

gas-jets lighting up, here and there, a pale face at a desk, and bringing

out in ghastly spots the ugliness of the ink-smeared walls. A winter rain

was pouring down outside. I could feel its chill and damp in the room,

though little of it was to be seen through the grimy window-panes. The

composing-room in the rear sent a smell of ink and benzine to permeate

the moist atmosphere. The rumble and shiver of the great presses printing

the weekly came up from below. I sat there in my wet clothes and waited

for my first assignment. I was eighteen, poor as a church mouse, green,

desperately hopeful after a boy’s fashion, and with nothing in my head

but the Latin and Greek of my one single year at college. My spirit had

sunk down far out of sight. My heart beat nervously at every sound of that

awful city editor’s voice, as he called up his soldiers one by one and

assigned them to duty. I could only silently pray that he would “give me

an easy one,” and that I should not disgrace myself in the doing of it. By

Jove, Will, what an old martinet Baldwin was, for all his good heart! Do

you remember that sharp, crackling voice of his, and the awful “Be brief!

be brief!” that always drove all capacity for condensation out of a man’s

head, and set him to stammering out his story with wordy incoherence?

Baldwin is on the _Record_ still. I wonder what poor devil is trembling at

this hour under that disconcerting adjuration.

A wretched day that was! The hours went slow as grief. Smeary little

bare-armed fiends trotted in from the composing-room and out again,

bearing fluttering galley-proofs. Bedraggled, hollow-eyed men came in

from the streets and set their soaked umbrellas to steam against the

heater, and passed into the lion’s den to feed him with news, and were

sent out again to take up their half-cooked umbrellas and go forth

to forage for more. Everyone, I thought, gave me one brief glance of

contempt and curiosity, and put me out of his thoughts. Everyone had some

business--everyone but me. The men who had been waiting with me were

called up one by one and detailed to work. I was left alone.

Then a new horror came to torture my nervously active imagination. Had my

superior officer forgotten his new recruit? Or could he find no task mean

enough for my powers? This filled me at first with a sinking shame, and

then with a hot rage and sense of wrong. Why should he thus slight me? Had

I not a right to be tried, at least? Was there any duty he could find that

I would not perform or die? I would go to him and tell him that I had come

there to work; and would make him give me the work. No, I should simply be

snubbed, and sent to my seat like a school-boy, or perhaps discharged on

the spot. I must bear my humiliation in silence.

I looked up and saw you entering, with your bright, ruddy boy’s face

shining with wet, beaming a greeting to all the room. In my soul I cursed

you, at a venture, for your lightheartedness and your look of cheery

self-confidence. What a vast stretch of struggle and success set you above

me--you, the reporter, above me, the novice! And just then came the awful

summons--“Barclay! Barclay!”--I shall hear that strident note at the

judgment day. I went in and got my orders, and came out with them, all in

a sort of daze that must have made Baldwin think me an idiot. And then you

came up to me and scraped acquaintance in a desultory way, to hide your

kind intent; and gave me a hint or two as to how to obtain a full account

of the biennial meeting of the Post-Pliocene Mineralogical Society, or

whatever it was, without diving too deeply into the Post-Pliocene period.

I would have fought for you to the death, at that moment.

’Twas a small matter, but the friendship begun in manly and helpful

kindness has gone on for twenty-two years in mutual faith and loyalty; and

the growth dignifies the seed.

A sturdy growth it was in its sapling days. It was in the late spring that

we decided to take the room together in St. Mark’s Place. A big room and a

poor room, indeed, on the third story of that “battered caravanserai,” and

for twelve long years it held us and our hopes and our despairs and our

troubles and our joys.

I don’t think I have forgotten one detail of that room. There is the

generous old fireplace, insultingly bricked up by modern poverty, all save

the meagre niche that holds our fire--when we can have a fire. There is

the great second-hand table--our first purchase--where we sit and work

for immortality in the scant intervals of working for life. Your drawer,

with the manuscript of your “Concordance of Political Economy,” is to

the right. Mine is to the left; it holds the unfinished play, and the

poems that might better have been unfinished. There are the two narrow

cots--yours to the left of the door as you enter; mine to the right.

How strange that I can see it all so clearly, now that all is different!

Yet I can remember myself coming home at one o’clock at night, dragging

my tired feet up those dark, still, tortuous stairs, gripping the shaky

baluster for aid. I open the door--I can feel the little old-fashioned

brass knob in my palm even now--and I look to the left. Ah, you are

already at home and in bed. I need not look toward the table. There is

money--a little--in the common treasury; and, in accordance with our

regular compact, I know there stand on that table twin bottles of beer,

half a loaf of rye bread, and a double palm’s-breadth of Swiss cheese.

You are staying your hunger in sleep; for one may not eat until the other

comes. I will wake you up, and we shall feast together and talk over the

day that is dead and the day that is begun.

Strange, is it not, that I should have some trouble to realize that this

is only a memory,--I, with my feet in the bearskin rug that it would have

beggared the two of us, or a dozen like us, to purchase in those days.

Strange that my mind should be wandering on the crude work of my boyhood

and my early manhood. I who have won name and fame, as the world would

say. I, to whom young men come for advice and encouragement, as to a tried

veteran! Strange that I should be thinking of a time when even your true

and tireless friendship could not quench a subtle hunger at my heart, a

hunger for a more dear and intimate comradeship. I, with the tenderest of

wives scarce out of my sight; even in her sleep she is no further from me

than my own soul.

Strangest of all this, that the mad agony of grief, the passion of

desolation that came upon me when our long partnership was dissolved

for ever, should now be nothing but a memory, like other memories, to

be summoned up out of the resting-places of the mind, toyed with, idly

questioned, and dismissed with a sigh and a smile! What a real thing it

was just ten years ago; what a very present pain! Believe me, Will,--yes,

I want you to believe this--that in those first hours of loneliness I

could have welcomed death; death would have fallen upon me as calmly as

sleep has fallen upon my boy in the room beyond there.

You knew nothing of this then; I suppose you but half believe it now; for

our parting was manly enough. I kept as stiff an upper lip as you did,

for all there was less hair on it. Perhaps it seems extravagant to you.

But there was a deal of difference between our cases. You had turned your

pen to money-making, at the call of love; you were going to Stillwater to

marry the judge’s daughter, and to become a great land-owner and mayor

of Stillwater and millionaire--or what is it now? And much of this you

foresaw or hoped for, at least. Hope is something. But for me? I was left

in the third-story of a poor lodging-house in St. Mark’s Place, my best

friend gone from me; with neither remembrance nor hope of Love to live on,

and with my last story back from _all_ the magazines.

We will not talk about it. Let me get back to my pleasant library with the

books and the pictures and the glancing fire-light, and me with my feet in

your bearskin rug, listening to my wife’s step in the next room.

To your ear, for our communion has been so long and so close that to

either one of us the faintest inflection of the other’s voice speaks

clearer than formulated words; to your ear there must be something akin

to a tone of regret--regret for the old days--in what I have just said.

And would it be strange if there were? A poor soldier of fortune who had

been set to a man’s work before he had done with his meagre boyhood, who

had passed from recruit to the place of a young veteran in that great,

hard-fighting, unresting pioneer army of journalism; was he the man, all

of a sudden, to stretch his toughened sinews out and let them relax in

the glow of the home hearth? Would not his legs begin to twitch for the

road; would he not be wild to feel again the rain in his weather-beaten

face? Would you think it strange if at night he should toss in his white,

soft bed, longing to change it for a blanket on the turf, with the broad

procession of sunlit worlds sweeping over his head, beyond the blue spaces

of the night? And even if the dear face on the pillow next him were to

wake and look at him with reproachful surprise; and even if warm arms drew

him back to his new allegiance; would not his heart in dreams go throbbing

to the rhythm of the drum or the music of songs sung by the camp-fire?

It was so at the beginning, in the incredible happiness of the first year,

and even after the boy’s birth. Do you know, it was months before I could

accept that boy as a _fact_? If, at any moment, he had vanished from my

sight, crib and all, I should not have been surprised. I was not sure of

him until he began to show his mother’s eyes.

Yes, even in those days some of the old leaven worked in me. I had moments

of that old barbaric freedom which we used to rejoice in--that feeling of

being answerable to nothing in the world save my own will--the sense of

untrammeled, careless power.

Do you remember the night that we walked till sunrise? You remember how

hot it was at midnight, when we left the office, and how the moonlight

on the statue above the City Hall seemed to invite us fieldward, where

no gaslight glared, no torches flickered. So we walked idly northward,

through the black, silence-stricken down-town streets; through that

feverish, unresting central region that lies between the vileness of

Houston Street and the calm and spacious dignity of the brown-stone ways,

where the closed and darkened dwellings looked like huge tombs in the

pallid light of the moon. We passed the suburban belt of shanties; we

passed the garden-girt villas beyond them, and it was from the hill above

Spuyten Duyvil that we saw the first color of the morning upon the face of

the Palisades.

It would have taken very little in that moment to set us off to tramping

the broad earth, for the pure joy of free wayfaring. What was there to

hold us back? No tie of home or kin. All we had in the world to leave

behind us was some futile scribbling on various sheets of paper. And of

that sort of thing both our heads were full enough. I think it was but the

veriest chance that, having begun that walk, we did not go on and get our

fill of wandering, and ruin our lives.

Well, that same wild, adventurous spirit came upon me now and then. There

were times when, for the moment, I forgot that I had a wife and a child.

There were times when I remembered them as a burden. Why should I not say

this? It is the history of every married man,--at least of every manly

man,--though he be married to the best woman in the world. It means no

lack of love. It is as unavoidable as the leap of the blood in you that

answers a trumpet-call.

At first I was frightened, and fought against it as against something

that might grow upon me. I reproached myself for disloyalty in thought.

Ah! what need had _I_ to fight? What need had I to choke down rebellious

fancies, while my wife’s love was working that miracle that makes two

spirits one.

What is it, this union that comes to us as a surprise, and remains for all

outside an incommunicable mystery? What is this that makes our unmarried

love seem so slight and childish a thing? You and I, who know it, know

that it is no mere fruit of intimacy and usage, although in its growth it

keeps pace with these. We know that in some subtle way it has been given

to a man to see a woman’s soul as he sees his own, and to a woman to look

into a man’s heart as if it were, indeed, hers. But the friend who sits

at my table, seeing that my wife and I understand each other at a simple

meeting of the eyes, makes no more of it than he does of the glance of

intelligence which, with close friends, often takes the place of speech.

He never dreams of the sweet delight with which we commune together in a

language that he cannot understand--that he cannot hear--a language that

has no formulated words, feeling answering feeling.

It is not wonderful that I should wish to give expression to the gratitude

with which I have seen my life made to blossom thus; my thankfulness for

the love which has made me not only a happier, but, I humbly believe, a

wiser and a better-minded man. But I know too well the hopelessness of

trying to find words to describe what, were I a poet, my best song might

but faintly, faintly echo.

I thought I heard a rustle behind me just now. In a little while my wife

will come softly into the room, and softly up to where I am sitting,

stepping silently across your bearskin rug, and will lay one hand softly

on my left shoulder, while the other slips down this arm with which I

write, until it falls and closes lightly, yet with loving firmness, on my

hand that holds the pen. And I shall say, “Only the last words to Will and

his wife, dear.” And she will release my hand, and will lift her own, I

think, to caress the patch of gray hair on my temple; it is a way she has,

as though it were some pitiful scar, and she will say, “Give them my love,

and tell them they must not fail us this Christmas. I want them to see

how our Willy has grown.” And when she says “Our Willy,” the hand on my

shoulder will instinctively close a little, clingingly; and she will bend

her head, and put her face close to mine, and I shall turn to look into

her eyes.

* * * * *

Bear with me, my dear Will, until I have told you why I have written this

letter and what it means. I have concealed one thing from you for the last

six months. I have disease of the heart, and the doctor has told me that

I may die at any moment. Somehow, I think--I know the moment is close at

hand; I shall soon go to that narrow cot on the right of the door, and I

do not believe I shall wake up in the morning with the sun in my eyes, to

look across the room and see that its companion is gone.

For I am in the old room, Will, as you know, and it is not ten years since

you went away, but two days. The picture that has seemed real to me as I

wrote these pages is fading, and the thin gas-jet flickers and sinks as it

always did in these first morning hours. I can hear the roar of the last

Harlem train swell and sink, and the sharp clink of car-bells break the

silence that follows. The wind is gasping and struggling in the chimney,

and blowing a white powdery ash down on the hearth. I have just burnt my

poems and the play. Both the table drawers are empty now; and soon enough

the two empty chairs will stare at each other across the bare table. What

a wild dream have I dreamt in all this emptiness! Just now, I thought

indeed that it was true. I thought I heard a woman’s step behind me, and I

turned--

Peace be with you, Will, in the fullness of your love. I am going to

sleep. Perhaps I shall dream it all again, and shall hear that soft

footfall when the turn of the night comes, and the pale light through the

ragged blind, and the end of a long loneliness.

After I am dead, I wish you to think of me not as I was, but as I wanted

to be. I have tried to show you that I have led by your side a happier and

dearer life of hope and aspiration than the one you saw. I have tried to

leave your memory a picture of me that you will not shrink from calling

up when you have a quiet hour and time for thought of the friend whom you

knew well; but whom you may, perhaps, know better now that he is dead.

REGINALD BARCLAY.

II.

THE PARAGRAPH.

[From the _New York Herald_ of Nov. 18, 1883.]

Reginald Barclay, a journalist, was found dead in his bed at 15 St.

Mark’s Place, yesterday morning. No inquest was held, as Mr. Barclay

had been known to be suffering from disease of the heart, and his death

was not unexpected. The deceased came originally from Oneida County,

and was regarded as a young journalist of considerable promise. He had

been for some years on the city staff of the _Record_, and was the

correspondent of several out-of-town papers. He had also contributed to

the monthly magazines, occasional poems and short stories, which showed

the possession, in some measure, of the imaginative faculty. Mr. Barclay

was about thirty years of age, and unmarried.

PLAYING A PART: A COMEDY FOR AMATEUR ACTING.

BY BRANDER MATTHEWS.

_The Scene is a handsomely-furnished parlor, with a general air of home

comfort. A curtained window on each side of the central fireplace would

light the room if it were not evening, as the lamp on the work-table in

the centre of the room informs us. At one side of the work-table is the

wife, winding a ball of worsted from a skein which her husband holds in

his hands._

_He_ (_looking at watch, aside_). This wool takes as long to wind up as a

bankrupt estate. (_Fidgets._)

_She._ Do keep still, Jack! Stop fidgeting and jumping around.

_He._ When you pull the string, Jenny, I am always a jumping-jack to dance

attendance on you.

_She_ (_seriously_). Very pretty, indeed! It was true too--once--before we

were married: now you lead me a different dance.

_He._ I am your partner still.

_She_ (_sadly_). But the figure is always the Ladies’ Chain.

_He_ (_aside_). If I don’t get away soon I sha’n’t be able to do any work

to-night.--(_Aloud_). What do you mean by that solemn tone?

_She._ Oh, nothing--nothing of any consequence.

_He_ (_aside_). We look like two fools acting in private theatricals.

_She_ (_finishing ball of worsted_). That will do: thank you. Do not let

me detain you: I know you are in a hurry.

_He._ I have my work to do.

_She._ So it seems; and it takes all day and half the night.

_He_ (_rising and going to fireplace_). I am working hard for our future

happiness.

_She_ (_quietly_). I should like a little of the happiness now.

_He_ (_standing with back to fireplace_). Are you unhappy?

_She._ Oh no--not very.

_He._ Do you not have everything you wish?

_She._ Oh yes--except the one thing I want most.

_He._ Well, my dear, I am at home as much as I can be.

_She._ So you think I meant you?

_He_ (_embarrassed_). Well--I did suppose--that--

_She._ Yes, I used to want you. The days were long enough while you were

away, and I waited for your return. Now I have been alone so much that I

am getting accustomed to solitude. And I do not really know what it is I

do want. I am listless, nervous, good-for-nothing--

_He_ (_gallantly_). You are good enough for me.

_She._ You did think so once; and perhaps you would think so again--if you

could spare the time to get acquainted with me.

_He_ (_surprised_). Jenny, are you ill?

_She._ Not more so than usual. I was bright enough two years ago, when we

were married. But for two years I have not lived, I have vegetated; more

like a plant than a human being; and even plants require some sunshine.

_He_ (_aside_). I have never heard her talk like this before. I don’t

understand it.--(_Aloud._) Why, Jenny, you speak as if I were a cloud over

your life.

_She._ Do I? Well, it does not matter.

_He._ I try to be a good husband, don’t I?

_She_ (_indifferently_). As well as you know how, I suppose.

_He._ Do I deprive you of anything you want?

_She_ (_impatiently_). Of course you do not.

_He._ I work hard, I know, but when I go out in the evening now and then--

_She_ (_aside_). Six nights every week. (_Sighing._)

_He._ I really work. There are husbands who say they are at work when they

are at the club playing poker: now I am really working.

_She_ (_impatiently_). You have no small vices. (_Rising._) Is there no

work calling you away to-night? Why are you not off?

_He_ (_looking at watch_). I am a little late, that’s a fact: still, I can

do what I have to do if I work like a horse.

_She._ Have you to draw a conveyance? That is the old joke.

_He._ This is no joke. It’s a divorce suit.

_She_ (_quickly_). Is it that Lightfoot person again?

_He._ It is Mrs. Lightfoot’s case. She is a very fine woman, and her

husband has treated her shamefully.

_She._ Better than the creature deserved, I dare say. You will win her

case for her?

_He._ I shall do my best.

_She_ (_sarcastically_). No doubt.--(_Aside._) I hate that woman!

(_Crosses the room and sits on sofa on the right of the fireplace._)

_He._ But the result of a lawsuit is generally a toss-up; and heads do not

always win.

_She._ I wish you luck this time--for her husband’s sake: he’ll be glad to

be rid of her. But I doubt it: you can’t get up any sympathy by exhibiting

her to the jury: she isn’t good-looking enough.

_He_ (_quickly_). She’s a very fine woman indeed.

_She_ (_aside_). How eagerly he defends her!--(_Aloud._) She’s a great

big, tall, giantess creature, with a face like a wax doll and a head of

hair like a Circassian Girl. No juryman will fall in love with her.

_He._ How often have I told you that Justice does not consider persons!

Now, in the eye of the law--

_She_ (_interrupting_). Do you acknowledge that the law has but one eye

and can see only one side?

_He._ Are you jealous? (_Crossing and standing in front of her._)

_She._ Jealous of this Mrs. Lightfoot? (_Laughs._) Ridiculous!

_He._ I am glad of it, for I think a jealous woman has a very poor opinion

of herself.

_She_ (_forcibly_). And it is her business which takes you out to-night?

_He_ (_going toward the left-hand door_). I have to go across to the Bar

Association to look up some points, and--

_She_ (_rising quickly_). And you can just send me a cab. I shall go to

Mrs. Playfair’s to rehearse again for the private theatricals.

_He_ (_annoyed, coming back_). But I had asked you to give it up.

_She_ (_with growing excitement_). And I had almost determined to give it

up, but I have changed my mind. That’s a woman’s privilege, isn’t it? I am

tired of spending my evenings by myself.

_He._ Now be reasonable, Jenny: I must work.

_She._ And I must play--in the private theatricals.

_He._ But I don’t like private theatricals.

_She._ Don’t you? I do.

_He._ And I particularly dislike amateur actors.

_She._ Do you? I don’t. I like some of them very much; and some of them

like me, too.

_He._ The deuce they do!

_She._ Tom Thursby and Dick Carey and Harry Wylde were all disputing who

should make love to me.

_He._ Make love to you?

_She._ In the play--in _Husbands and Wives_.

_He._ Do you mean to say that you are going to act on the stage with those

brainless idiots?

_She_ (_interrupting_). Do not call my friends names: it is in bad taste.

_He._ What will people say when they see my wife pawed and clawed by those

fellows?

_She._ Let them say what they please. Do you think I care for the

tittle-tattle of the riffraff of society?

_He._ But, Jenny--(_Brusquely._) Confound it! I have no patience with you!

_She._ So I have discovered. But you need not lose your temper here, and

swear. Go outside and do it, and leave me alone, as I am every evening.

_He._ You talk as if I ill-treated you.

_She_ (_sarcastically_). Do I? That is very wicked of me, isn’t it? You

take the best possible care of me, you are ever thinking of me, and you

never leave my side for a moment. Oh no, you do not ill-treat me--or

abuse me--or neglect me (_breaking down_)--or make me miserable. There is

nothing the matter with me, of course. But you never will believe I have a

heart until you have broken it! (_Sinking on chair, C._)

_He_ (_crossing to her_). You are excited, I see; still, I must say this

is a little too much.

_She_ (_starting up_). Don’t come near me! (_Sarcastically._) Don’t let me

keep you from your work (_going to door R. 2d E_), and don’t fail to send

me a cab. At last I revolt against your neglect.

_He_ (_indignantly protesting_). My neglect? Do you mean to say I neglect

you? My conscience does not reproach me.

_She_ (_at the door on the right_). That’s because you haven’t any!

(_Exit, slamming door_).

_He_ (_alone_). I never saw her go on that way before. What can be the

matter with her? She is not like herself at all: she is low-spirited

and nervous. Now, I never could see why women had any nerves. I wonder

if she really thinks that I neglect her? I should be sorry, very sorry,

if she did. I’ll not go out to-night: I’ll stay at home and have a quiet

evening at my own fireside. (_Sits in chair in the centre._) I think

that will bring her round. I’d like to know what has made her act like

this. Has she been reading any sentimental trash, I wonder? (_Sees book

in work-basket._) Now, here’s some yellow-covered literature. (_Takes

it up._) Why, it’s that confounded play, _Husbands and Wives_. Let me

see the silly stuff. (_Reads:_) “My darling, one more embrace, one last,

long, loving kiss;” and then he hugs her and kisses her. (_Rising._) And

she thinks I’ll have her play a part like that? How should I look while

that was going on? Can’t she find something else? (_At work-table._)

Here is another. (_Takes up second pamphlet._) No, it is a _Guide to

the Passions_. I fear I need no guide to get into a passion. I doubt

if there’s as much hugging and kissing in this as in the other one.

(_Reads:_) “It is impossible to describe all the effects of the various

passions, but a few hints are here given as to how the more important

may be delineated.” (_Spoken._) This is interesting. If ever I have to

delineate a passion I shall fall back on this guide. (_Reads:_) “Love

is a--” (_Reads hastily and unintelligibly:_) “When successful, love

authorizes the fervent embrace of the beloved!” The deuce it does! And I

find my wife getting instruction from this Devil’s text-book! A little

more and I should be jealous. (_Looks at book._) Ah, here is jealousy:

now let’s see how I ought to feel. (_Reads:_) “Jealousy is a mixture

of passions and--” (_Reads hastily and unintelligibly._) Not so bad! I

believe I could act up to these instructions. (_Jumping up._) And I will!

My wife wants acting: she shall have it! She complains of monotony: she

shall have variety! “Jealousy is a mixture of passions.” I’ll be jealous:

I’ll give her a mixture of passions. I’ll take a leaf out of her book,

and I’ll find a cure for these nerves of her’s. I’ll learn my part at

once: we’ll have some private theatricals to order. (_Walks up and down,

studying book._)

_She re-renters, with bonnet on and cloak over her arm, and stands

in surprise, watching him._

_She._ You here still?

_He._ Yes.

_She._ Have you ordered a cab for me?

_He._ No.

_She._ And why not?

_He_ (_aside_). Now’s my chance. Mixture of passions--I’ll try suspicion

first.--(_Aloud._) Because I do not approve of the people you are going to

meet--these Thursbys and Careys and Wyldes.

_She_ (_calmly sitting on sofa_). Perhaps you would like to revise my

visiting-list, and tell the servant whom I am to receive.

_He._ You may see what ladies you please--

_She_ (_interrupting_). Thank you; still, I do not please to see Mrs.

Lightfoot.

_He_ (_annoyed_). I say nothing of her.

_She._ Oh dear, no! I dare say you keep it as secret as you can.

_He_ (_aside_). Simple suspicion is useless. What’s next? (_Glances

in pamphlet:_) “Peevish personalities.” I will pass on to peevish

personalities.--(_Aloud._) Now, these men, these fellows who strut about

the stage for an idle hour, who are they? This Tom Thursby, who wanted to

make love to you--who is he?

_She._ Are you going to ask many questions? Is this catechism a long one?

If it is, I may as well lay aside my shawl.

_He._ Who is he, I say, I insist upon knowing.

_She._ He’s a good enough fellow in his way.

_He_ (_sternly_). He had best beware how he gets in _my_ way.

_She_ (_aside_). There’s a great change in his manner: I do not understand

it.

_He._ And this Dick Carey--who is he? (_Stalking toward her._)

_She_ (_starting up and crossing_). Are you trying to frighten me by this

violence?

_He_ (_aside_). It is producing an effect.

_She._ But I am not afraid of you, if I am a weak woman and you are a

strong man.

_He_ (_aside_). It is going all right.--(_Aloud, fiercely._) Answer me at

once! Is this Carey married?

_She._ I believe he is.

_He._ You believe! Don’t you know? Does his wife act with these strollers?

Have you not seen her?

_She._ I have never seen her. She and her husband are like the two buckets

in a well: they never turn up together. They meet only to clash, and one

is always throwing cold water on the other.

_He._ And Harry Wylde! Is he married?

_She._ Yes; and his wife is always keeping him in hot water.

_He._ And so he comes to you for consolation?

_She_ (_laughing_). He needs no consoling: he has always such a flow of

spirits.

_He._ I’ve heard the fellow drank.

_She_ (_surprised, aside_). Can Jack be jealous? I wish I could think so,

for then I might hope he still loved me.

_He._ And do you suppose I can allow you to associate with these fellows,

who all want to make love to you?

_She_ (_aside, joyfully_). He _is_ jealous! The dear boy!

_He_ (_fiercely_). Do you think I can permit this, madam?

_She_ (_aside_). “Madam!” I could hug him for loving me enough to call me

“madam” like that. But I must not give in too soon.

_He._ Have you nothing to say for yourself? Can you find no words to

defend yourself, woman?

_She_ (_aside_). “Woman!” He calls me “woman!” I can forgive him anything

now.

_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:_)

“Trifles light as air

Are to the jealous confirmations strong

As proofs of holy writ.”

_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:)

“But, alas, to make me

A fixed figure for the time of scorn

To point his slow, unmoving finger at!”

_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--

iij cupps of Bouillon (wᶜʰ is a Tea, or Tisane, of

Beafe, made verie hott & thinne)

iv Alberte biscuit

ij éclairs

i creame-cake

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

“A brilliant series.”--_Boston Courier._

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.

“Literary relishes that will give as good seasoning as one could

wish to one’s moments of leisure or of dullness.”--_Boston

Advertiser._

_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.

“These volumes are as sure to delight and please the general reader

as to satisfy the exactions of the critical.”--_Washington National

Tribune._

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.

* * * * *

_The Theatres of Paris._

By BRANDER MATTHEWS.

_With illustrations by Sarah-Bernhardt, Carolus Duran, Madrazo, Gaucherel,

and others._

One Volume, 16mo, cloth, $1.25.

“An interesting, gossipy, yet instructive little book.”--_Academy

(London.)_

“A very readable and discriminating account of the leading theatres and

actors of the French capital.”--_Christian Union, (New York.)_

“Mr. Matthews has chosen a subject of great interest to most people, and

he has the additional advantage of knowing what he is writing about. The

chapters on the Grand Opéra and on the Théâtre Français, the two most

perfect establishments of the kind in the world, are full of valuable

details and statistics.”--_Nation._

* * * * *

_French Dramatists of the XIXth Century._

By BRANDER MATTHEWS.

1 Vol., crown 8vo, vellum cloth, gilt top, $2.00.

“Mr. Brander Matthews’s studies are made with intelligence and

conscientiousness. The characteristics of the work of noted stage-writers,

from Hugo to M. Zola, are carefully presented in an entertaining way,

while the personality and life of each are not neglected. There is no

book from which the English reader can obtain so trustworthy a view

of the contemporary French drama, and none surely in which a theme so

complex is so pleasantly unfolded. The analysis of the realistic school,

its methods and aims, is, in spite of its brevity, an excellent thing,

excellently well done. The volume is made up in a manner very creditable

to the scholarly tastes of the author. A chronology of the French

drama is prefixed, there are valuable notes and references, largely

bibliographical, and a good index.”--_Boston Traveller._

* * * * *

TWO CHARMING VOLUMES OF POETRY.

_Airs from Arcady and Elsewhere_

By H. C. BUNNER.

1 Vol., 12mo, Gilt Top, $1.25.

“It is not often that we have in our hands a volume of sweeter or more

finished verses.… In choosing Love for a conductor, who alone may open the

way to Arcady, the poet indicates the theme on which he sings best, and

which reflects at some angle, or repeats in some strain the inspiration

of the great poetic and dramatic passion of life. His poems are thrown

together in a delicately concealed order, which is just perceptible enough

to give an impression of progress and movement.”--_The Independent._

* * * * *

_Ballades and Verses Vain._

By ANDREW LANG.

1 Vol., 12mo, Gilt Top, $1.50.

“The book is a little treasury of refined thought, graceful verse,

world-philosophy, quiet humor, and sometimes a gentle cynicism. The

versification is always polished, the sentiment delicate, and the diction

vigorous and varied. It is a wholly charming production.”--_Boston

Saturday Evening Gazette._

⁂ _For sale by all booksellers, or sent, post-paid, upon

receipt of price, by_

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, Publishers,

743 AND 745 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.

* * * * *

ATTRACTIVE BOOKS

_IN PAPER COVERS._

GUERNDALE: An Old Story.

By J. S. OF DALE. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.

NEWPORT: A Novel.

By GEORGE PARSONS LATHROP. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.

JOHN BULL AND HIS ISLAND.

By MAX O’RELL. Eleventh thousand. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.

LUTHER: A Short Biography.

By JAMES ANTHONY FROUDE, M.A. 1 vol., 12mo, 30 cts.

OLD CREOLE DAYS.

By GEORGE W. CABLE. In two parts--each complete in itself--per volume, 30

cts.

MY HOUSE: An Ideal.

By O. B. BUNCE. 1 vol., 16mo, 50 cts.

RUDDER GRANGE.

By FRANK R. STOCKTON. 1 vol., 12mo, 60cts.

SOCRATES.

A Translation of the Apology, Crito, and parts of the Phædo of Plato. New

edition. 1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.

A DAY IN ATHENS WITH SOCRATES.

1 vol., 12mo, 50 cts.

MRS. BURNETT’S EARLIER STORIES.

LINDSEY’S LUCK, 30 cts.; PRETTY POLLY PEMBERTON, 40 cts.; KATHLEEN, 40

cts.; THEO, 30 cts.; MISS CRESPIGNY, 30 cts. Beautifully bound in

ornamental paper covers.