12^th June.

She is here.--What Spyte is y^is of Fate & y^e alter'd G.o.ds! That I, who mighte nott gett to see Her when to See was to Hope, muste nowe daylie have Her in my Sighte, stucke lyke a fayre Apple under olde Tantalus his Nose.--Goinge downe to y^e Hotell to-day, for to gett me some Tobackoe, was made aware y^t y^e Ffrench familie had hyred one of y^e Cottages round-abouts.--'Tis a goodlie Dwellinge Without--Woude I coude speake with as much a.s.surance of y^e Innsyde!

13^th June.

Goinge downe to y^e Hotell againe To-day, for more Tobackoe, sawe y^e accursed name of W^mson on y^e Registre.--Went about to a neighbouringe Farm & satt me downe behynd y^e Barne, for a 1/2 an Houre.--Frighted y^e Horned Cattle w. talkinge to My Selfe.

15^th June.

I wil make an Ende to y^is Businesse.--Wil make no longer Staye here.--Sawe Her to-day, driven Home fm. y^e Beache, about 4-1/2 of y^e After-noone, by W^mson, in his Dogge-Carte, wh. y^e Cadde has broughten here.--Wil betake me to y^e Boundlesse Weste--Not y^t I care aught for y^e Boundlesse Weste, b.u.t.t y^t I shal doe wel if haplie I leave my Memourie am^g y^e Apaches & bringe Home my Scalpe.

16^th June.

To Fyre Islande, in Winthrop's Yacht--y^e Twinnes w. us, so t.i.tteringe & Choppinge Laughter, y^t 'twas worse y^n a Flocke of Sandpipers.--Found a grete Concourse of people there, Her amonge them, in a Suite of blue, y^t became Her bravelie.--She swimms lyke to a Fishe, b.u.t.t everie Stroke of Her white Arms (of a lovelie Roundnesse) clefte, as 'twere, my Hearte, rather y^n y^e Water.--She bow'd to me, on goinge into y^e Water, w. muche Dignitie, & agayn on Cominge out, but y^is Tyme w.

lesse Dignitie, by reason of y^e Water in Her Cloathes, & Her Haire in Her Eyes.--

17^th June.

Was for goinge awaie To-morrowe, b.u.t.t 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 y^e Fighte of theyre Fathers, he was bounde it sholde be done, & 'twere best I stoode his Witnesse, who was wel lyked of bothe y^e Braunches of y^e Family.--So 'twas agree'd, y^t I shal stay Home to-morrowe fm. y^e 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 y^e little Churche on y^e Southe Roade.--He to drive to Islipp to fetch Angelica, lykewise her Witnesse, who sholde be some One of y^e Girles, she hadd not yet made her Choice.--I made y^is Condition, it sholde not be either of y^e Twinnes.--No, nor Bothe, for that matter.--Inquiringe as to y^e Clergyman, he sayde y^e Dominie was allreadie Squar'd.

Newe York, y^e Buckingham Hotell, 19^th June.

I am come to y^e laste Entrie I shall ever putt downe in y^s Booke, and needes must y^t I putt it downe quicklie, for all hath Happ'd in so short a s.p.a.ce, y^t my Heade whirles w. thynkinge of it. Y^e after-noone of Yesterdaye, I set about Counterfeittinge of a Head-Ache, & so wel did I compa.s.se it, y^t I verilie thinke one of y^e Twinnes was mynded to Stay Home & nurse me.--All havinge gone off, & Clarence on his waye to Islipp, I sett forth for y^e Churche, where arriv'd I founde it emptie, w. y^e Door open.--Went in & writh'd on y^e hard Benches a 1/4 of an Houre, when, hearinge a Sounde, I look'd up & saw standinge in y^e Door-waye, Katherine Ffrench.--She seem'd muche astonished, saying You Here! or y^e lyke.--I made Answer & sayde y^t though my Familie were greate Sinners, yet had they never been Excommunicate by y^e Churche.--She sayde, they colde not Putt Out what never was In.--While I was bethynkinge me wh. I mighte answer to y^is, she went on, sayinge I must excuse Her, She wolde goe upp in y^e Organ-Lofte.--I enquiring what for? She sayde to practice on y^e 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 y^e Organ lyked Her.--She sayde Right well, when I made question more curiously (for She grew more Redd eache moment) how was y^e Action? y^e Tone? how manie Stopps?

Wh^at She growinge gretelie Confus'd, I led Her into y^e Churche, & show'd Her y^t there was no Organ, y^e 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 y^e 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 y^e Starrs y^t had bro't us Together. She sayde if y^e Starrs appoint'd us to meete no oftener y^n 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, y^t I colde scarce Containe myselfe, but went & Sat downe neare y^e Doore, lookinge out till Clarence shd. come w. his Bride.--Looking over my Sholder, I sawe y^t She wente fm. Windowe to Windowe within, Pluckinge y^e Blossoms fm. y^e Vines, & settinge them in her Girdle.--She seem'd most tall and faire, & swete to look uponn, & itt Anger'd me y^e More.--Meanwhiles, She discours'd pleasantlie, askinge 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 y^e Betrothal?

Did I thinke 'twolde knitt y^e House together, & Was it not Sad to see a Familie thus Divided?--I answer'd Her, I wd. not robb a Man of y^e precious Righte to Quarrell with his Relations.--And then, with meditatinge on y^e goode Lucke of Clarence, & my owne harde Case, I had suche a sudden Rage of peevishnesse y^t 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 muche 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. Wh^at my Hearte wolde holde no More, & I rose upp & tooke Her in my arms & Kiss'd & Comforted Her, She makinge no Denyal, but seeminge gretelie 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 y^is paper shal not knowe, came in y^e Dominie, sayinge He judg'd We were the Couple he came to Wed.--With him y^e s.e.xton & y^e s.e.xton's Wife.--My swete Kate, alle as rosey as Venus's Nape, was for Denyinge of y^is, b.u.t.t I wolde not have it, & sayde Yes.--She remonstrating w.

me, privilie, I tolde Her She must not make me Out a Liar, y^t to Deceave y^e Man of G.o.d were a greavous Sinn, y^t I had gott Her nowe, & wd. not lett her Slipp from me, & did soe Talke Her Downe, & w. suche Strengthe of joie, y^t 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 y^t Cheated Her^n.)--

Wh. was no sooner done, than in came Clarence & Angelica, & were Wedded in theyre Turn.--The Clergyman greatelie surprised, but more att y^e Largenesse of his Fee.

This Businesse beinge Ended, we fled by y^e Trayne of 4-1/2 o'cke, to y^is Place, where we wait till y^e Bloode of all y^e Ffrenches have Tyme to coole downe, for y^e wise Mann who meeteth his Mother in Lawe y^e 1^st tyme, wil meete her when she is Milde.--

And so I close y^is Journall, wh., tho' for y^e moste Parte 'tis but a peevish Scrawle, hath one Page of Golde, wh^on I have writt ye laste strange Happ wh^by I have layd Williamson by y^e Heeles & found me y^e sweetest Wife y^t ever

stopp'd a man's Mouthe w. kisses for writinge of Her Prayses.

TWO BUCKETS IN A WELL.

By N. P. Willis.

(_From "People I Have Met" (now out of print)._)

"Five hundred dollars a year!" echoed f.a.n.n.y Bellairs, as the first silver gray of the twilight spread over her picture.

"And my art," modestly added the painter, prying into his bright copy of the lips p.r.o.nouncing upon his destiny.

"And how much may that be, at the present rate of patronage--one picture a year, painted for love!"

"f.a.n.n.y, how can you be so calculating!"

"By the b.u.mps over my eyebrows, I suppose. Why, my dear coz, we have another state of existence to look forward to--old man-age and old woman-age! What am I to do with five hundred dollars a year, when my old frame wants gilding--(to use one of your own similes)--I sha'n't always be pretty f.a.n.n.y Bellairs!"

"But, good Heavens! we shall grow old together!" exclaimed the painter, sitting down at her feet, "and what will you care for other admiration, if your husband see you still beautiful, with the eyes of memory and habit."

"Even if I were sure he would so look upon me," answered Miss Bellairs, more seriously, "I cannot but dread an old age without great means of embellishment. Old people, except in poetry and in very primitive society, are dishonored by wants and cares. And, indeed, before we are old--when neither young nor old--we want horses and ottomans, kalydor and conservatories, books, pictures, and silk curtains--all quite out of the range of your little allowance, don't you see!"

"You do not love me, f.a.n.n.y!"

"I do--and will marry you, Philip--as I, long ago, with my whole heart, promised. But I wish to be happy with you--as happy, quite as happy, as is at all possible, with our best efforts, and coolest, discreetest management. I laugh the matter over sometimes, but I may tell you, since you are determined to be in earnest, that I have treated it, in my solitary thought, as the one important event of my life--(so indeed it is!)--and, as such, worthy of all forethought, patience, self-denial, and calculation. To inevitable ills I can make up my mind like other people. If your art were your only hope of subsistence--why--I don't know--(should I look well as a page?)--I don't know that I couldn't run your errands and grind your paints in hose and doublet. But there is another door open for you--a counting-house door, to be sure--leading to opulence and all the appliances of dignity and happiness, and through this door, my dear Philip, the art you would live by comes to pay tribute and beg for patronage. Now, out of your hundred and twenty reasons, give me the two stoutest and best, why you should refuse your brother's golden offer of partnership--my share, in your alternative of poverty, left for the moment out of the question."

Rather overborne by the confident decision of his beautiful cousin, and having probably made up his mind that he must ultimately yield to her, Philip replied in a lower and more dejected tone:

"If you were not to be a sharer in my renown, should I be so fortunate as to acquire it, I should feel as if it were selfish to dwell so much on my pa.s.sion for distinction, and my devotion to my pencil as a means of winning it. My heart is full of you--but it is full of ambition, too, paradox though it be. I cannot live ign.o.ble. I should not have felt worthy to press my love upon you--worthy to possess you--except with the prospect of celebrity in my art. You make the world dark to me, f.a.n.n.y! You close down the sky, when you shut out this hope! Yet it shall be so."

Philip paused a moment, and the silence was uninterrupted.

"There was another feeling I had, upon which I have not insisted," he continued. "By my brother's project, I am to reside almost wholly abroad. Even the little stipend I have to offer you now is absorbed of course by the investment of my property in his trading capital, and marriage, till I have partly enriched myself, would be even more hopeless than at present. Say the interval were five years--and five years of separation!"

"With happiness in prospect, it would soon pa.s.s, my dear Philip!"

"But is there nothing wasted in this time? My life is yours--the gift of love. Are not these coming five years the very flower of it!--a mutual loss, too, for are they not, even more emphatically, the very flower of yours? Eighteen and twenty-five are ages at which to marry, not ages to defer. During this time the entire flow of my existence is at its crowning fulness--pa.s.sion, thought, joy, tenderness, susceptibility to beauty and sweetness--all I have that can be diminished or tarnished, or made dull by advancing age and contact with the world, is thrown away--for its spring and summer. Will the autumn of life repay us for this? Will it--even if we are rich and blest with health, and as capable of an unblemished union as now? Think of this a moment, dear f.a.n.n.y!"

"I do--it is full of force and meaning, and, could we marry now, with a tolerable prospect of competency, it would be irresistible. But poverty in wedlock, Philip--"

"What do you call poverty? If we can suffice for each other, and have the necessaries of life, we are not poor! My art will bring us consideration enough--which is the main end of wealth, after all--and, of society, speaking for myself only, I want nothing. Luxuries for yourself, f.a.n.n.y--means for your dear comfort and pleasure--you should not want if the world held them, and surely the unbounded devotion of one man to the support of the one woman he loves, _ought_ to suffice for the task! I am strong--I am capable of labor--I have limbs to toil, if my genius and my present means fail me, and, oh, Heaven! you could not want!"

"No, no, no! I thought not of want!" murmured Miss Bellairs, "I thought only--"

But she was not permitted to finish the sentence.

"Then my bright picture for the future _may_ be realized!" exclaimed Philip, knitting his hands together in a transport of hope. "I may build up a reputation, with _you_ for the constant partner of its triumphs and excitements! I may go through the world, and have some care in life besides subsistence, how I shall sleep, and eat, and acc.u.mulate gold; some companion, who, from the threshold of manhood, shared every thought--and knew every feeling--some pure and present angel who walked with me and purified my motives and enn.o.bled my ambitions, and received from my lips and eyes, and from the beating of my heart against her own, all the love I had to give in a lifetime.

Tell me, f.a.n.n.y! tell me, my sweet cousin! is not this a picture of bliss, which, combined with success in my n.o.ble art, might make a Paradise on earth for you and me?"

The hand of f.a.n.n.y Bellairs rested on the upturned forehead of her lover as he sat at her feet in the deepening twilight, and she answered him with such sweet words as are linked together by spells known only to woman--but his palette and pencils were, nevertheless, burned in solemn holocaust that very night, and the lady carried her point, as ladies must. And, to the importation of silks from Lyons, was devoted, thenceforth, the genius of a Raphael--perhaps! Who knows?