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then, somehow, my spirit broke. I resigned my spirit to my fate-I ceased to care what became of me. At last I submitted to be the poor re.ation--the hanger-on and gentleman-lackey of Sir John Vesey. But I had an object in that: here was one in that house whom I had loved at the first sigat. Graves. And were you loved again?

Eve. I fancied it, and was deceived.

Not an hour before

I inherited this mighty wealth, I confessed my love, and was rejected because I was poor. Now, mark: you remember the letter which Sharp gave me when the will was read?

Graves. Perfectly: what were the contents?

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Eve. After hints, cautions and admonitions — half in irony, half in earnest, (ah, poor Mordaunt had known the world!) it proceeded but I'll read it to you: "Having selected you as my heir, because I think money a trust to be placed where it seems likely to be best employed, I now, not impose a condition, but ask a favor. If you have formed no other and insuperable attachment, I could wish to suggest your choice: my two nearest female relations are my niece Georgina, and my third cousin Clara Douglas, the daughter of a once dear friend. If you could see in either of these one whom you could make your wife, such would be a marriage that, if I live long enough to return to England, I would seek to bring about before I die." My friend, this is not a legal condition: the fortune does not rest on it; yet need I say, that my gratitude considers it a moral obligation? Several months have elapsed since thus called upon I ought now to decide: you hear the names Clara Douglas is the woman who

rejected me!

Graves. But now she would accept you.

Eve. And do you think I am so base a slave to passion, that I would owe to my gold what was denied to my affection? Graves. But you must choose one in common gratitude; you ought to do so; yes, there you are right.

7*

Eve. Of the two, then, I would rather marry where I should exact the least. A marriage to which each can bring sober esteem and calm regard may not be happiness, but it may be content; but to marry one whom you could adore, and whose heart is closed to you—to yearn for the treasure, and only to claim the casket to worship the statue that you may never warm to life-oh! such a marriage would be a hell the more terrible because Paradise was in sight.

Graves. Georgina is pretty, but vain and frivolous. (Aside.) But he has no right to be fastidious he has never known Maria! (Aloud.) Yes, my dear friend, now I think on it, you will be as wretched as myself: when you are married, we will mingle our groans together.

Eve. You may misjudge Georgina; she may have a nobler nature than appears on the surface. On the day, but before the hour in which the will was read, a letter, in a strange or disguised hand, "From an unknown Friend to Alfred Evelyn," and enclosing what to a girl would have been a considerable sum, was sent to a poor woman for whom I had implored charity, and whose address I had given only to Georgina.

Graves. Why not assure yourself?

Eve. Because I have not dared. For sometimes, against my reason, I have hoped that it might be Clara! (Taking a letter from his bosom and looking at it.) No, I can't recognize the hand. Graves, I detest that girl! (Rises.)

Graves. Who, Georgina!

Eve. No; but I've already, thank heaven, taken some revenge upon her. Come nearer. (Whispers.) I've bribed Sharp to say that Mordaunt's letter to me contained a codicil leaving Clara Douglas £20,000.

Graves. And didn't it?

Eve. Not a farthing! But I'm glad of it-I've paid the money—she's no more a dependant. No one can insult her

now. She owes it all to me, and does not guess it man, does not guess! owes it to me whom she rejected-me, the poor scholar! Ha, ha! there's some spite in that, eh?

Graves. You're a fine fellow, Evelyn, and we understand each other. Perhaps Clara may have seen the address, and dictated this letter, after all.

Eve. Do you think so? I'll go to the house this in

stant.

(R.)

Graves. Eh? Humph! then I'll go with you. Lady Franklin is a fine woman.

think I could

That

If she were not so gay, I

Eve. No, no; do n't think any such thing: women are even worse than men.

Graves. True; to love is a boy's madness.

Eve. To feel is to suffer.

Graves. To hope is to be deceived.
Eve. I have done with romance.
Graves. Mine is buried with Mária.
Eve. If Clara did but write this

Graves. Make haste, or Lady Franklin will be out! A

vale of tears a vale of tears!

-

Eve. A vale of tears, indeed!

Re-enter GRAVES for his hat.

(Exeunt, R.)

Graves. And I left my hat behind me! Just like

my luck!

If I had been bred a hatter, little boys would have come into the world without heads.

(Exit, R.)

SCENE FROM LOVE'S MARTYR.

A DIALOGUE, BY MAYNE REID.

REMARKS. Casimir, a noble soldier, wedded to a young maiden, discovers her love for Basil, a foster-brother. After witnessing a parting interview between his wife and the youth, he determines that they shall be made happy in the possession of each other, though at the cost of his own life. He thus breaks to his wife the knowledge he had gained of her love, by the interview just mentioned. This extract offers a fine scope for elocutionary display.

On the rise of Curtain, MARINELLA discovered sitting.

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Marinella. My lord?

Cas. Why do you start?

Mar. Your voice, my lord, was sudden

I knew not you were here.

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Mar. My lord?

Cas. I have a tale for you.

Mar. What is 't, my lord?

Cas. Far from the echoes of a troubled world,

Within the soft embrace of vine-clad hills,
There lay a sunny vale, in whose warm lap
Had art divine, and nature, more divine,
Poured out their wealth for very wantonness!
A valley of bright fields and emerald groves,
Above whose glowing foliage lordly towers
Rose to the sapphire sky! upon the ear

(They sit.)

There fell no sounds that were not musical
The songs of birds, and bees, and falling waters,
The voice of Nature's God, as soft and sweet

As when it thrilled through Earth's first Paradise!

The winds were never rude- -no storms came there,--
Alone the breeze from the blue Appenines,

Stole softly down among the perfumed trees,
Filling the air with incense!

It was indeed a scene of loveliness;

And over all

Hung a rich canopy of blue and gold,

The sky of Italy!

Mar. Oh! sweet, sweet scene, how like our own dear home! Cas. Within this vale

A maid of noble lineage had been reared;

She was indeed the ideal of her sex,
The bright embodiment of love itself!
Of form so lovely, so divine a face,
It seemed as if the spirit of the place
Had gendered her from out its glowing flowers,
To make the picture perfect.

Mar. How beautiful!

Cas. This maiden had a brother, a brave youth;

Her father, too, still lived, a good old man,

The sole possessor of all these fair scenes,

'Midst which they dwelt in innocence and peace,
Unclouded as their skies!

A stranger came from a far distant land,
And sought this quiet vale — he soon became
Its owner's welcome guest-companion of
The maiden and her brother:

He was their elder, yet had never loved,
For his young days had been all rudely spent
Within the camp, or on the battle-field.

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