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SCENE FROM AN UNPUBLISHED PLAY.

SCENE, A COTTAGE.

(Ellinor discovered seated, with her head o: Margaret's shoulder.)

MARGARET. Do not, my dear young lady, take it so
To heart. Such sorrows will impair your health.
Look up, you soon will see him here.
ELLINOR.

Yes, yes.
But how? Whence will he come? where is he now ?
I cannot—dare not think.
MAR.

What can you, sweet,
Suspect? I'm sure young Master Cynric would
Not stain his name with any deed that would
Not bear the light.
ELL.

'Tis that alone which gives
Me hope, that something will turn up to clear
Him of this charge.
Mar.

Each feeling heart acquits
Him even of suspicion.

Enter Cynric.
CYNRIC.

My dearest cousin, this
Is kind indeed. All would not be so prompt
To give me welcome after what has chanced.

Ell. It is not all who loves you like
To me. I never could desert you though
E'en all the world looked cold. But tell me where
It is that thou hast dwelt these absent days
From me and home?
Cyn.

Oh, I have friends whom thou
Hast never known.
ELL.

Friends saidst thou, Cynric?
And are they so? Alas! I fear me they
Are friends will lead you into deeper guilt.
Oh! whence these arms if not for bloodshed ?
Cyn.

Guilt
Saidst thou, Ellinor ? Guilt! No I am
Not guilty. 'Twas too harsh a word to wound
Me with.

Ell. Not guilty? Then I thank high heaven.
Oh, Cynric! Cynric ! let me hear thee breathe
That cheering sentence once again, and I

Shall then feel calmness here about my heart.

Cyn. As Heaven sees me I know no guilt.
ELL. Father of mercies, on my knees 1 thank
Thee, that from off my heart this load is now
Removed.

Cyn. Ellinor, I could not have believed
That thou wouldst give a list’ning ear to tales
Of idle tattlers. I had hoped that in
Thy breast suspicion ne'er could dwell. 'Tis true
I numbered one in that hot broil in which
A comrade lost his life, but by my hand
He ne'er was harmed.

ELL. Then why, oh, why dost thou
Keep from us now? My father can, I'm sure, absolve
You with the magistrates ; then, do not let
My prayers be vain ; return e'en now with me,
To-night-this very night.
Cyn.

Return to night!
No, no, it cannot be; if I returned
To-night I should be that thou wouldst not wish
Me he.
ELL.

And what is that?
Cyn.

A coward, and
A traitor to my friends. No, Ellinor,
To clear myself I must involve the men
Who shielded me in danger. My heart rebels ;
I could not do it though I died.
ELL.

You once
Did say you loved me ; nay, that I was more
Than life to you ; then, for the sake of her
Who deeply loved thee in return, and will
Through all the storms of fate, whatever be
The turn of wayward fortune, or the chance
Of future hopes, love thee in danger and
Distress-in storm or sunshine still the same :
For her I ask that thou from this foul stain
At once will clear thyself.
Cyn.

Alas! alas !
You know not what you have required ; I do
Not dare comply.

Ell. You do not dare ? Canst thou
Hear, whom around these parts a parallel
Of daring is not known; canst thou allow
Thy tongue these strange words—“I dare not ?"
It must be other than true-hearted men
That hold you thus, and urge you from the truth.

Cyn. Oh! spare me, Ellinor, nor urge me more ; Nay, for my life do not assail me thus.

( After a pause.)

My love, the star of evening shines and warns
Me soon to leave you.

Ell. Leave me, Cynric ? Canst
Thou then so suddenly depart? This is
Indeed a deeper pang than my poor fears
Anticipated, for 'tis cruel.
Cyn.

Distraction ! Oh!
It cannot, must not be. No, no; a time
Will come, and soon, when I will yield to thec,
And gladly too: it must not be to-night.

ELL. Were it to other ends than innocent
That I were urging thee upon, it then
Might have become thee, Cynric, well to stand
In opposition thus; but to deny
Me as it is, it does not back your oft
Reiterated love.

Cyn. Love thee! love thee!
Ellinor, thou dost not-oh, thou canst not doubt
That when I did reiterate that love
To thee, the expression of it was sincere.
Oh, by the sacred stars that shining guide
The watchful mariner to home, I swear
In all my perils and my danger shall
I think on thee. Whatc'er my toils 'twill
Be happiness to know that I can love
Thee still ; and now as thus I swear, do thou
Acknowledge to an oath of love to me.

Ell. Yes, yes, I swear, and may the guardian powers
That hold dominion o'er the acts of men
Hear me, and grant a happy issue to
Our strange betrothing.

Cyn. Behold yon blazing star Illumining the south shines brightly round, And seems to whisper hopes of future bliss, And brightly shining lures us into hope. Calm as that shining star be all thy days, And like its course be thine, is my chief hope, Pure as that silver light. Farewell, we soon Shall meet again, and still more happy be ; Yes, we shall meet-( aside ) -perhaps in heaven. Farewell.

(Kisses her, and exit.)

NANNA

THE GALLEY-SLAVE.

FROM THE GERMAN. “HERE is room both right and left," said the Abbé Dillon, as he seated himself upon a bank of green turf by the side of a lake, which was shaded by the thick entangled foliage hanging over the rugged barrier of rocks above us, while the smiling expression of his eyes invited us to sit next him. Roderick placed himself beside him, and I followed. Our minds were engaged in pursuing the train of thought which our previous conversation had 'conjured up. On the opposite shore of the lake the evening sky beamed over the mountains. The towering rocks and lowly cottages of the Alps were radiant with the vivid tints of glowing red; streaks of gold trembled between the pale blue shadows over the lake. In the distance the summits of the mountains appeared tinged with violet, till sinking beneath the horizon they were lost among the clouds.

On turning towards the Abbé I perceived he was overpowered by some painful thought or feeling. The venerable man was leaning his arm upon the rock, his head sunk upon his breast, A sadness was spread over his countenance, which was generally illumined by a benevolent smile. The depression of the Abbé did not pass unobserved by Roderick.

“ You appear sorrowful,” said he, affectionately taking his hand; “ look around, dear Dillon, at the lovely evening ; shall we then despoil it of its charms for us, either by indulging in petulance, or dissatisfaction of mind ?”.

“You are right,” replied the Abbé, again assuming a cheerful look, “yet should I define the present state of my mind I could not pronounce it sorrowful; it arose from our past conversation, which touched the chord on which the most delightful and mysterious feelings of human nature vibrate. It awoke a thousand images and remembrances in my mind, and the revered form which had, like some good genius, withdrawn the bondage of error from my eyes, and directed my youthful steps into the paths of virtue and religion, again flitted before me: excellent Alamontade-patient, amiable sufferer! To you, my beloved friends, this respected name is surely not unknown ?”.

“To me it is quite strange,” replied I, “and yet I have a faint remembrance of having once heard it from your lips."

“Alamontade !” exclaimed Roderick; “what! the galleyslave from whose writings you read me that sublime passage July, 1845.-VOL. XLIII.-NO. CLXXI.

2 B

contained in the bundle of papers? It is a painful reflection that a man endowed with such a genius should have brought himself to the galleys, for surely something superior might have been made of such a character. But you, Abbé, surely appreciate his worth in another point of view, since you have applied so many flattering epithets to him.”

“I cannot speak of him but with reverence," replied the Abbé, “ for during my passage through life he has been to me the most remarkable phenomenon in it. Through him I am returned both to myself and to the world. The good for which I am indebted to him is unspeakable, and yet never once would he permit me to thank him.”

Dillon was deeply affected, a tear rolled from beneath his grey lashes, and his lips trembled as if faint sounds still proceeded from them. His sadness was infectious, and each gave himself up to the tide of his own pensive feelings. I shall never forget this delightful moment; all nature seemed to participate in our dreams. The soft breath of evening wafted from the other side of the lake, glided refreshingly over our temples, and sighing expired in the bushes above us. Dillon roused himself from his reverie, and taking a hand of each drew us towards him, saying

“You are both of you young and happy ; for it is easy when our path is strewed with flowers to be content, and to discern in every object around the bounty and goodness of an Omniscient Power. As the evening is so delightful, we cannot pass it more to our satisfaction than in serious and confidential discourse. When I mentioned the name of Alamontade, I was prepared to anticipate your desire of relating his story, and will no longer hesitate informing you who this noble-minded being was, in what manner I became acquainted with him, as well as an account of his last moments; the remembrances connected with him are still edifying and delightful.”

“Pray commence,” said Roderick, "a man—a galley-slavewhose memory Dillon honours with such an interest, must have been an extraordinary individual."

“ But before I commence," said the Abbé,“ permit me to say a few words respecting myself.

“At the period the narrative begins, your friend was an unhappy being, struggling with what he then considered manly fortitude to rise superior to his fate. Alas! I was then ignorant of the being of a God, or that I was an heir to immortality. Only sometimes a faint gleam of comfort beamed upon me in endeavouring to follow the laws of virtue; but this alone was like depending upon a broken reed. It was in this state of mind I took up my abode at Toulon, and here it was I became acquainted with the man whose presence was the harbinger of peace to my benighted mind." The Abbé began :

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