SCENE I. FERRARA. The interior of Giacomo's house. Giacomo and Lorenzo discovered together. Time, a little before daybreak. Gia. Art sure of this? Lor. (Alone.) Oh, what a night! It must be all a dream! For twenty years, since that I wore a beard, I've served my melancholy master here, A wedding in this silent house, forsooth,- Our dove should fall a prey! poor gentle dear! The duke, perchance, already breathes his last, ROSALIA, his daughter, and Bernardo's wife, LORENZO, his servant. And when the lady entered took her breath. I hear him coming; by his hurried step There's something done, or will be very soon. (Enter Giacomo. He sets the light upon the table and confronts Lorenzo with a stern look.) Gia. Lorenzo, thou hast served me twenty years, And faithfully; now answer me, how was 't That thou wert in the street at such an hour? Lor. When that the festival was o'er last night, I went to join some comrades in their wine Gia. And doubtless thou wert blinded soon with drink? I could not touch it, though much urged by all- I could do naught but sit and sigh and think Gia. And sober too! so much the more at fault. Thou hast not made mistake, but something worse. Lor. Oh, pray you, what is that then I have made? Gia. A lie ! Lor. Indeed, good master, on my knees I swear that what I said is sainted truth. Gia. Pshaw, pshaw, no more of this. Did I not go Upon the instant to my daughter's room And find Bernardo sleeping at her side? Lor. Well, if it must be, then it must. Gia. Oh, blessed Virgin, grant some proof in this! I picked it up and placed it safely here. Who forged the lie could fabricate this too : But hold, it is ingeniously done. Get to thy duties, sir, and mark me well, [Exit Lorenzo. Bernardo's very hand indeed is here! (He rests his forehead on his hand a few minutes, and ex claims,) The past returns to me again- the lore (He unlocks the door and stands upon the threshold.) SCENE II. Another apartment in the alchemist's house. Enter Rosalia and Bernardo. Ros. You tell me he has not been seen to-day? Ber. Save by your trusty servant here, who says Ile saw his master, from without, unclose The shutters of his laboratory while The sun was yet unrisen. It is well; This turning to the past pursuits of youth Argues how much the aspect of to-day Hath driven the ancient darkness from his brain. And now, my dear Rosalia, let thy face And thoughts and speech be drest in summer smiles, Happy? Why so, indeed, dear love, I trust thou art! Ros. Nay, chide me not, good sir; the world to me A riddle is at best-my heart has had No tutor. From my childhood until now Ber. On honest things? Then let them dwell hence- Ros. I hope so, sir-it must be so ! Thou never shalt have cause to question mine. Have somehow thrilled me with mysterious awe. [forth (Enter Giacomo in loose gown and dishevelled hair.) Gia. (Not perceiving them.) Ha, precious villains, ye are caught at last! Gia. Ah, my pretty doves! Ber. Come, father, we are jealous of the art Which hath deprived us all the day of thee. Gia. Are ye indeed? (Aside.) How smoothly to the air To smile upon thy brightness! What say'st thou, Ber. That she is beautiful I had no cause to dream, Gia. Two precious villains-Carbon and Azote- Ber. I'm glad success has crowned thy task to-day, Ber. Ay, true- Is full of shouts and roses. If he fall, Gia. Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels? Ber. Pray what is that? Gia. A cure, sir, for the heart-ache. Come, thou shalt see. The day is on the waneMark how the moon, as by some unseen arm, Is thrusted upward, like a bloody shield! On such an hour the experiment must begin. Come, thou shalt be the first to witness this Most marvelous discovery. And thou, My pretty one, betake thee to thy bower, And I will dream thou 'rt lovelier than ever. Come, follow me. (To Bernardo.) When Satan shall regain his wings, and sit (He gives Bernardo his arm, and they enter the laboratory.) Ros. (Alone.) He never looked so strange before; His cheeks, asudden, are grown pale and thin; His very hair seems whiter than it did. Oh, surely, 't is a fearful trade that crowds The work of years into a single day. It may be that the sadness which I wear Hath clothed him in its own peculiar hue. The very sunshine of this cloudless day Seemed but a world of broad, white desolation- Knolled their long, solemn and prophetic chime; - Proclaims the vesper hour Вет. Oh, would that now my heart Ber. How long will these small crucibles hold out? May then be fired; and when thou breathest their fumes, Nepenthe deeper it shall seem than that These delicate airs seem wafted from the fields (He places the two crucibles on the furnace.) Linger as long as it may suit thy pleasure- Which pierce me through and through like fiery arrows To stand upon a reeling deck! Hold, hold! A hundred crags are toppling overhead. I faint, I sink-now, let me clutch that limb- (Enter Giacome.) I should have done the deed-and yet 't is well. Thou diest by thine own dull hardihood! Ber. Ha! is it so? Then follow thou! My time Gia. No, villain, sink! And take this cursed record of thy plot, (He thrusts a paper into Bernardo's hand,) And it shall gain thee speedy entrance at Th' infernal gate! (Bernardo reads, reels and falls.) Gia. (Looking on the body.) Poor miserable dust! This body now is honest as the best, The very best of earth, lie where it may. Be here. Oh, Heaven! vouchsafe to me the power Assist a stricken father now to raise His sinless daughter from the bier of shame. (Enter Rosalia, dressed in simple white, bearing a small golden crucifix in her hand.) Ros. Dear father, in obedience, I have come But where 's Bernardo? Gia. Gone to watch the stars; Ros. I do not know what strange experiment Should be chief patron of our thoughts and acts. Gia. See'st thou the crucibles, my child? Now mark, I'll drop a simple essence into each. Ros. My sense is flooded with perfume! Again. The very walls are melting from And walk we not on green and flowery ground? Gia. Nay, dear Rosalia, cast thy angel ken A rustle as of wings, proclaim the approach LINES TO AN IDEAL. BY ELIZABETH LYON LINSLEY. I WANDERED on the lonely strand, A setting sun shone brightly there, A playful breeze the waters curled, The bird had gone. The sun had set. A distant boatman plied the oar, And when the last bright lines on high A large star showed its lone, sweet eye All margined with a cloud of flame! The winds were hushed. Their latest breath In soft, low murmurs died afar The rippling of the wave beneath Showed dancing there that one bright star! So fair a scene, so sweet an hour, Were felt and passed. In stilly calm They shed around me beauty's power, I was alone! I saw no eyes I gazed no more! The blinding tear My soul was swelling like the sea! Had thine eyes gleamed there with mine own, On ev'ry wave thyself had shown! MRS. PELBY SMITH'S SELECT PARTY. BY MRS. A. M. F. ANNAN. "MRS. GOLDSBOROUGH's party is to-night, is it not?" said Mr. Pelby Smith to his wife;" are we going my dear?" "Apropos of parties," returned she, waiving the question; "I don't see how we are to get on any longer without giving one ourselves." Why so, my dear? We cannot afford to give a party, and that will be an apology all-sufficient to a woman of Cousin Sabina's sense." “Cousin Sabina!” exclaimed Mrs. Smith; "as if I, or any one else, ever thought of going to the trouble of a party for a plain old maid, like cousin Sabina Incledon !" "My dear, I wish you would not speak in that way of Cousin Sabina; she is an excellent woman, of superior mind, and manners to command respect in any society." "That may be your opinion, Mr. Smith," answered the lady tartly; "mine is that a quiet old maid, from somewhere far off in the country, and with an income of two or three hundred dollars a year, would not make much of a figure in our society. At all events, I shan't make a trial of it." "I thought you alluded to her visit as making it incumbent on us to give a party," said Mr. Smith meekly; "there is no other reason, I believe." "You will allow me to have some judgment in such matters, Mr. Smith. I think it is absolutely necessary that we should, that is, if we wish to go to parties for the future. We have been going to them all our lives without giving any, and people will grow tired of inviting us." "Then, my dear, why not make up our minds to stay at home. I would rather." to live in any other than a plain, quiet way. The cost of a party would be a serious inconvenience to me." "The advantages will be of greater consequence than the sacrifices," returned the lady, softening as she saw her husband yielding;. "the loss will soon be made up to you through an increase of friends. Party-giving people are always popular." Mr. Smith saw that his wife was determined to carry her point, which was nothing new. He had learned to submit, and to submit in silence, so, after sitting moodily for a few minutes, he took up his hat to go to his place of business. "I knew, my dear," said Mrs. Smith smoothly, "that you would soon see the matter in a proper light; and now about Mrs. Goldsborough's party. I shall lay out your things for you. I can go with some satisfaction now that I have a prospect of soon being on equal terms with my entertainers." Mrs. Smith walked round her two small and by no means elegant rooms, reassuring herself as to the capabilities of her lamps, girandoles and candlesticks, for she had mentally gone through all her arrangements long before; the act of consulting her husband being, generally, her last step toward the undertaking of any important project. She was joined by the object of some of her recent remarks, Miss Sabina Incledon, a cousin of Mr. Smith's, who, until within a few days, had been a stranger to her. She was a plainly dressed person of middle age, with an agreeable though not striking countenance, and unobtrusive, lady-like manners. "I am sorry you are not going to Mrs. Goldsborough's to-night, Cousin Sabina," said Mrs. Smith; "But I would not, Mr. Smith. I shall go to par-"I have no doubt she would have sent an invitation ties as long as possible. My duty to my children re- had she known I had a friend visiting me." quires it." "Not improbable. I do not, however, feel much Mr. Smith opened his eyes as wide as his timidity inclination just now to go to a party. Had it not would let him. "My duty to my children, I repeat," pursued she with energy; "they will have to be introduced to society." "Not for seven or eight years yet, any of them," interposed Mr. Smith. "Sooner or later," continued the lady; "and how is that to be done unless I keep the footing which I have attained-with trouble enough, as I only know, and without any thanks to you, Mr. Smith. If I give up parties, I may fall at once into the obscurity for which you have such a taste. People of fortune and distinction can voluntarily withdraw for a while, and then reappear with as much success as ever, but that is not the case with persons of our position." "It is only the expense that I object to, my dear; my business is so limited that it is impossible for us been for that, I should have sent my card to Mrs. Goldsborough after my arrival. I met her at the springs last summer, and received much politeness from her." "Mrs. Goldsborough is a very polite woman-very much disposed to be civil to every one," said Mrs. Smith; "by the bye," she added, "Pelby and I have it in contemplation to give a large party ourselves." "Indeed? I thought you were not party-giving people; Cousin Pelby assured me so." "And never would be if Pelby Smith had his own way. To be sure, we are not in circumstances to entertain much, conveniently, but for the sake of a firmer place in society, I am always willing to strain a point. As to Pelby, he has so little spirit that he would as soon be at the bottom of the social ladder as at the top. I can speak of it without impropriety |