gentleman is perhaps only a little eccentric. Allow me to say one word to him. Sir [to SMITH].

Smith. Sir. [Bowing.]

Capt. [Aside to him.] A little difficulty of this description may happen to any gentleman. If you would pardon the liberty I take, as an utter stranger, in offering you the trifling loan of two guineas [slipping them into his hand].

Smith. My dear sir, no apology, I beg. I am your debtor.

Capt. Hush!

Smith. Certainly. [Aloud to LANDLORD.] Harkye, my friend: It is just possible I may be a rogue, but it is also possible I may be an ambassador, a minister of state, or an East India director. I therefore only request you to decide whether you will send for a constable or not.

Land. [Hesitatingly.] Well, I should be sorry to do an uncivil thing by a gentleman for a guinea or two; and if you are a gentleman, I suppose, some other day, you might pay me.

Smith. I might, undoubtedly; but, mind, I don't say I will.

Land. Well, you are an odd gentleman, certainly; but I'll trust you sooner than have a disturbance, and a mob round my door; so I leave it to your honour. [Throws bill on table, and exit.

Smith. [Aside.] In that case, here go the two guineas. [Putting the two guineas, which he has hela in his hand, into his pocket, and taking up his hat and cane.] Your humble servant, sir. [Makes a gracious bow to CAPTAIN COZENS, and putting on his hat,

walks out; picking his teeth, and humming an Italian air.]

Capt. [Aside.] He's a first-rate artist. I must see more of him. [Aloud to WAITER.] There's my reckoning; keep the change.

[Exit CAPTAIN COZENS.

Wait. Thank ye, sir. [Tossing up the guinea, and catching it.] That's a gentleman, if you please!— every inch of one. I always know a real gentleman by what he gives the waiter!

(By permission of the Publisher.)

SCENE FROM "THE FOOL'S REVENGE.”

BY TOM TAYLOR.

BERTUCCIO. FIORDELISA.

Bert. My own!

Fiord. [Flinging herself into his arms with a cry of joy.] My father!

Bert. [Embracing her tenderly.] Closer, closer yet! Let me feel those soft arms about my neck,

This dear cheek on my heart! No-do not stir-
It does me so much good! I am so happy-
These minutes are worth years!

Fiord.

My own dear father!

Bert. Let me look at thee, darling-why, thou

growest

More and more beautiful! Thou 'rt happy here? Hast all that thou desirest-thy lute-thy flowers? She loves her poor old father?-Blessings on thee— I know thou dost-but tell me so.

Fiord.

I love you

I love you very much! I am so happy

When you are with me-Why do you come so late, And go so soon? Why not stay always here?

Bert. Why not! why not! Oh, if I could! To live

Where there's no mocking, and no being mockedNo laughter but what's innocent; no mirth

That leaves an after-bitterness like gall.

Fiord. Now, you are sad! There's that black ugly cloud

Upon your brow-you promised, the last time,
It never should come when we were together.
You know when you're sad, I'm sad too.

Bert.
My bird!
I'm selfish even with thee-let dark thoughts come,
That thy sweet voice may chase them, as they say
The blessed church-bells drive the demons off.

Fiord. If I but knew the reason of your sadness, Then I might comfort you; but I know nothing— Not even your name.

Bert.

But "Father."

Fiord.

I'd have no name for thee,

In the convent, at Ceséna,

Where I was rear'd, they used to call me orphan.
I thought I had no father, till you came,

And then they needed not to say I had one;

My own heart told me that.

Bert.

I often think

I had done well to have left thee there, in the peace
Of that still cloister. But it was too hard.
My empty heart so hungered for my child!—
For those dear eyes that look no scorn for me—
That voice that speaks respect and tenderness,
Even for me -My dove-my lily-flower-
My only stay in life!—Oh, God, I thank thee
That thou hast left me this at least! [He weeps

Fiord.

Dear father! You're crying now-you must not cry-you must

You say you are so happy here-and yet
You never come but to weep bitter tears.
And I can but weep too-not knowing why.
Why are you so sad? Oh, tell me-tell me all !
Bert. I cannot. In this house I am thy father:
Out of it, what I am boots not to say;
Hated, perhaps—or envied-feared, I hope,
By many-scorned by more-and loved by none.
In this one innocent corner of the world

I would but be to thee a father-something
August, and sacred!

Fiord.

And you are so, father.

Bert. I love thee with a love strong as the hate
Come, sit beside me,

I bear for all but thee.

With thy pure hand in mine-and tell me still,
"I love you," and "I love you"-only that.
Smile on me-so!-thy smile is passing sweet!
Thy mother used to smile so once-oh, God!
I cannot bear it. Do not smile—it wakes
Memories that tear my heart-strings. Do not look
So like thy mother, or I shall go mad!

Fiord. Oh, tell me of my mother!

Bert. No!-leave the dead alone-talk of thyself. Thy life here-Thou heed'st well my caution, girlNot to go out by day, nor show thyself

There, at the casement.

Fiord.

Yes some day, I hope,

You will take me with you, but to see the town— 'Tis so hard to be shut up here, alone

Bert. Thou hast not stirred abroad?

Fiord.

[Suspiciously and eagerly. Only to vespers

You said I might do that with good Brigitta

I never go forth, or come in alone.

Bert. That's well. I grieve that thou shouldst live
so close.

But if thou knew'st what poison's in the air-
What evil walks the streets-How innocence

Is a temptation-beauty but a bait

For desperate desires :-No man, I hope,
Has spoken to thee?