Enter FRANCISCO with a casket.

SCENE II.-A Street in Madrid. Enter CHISPA, followed by Musicians, with a bagpipe, guitars, and other instruments.

Chispa. Abernuncio Satanas! and a plague on all lovers who ramble about at night, drinking the elements, instead of sleeping quietly in their beds. Every dead man to his cemetery, say I; and every friar to his monastery. Now, here's my master, Victorian, yesterday a cow. keeper, and to-day a gentleman; yesterday a student, and to-day a lover; and I must be up later than the nightingale, for as the abbot sings so must the sacristan respond. God grant he may soon be married, for then shall all this serenading cease. Ay, marry! marry! marry! Mother, what does marry mean? It means to spin, to bear children, and to weep, my daugh ter! And of a truth, there is something more in matrimony than the wedding-ring. (To the musicians.) And now, gentlemen, Pax vobiscum! as the ass said to the cabbages. Pray, walk this way; and don't hang down your heads. It is no disgrace to have an old father and a ragged shirt. Now, look you, you are gentlemen who lead the life of crickets; you enjoy hunger by day, and noise by night. Yet, I beseech you, for this once be not loud, but pathetic; for it is a serenade to a damsel in bed, and not to the Man in the Moon Your object is mot to arouse and terrify, but to soothe and bring lulling dreams. Therefore, each shall not play his instrument as if it were the only one in the universe, but gently, and with a certain modesty, according with the others. Pray, how may I call thy name, my friend?

First Mus. Gerónimo Gil, at your service. Chispa. Every tub smells of the wine that is in it. Pray. Gerónimo, is not Saturday an unpleasant day with thee?

First Mus Why so?

Chispa. Because I have heard it said that Saturday is an unpleasant day with those who have but one shirt. Moreover, I have seen thee at the tavern, and if thou canst run as fast as thou canst drink, I should like to hunt hares with thee. What instrument is that?

First Mus. An Aragonese bagpipe. Chispa. Pray, art thou related to the bagpiper of Bujalance, who asked a maravedi for playing, and ten for leaving off?

First Mus. No, your honour.

Chispa. I am glad of it. What other instru. ments have we?

Second and Third Mus. We play the bandurria.

-Chispa. A pleasing instrument. And thou?
Fourth Mus. The fife.

Chispa. I like it; it has a cheerful, soul-stir

F

ring sound, that soars up to my lady's window. like the song of a swallow. And you others?

Other Mus. We are singers, please your honour Chispa. You are too many. Do you think we are going to sing mass in the cathedral of Córdova? Four men can make but little use of one shoe, and I see not how you can all sing in one song. But follow me along the garden wall. This is the way my master climbs to the lady's window. It is by the vicar's skirts that the devil climbs into the belfry. Come, follow me, and make no noise. [Exeunt

SCENE III.-PRECIOSA'S Chamber. She stands at the open window. Prec. How slowly through the lilac-scented air

Descends the tranquil moon! Like thistledown

The vapoury clouds float in the peaceful sky! And sweetly from yon hollow vaults of shade The nighingales breathe out their souls in song. And hark! what songs of love, what squl-like sounds,

Answer them from below!

SERENADE.

Stars of the summer night!
Far in yon azure deeps,
Ilide, hide your golden light!
She sleeps!

My lady sleeps!
Sleeps!

Since yesterday I have no news from thee.

Vict. Since yesterday I've been in Alcalá. Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa, When that dull distance shall no more divide us; And I no more shall scale thy wall by night To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.

Prec. An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest.

Vict. And we shall sit together unmolested, And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue,

As singing birds from one bough to another. Prec. That were a life indeed to make time

envious!

I knew that thou wouldst visit me to-night. I saw thee at the play.

Vict.

Sweet child of air!

Never did I behold thee so attired

And garmented in beauty as to-night!
What hast thou done to make thee look so fair?
Prec. Am I not always fair?
Vict.

Ay, and so fair
That I am jealous of all eyes that see thee,
And wish that they were blind.

Pres. I heed them not: When thou art present, I see none but thee! Vict. There's nothing fair nor beautiful but takes

Something from thee that makes it beautiful. Prec. And yet thou leavest me for those dusty books.

Vict. Thou comest between me and those books too often!

I see thy face in every thing I see!

The paintings in the chapel wear thy looks,
The canticles are changed to sarabans.
And with the learned doctors of the schools
I see thee dance cachucas.

Tend ever on, and rest not on the Present.
As drops of rain fall into some dark well,
And from below comes a scarce audible sound,
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter,
And their mysterious echo reaches us.

Prec. I have felt it so, but found no words to say it!

I cannot reason; I can only feel!
But thou hast language for all thoughts and
feelings.

Thou art a scholar; and sometimes I think
We cannot walk together in this world!
The distance that divides us is too great!
Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars;
I must not hold thee back.

Is her affections, not her intellect!

The intellect is finite, but the affections
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted.
Compare me with the great men of the earth;
What am I? Why, a pigmy among giants!
But if thou lovest,-mark me! I say lovest,
The greatest of thy sex excels thee not!
The world of the affections is thy world,
Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy,
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart,
Feeding its flame. The element of fire
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature,
But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp
As in a palace-hall. Art thou convinced?
Prec. Yes, that I love thee, as the good love
heaven;

But not that I am worthy of that heaven.
How shall I more deserve it?
Vict.

Loving more.

Prec. I cannot love thee more; my heart is

full.

Pray do not go! Vict. I must away to Alcalà to-night. Think of me when I am away. Prec.

Fear not!

I have no thoughts that do not think of thee. Vict. (giving her a ring). And to remind thee of my love, take this:

A serpent, emblem of Eternity;

A ruby, say a drop of my heart's blood.
Prec. It is an ancient saying that the ruby
Brings gladness to the weaver, and preserves
The heart pure, and, if laic beneath the pillow,
Drives away evil dreams. But then, alas!
It was a serpent tempted Eve to sin.

Vict. What convent of barefooted Carmelites Taught thee so much theology?

Prec. (Laying her hand upon his mouth.) Hush!

hush!

Good night! and may all holy angels guard thee!

Vict. Good night! good night! thou art my guardian angel!

I have no other saint than thou to pray to! (He descends by the balcony.) Prec. Take care and do not hurt thee. Art thon safe?

Vict. (from the garden). Safe as my love for thee!

But art thou safe? Others can climb a balcony by moonlight As well as I. Pray shut thy window close; I am jealous of the perfumed air of night That from this garden climbs to kiss thy lips. Prec. (throwing down her handkerchief) Thou silly child! Take this to blind thine eyes. It is my benison.

And brings to me

Vict. Sweet fragrance from thy lips, as the soft wind Wafts to the out-bound mariner the breath Of the beloved land he leaves behind. Prec. Make not thy voyage long, Vict.

Shail sec me safe returned.

To-morrow night

Thou art the star

To guide me to an anchorage. Good night! My beauteous star!

night

Prec. Good night.

My star of love, good

Wutchman (at a distance). Ave Maria Purissima!

SCENE IV-An Inn on the road to Alcala. BALTASAR asleep on a bench.

Enter CHISPA.

Chispa. And here we are, half way to Alcala, between cocks and midnight. Body o' me! what an inn this is! The lights out, and the landlord asleep. Holá! ancient Baltasar.

Bal. (waking.) Here I am.

Chispa. Yes, there you are, like a one-eyed Alcade in a town without inhabitants. Bring a light and let me have supper.

Bal. Where is your master?

Chispa. Do not trouble yourself about him. We have stopped a moment to breathe our horses; and, if he chooses to walk up and down in the open air, looking into the sky as one who hears it rain, that does not satisfy my hunger, you know. But be quick, for I am in a hurry, and every man stretches his legs according to the length of his coverlet. What have we here? Bal. (setting a light on the table.) Stewed rab. bit.

Chispa (eating) Conscience of Portalegre! Stewed kitten, you mean?

Bal And a pitcher of Pedro Ximenes, with a roasted pear in it.

Chispa (drinking). Ancient Baltasar, amigo! You know how to cry wine and sell vinegar. I tell you this is nothing but Vinto Tinto of La Mancha, with a tang of the swine-skin.

Bal. I swear to you by Saint Simon and Judas, is is all as I say.

Chispa. And I swear to you, by Saint Peter and Saint Paul, that it is no such thing. Moreover, your supper is like the hidalgo's dinner, very little meat, and a great deal of table-cloth.' Bar. Ha! ha! ha!

Chispa. And more noise than nuts.

Bal. Ha! ha! ha! You must have your joke, Master Chispa. But shall I not ask Don Victorian in to take a draught of the Pedro Ximenes? Chispa. No; you might as well say "Don'tyou-want-some?" to a dead man.

Bal. Why does he go so often to Madrid? Chispa. For the same reason that he eats no supper. He is in love. Were you ever in love. Baltasar?

Bal. I was never out it, good Chispa. It has been the torment of my life.

Chispa. What, are you on fire, too, old haystack? Why we shall never be able to put you

out.

SCENE V.-VICTORIAN'S Chambers at Alcala. HYPOLITO asleep in an arm-chair. He awakes slowly.

Hyp. I must have been asleep! ay, sound asieep!

And it was all a dream. O sleep, sweet sleep!
Whatever formn thon takest thou art fair,
Holding unto our lips thy goblet filled
Out of Oblivion's well, a healing draught!
The candles have burned low; it must be late.
Where can Victorian be? Like Fray Carrillo,
The only place in which one cannot find him
Is his own cell. Here's his guitar, that seldom
Feels the caresses of its master's hand.
Open thy silent lips, sweet instrument!
And make dull midnight merry with a song.

Ile plays and sings.

Padre Francisco!

Padre Fransisco!

What do you want of Padre Francisco?
Here is a pretty young maiden
Who wants to confess her sins!
Open the door and let her come in,
I will shrive her from every sin.

Enter VICTORIAN.

Vict. Padre Hypolito! Padre Hypolito?
Hup What do you want of Padre Hypolito?
Vict. Come, shrive me straight; for if love be
a sin,

I am the greatest sinner that doth live.
I will confess the sweetest of all crimes,-
A maiden wooed and won.
Hup.

The same old tale
Of the old woman in the chimney-corner,
Who, while the pot boils, says, "Come here, my
child,

I'll tell thee a story of my wedding-day."
Vict. Nay, listen, for my heart is full, so full
That I must speak.
Нур.
Alas! that heart of thine
Is like a scene in the old play; the curtain
Rises to solemn music, and lo! enter
The cleven thousand virgins of Cologne!
Vict. Nay, like the Sybil's volumes, thou
shouldst say:

Those that remained, after the six were burned,
Being held more precious than the nine together.
But listen to my tale. Dost thou remember
The Gipsy girl we saw at Córdova
Dance the Romalis in the market-place?
Hyp. Thou meanest Preciosa.
Vict.

Ay, the same.
Thou knowest how her image haunted me
Long after we returned to Alcalá.
She's in Madrid.

Нур. Vict.

I know it.

And I'm in love. Hyp. And therefore in Madrid when thon shouldst be In Alcalá.

Vict. Oh, pardon me, my friend,
If I so long have kept this secret from thee;
But silence is the charm that guards such
treasures,

And, if a word be spoken ere the time,
They sink again, they were not meant for us.
Hyp. Alas! Alas! I see thou art in love.
Love keeps the cold out better than a cloak.
It serves for food and raiment. Give a Spaniard
His mass, his olla, and his Dona Luisa,-

With thy unseasonable jests! Pray, tell me,
Is there no virtue in the world?
Hyp

Not much.
What, think'st thou, is she doing at this moment;
Now, while we speak of her?
Vict.

She lies asleep,

And from her parted lips, her gentle breath
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers.
Her tender limbs are still, and, on her breast
The cross she prayed to, cre she fell asleep,
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams,
Like a light barge safe moored.
Hyp.
Which means, in prose,
She's sleeping with her mouth a little open!
Vict. Oh, would I had the old magician's glass,
To see her as she lies in childlike sleep!
Hyp. And wouldst thou venture?

Vict.

Ay, indeed I would!

Hyp. Thou art courageous. Has thon e'er reflected

How much lies hidden in that word, now?
Vict. Yes, all the awful mystery of Life!

I have thought, my dear Hypolito,
That could we, by some spell of magic, change
The world and its inhabitants to stone,
In the same attitudes as they now are in,
What fearful glances downward might we cast
Into the hollow chasms of human life!

What groups should we behold about the deathbed.

Putting to shame the group of Niobe!
What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells!
What stony hearts in those congealed eyes!
What visible joy or anguish in those cheeks!
What bridal pomps and what funereal shows!
What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling!
What lovers with their marble lips together!

Hyp. Ay, there it is! and if I were in love,
This is the very point I most should dread,
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine,
Might tell a tale were better left untold.
For instance, they might show us thy fair cousin,
The Lady Violante, bathed in tears

Of love and anger, like the maid of Colchis, Whom thou, another faithless Argonaut, Having won that golden fleece, a woman's love, Desertest for this Glaucé,

(Throws himself into the arm-chair which HYPOLITO has left, and lays a large book open upon his knees.)

Must read, or sit in reveric and watch
The changing colour of the waves that break
Upon the idle sea-shore of the mind!
Visions of Fame! that once did visit me,
Making night glorious with your smile, where
are ye?

Oh, who shall give me, now that ye are gone,
Juice of those immortal plants that ploom
Upon Olympus, making us immortal?

Or teach me where that wondrous mandrake grows,

Whose magic root, torn from the earth with groans,

At midnight hour, can scare the fiends away,
And make the mind prolific in its fancies?
I have the wish, but want the will, to act!
Souls of great men departed! ye whose words
Have come to light from the swift river of Time,
Like Roman swords found in the Tagus' bed,
Where is the strength to wield the arms ye
bore?

From the barred visor of antiquity

Reflected shines the eternal light of Truth,
As from a mirror! all the means of action-
The shapeless masses-the materials-
Lie everywhere about us. What we need
Is the celestial fire to change the flint
Into transparent crystal, bright and clear.
That fire is genius! the rude peasant sits
At evening in his smoky cot, and draws
With charcoal figures on the uncouth wall.
The son of genius comes, foot-sore with travel,
And begs a shelter from the inclement night.
He takes the charcoal from the peasant's hand,
And, by the magic of his touch at once
Transfigured, all its hidden virtues shine,
And, in the eyes of the astonished clown,
It gleams a diamond! Even thus transformed,
Rude popular traditions, and old tales
Shine as immortal poems at the touch

Of some poor, houseless, homeless, wandering bard,

Who had but a night's lodgings for his pains.
But there are brighter dreams than those of
Fame,

Which are the dreams of Love! Out of the heart

Rises the bright ideal of those dreams,
As from some woodland fount a spirit rises
And sinks again into its silent deeps,
Ere the enamoured knight can touch her robe!
"Tis this ideal that the soul of man,
Like the enamoured knight beside the fountain,
Waits for upon the margin of Life's stream;
Waits to behold her rise from the dark waters,
Clad in a mortal shape! Alas! how many
Must wait in vain! The stream flows ever-

Here, as I sit at midnight and alone,
Her gentle breathing! on my breast can feel
The pressure of her head: God's benison
Rests ever on it! Close those beauteous cres,
Sweet Sleep! and all the flowers that bloom at
night

With balmy lips breathe in her cars my name!
(Gradually sinks asleep.)

ACT II.

SCENE 1-PRECIOSA'S Chamber. Morning. PRECIOSOA and ANGELICA.

Ang. I will. And may the blessed virgin guard yon. And all good angels! [Exit. Prec. May they guard thee too, And all the poor; for they have need of angels. Now bring me, dear Dolores, my busquina, My richest maja dress,-my dancing dress, And my most precious jewels! Make me look Fairer than night e'er saw me! I've a prize To win this day, worthy of Preciosa! Enter BELTRAN CRUZADO. Cruz. Ave Maria! Prec.

O God! my evil genius!

Ang.

Angelica.

That name

Prec.
Was given you that you might be an angel
To her who bore you! When your infant smile
Made her home Paradise, you were her angel.
Oh, be an angel still! She needs that smile.
So long as you are innocent, fear nothing.
No one can harm you! I am a poor girl,
Whom chance has taken from the public streets,
I have no other shield than mine own virtue,
That is the charm which has protected me!
Amid a thousand perils I have worn it
Here on my heart! It is my guardian angel.
Ang. (rising.) I thank you for this counsel,
dearest lady.

Prec. Thank me by following it.
Ang.
Indeed I will.
Prec. Pray do not go. I have much more to
say.

Ang. My mother is alone. I dare not leave her.

Prec. Some other time, then, when we meet again.

You must not go away with words alone.
(Gives her a purse.)
Take this. Would it were more.
I thank you, lady.

Ang.
Prec. No thanks. To-morrow, come to me

again.

I dance to-night,-perhaps for the last time.
But what I gain, I promise shall be yours,
If that can save you from the Count of Lara.
Ang. O my dear lady! how shall I be grateful
For so much kindness?

Prec. I gave thee yesterday: I have no more. Cruz. The gold of the Busné,-give me his gold!

Prec. I gave thee last in charity to-day.
Cruz. That is a foolish lie.
Prec.

It is the truth.
Cruz. Curses upon thee! Thou art not my

child!

Hast thou given gold away, and not to me? Not to thy father? To whom then?

Prec.

Who needs it more. Cruz.

To one

No one can need it more.

Prec. Thou art not poor.
Cruz.

What! 1, who lurk about
In dismal suburbs and unwholesome lanes;
I, who am housed worse than the galley slave,
I, who am fed worse than the kennelled hound,
I, who am cloted in rags,-Beltran Cruzado,—
Not poor!

Pree. Thou hast a stout heart and strong hands.

Thou canst supply thy wants; what wouldst thou more?

Cruz. The gold of the Busné! give me his

gold!

Prec. Beltran Cruzada! hear me once for all,

I speak the truth. So long as I had gold,

I gave it to thee freely, at all times,
Never denied thee; never had a wish
But to fulfil thine own. Now go in peace!
Be merciful, be patient, and, ere long,
Thou shalt have more.

Cruz.

And if I have not, Thou shalt no longer dwell here in rich cham

bers.

Wear silken dresses, feed on dainty food,
And live in idleness; but go with ine,
Dance the Romalis in the public streets,
And wander wild again o'er field and fell;
For here we stay not long.
Prec.
What! march again?
Cruz. Ay, with all speed. I hate the crowded
town!

I cannot breathe shut up within its gates!
Air-1 want air, and sunshine, and blue sky,
The feeling of the breeze upon my face,
The feeling of the turf beneath my feet,
And no walls but the far-off mountain-tops.
Then I am free and strong, -once more myself,
Beltran Cruzado. Count of the Calés!
Prec. God speed thee on thy march!-I can-
not go.

Cruz. Remember who I am, and who thou art!

Be silent and obey! Yet one thing more.
Bartolomé Román-

Prec. (with emotion.) Oh. I beseech thee;
If my obedience and blameless life,
If my humility and meek submission
In all things hitherto, can move in thee
One feeling of compassion; if thou art
Indeed my father, and canst trace in me
One look of her who bore me, or one tone
That doth remind thee of her, let it plead