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And we have all
Been drinking at the tavern to your health,
As wells drink in November, when it rains.

Vict. Where is the gentleman ?

As the old song says,
His body is in Segovia,

His soul is in Madrid.
Pre. Is this a dream? O, if it be a dream,
Let me sleep on, and do not wake me yet!
Repeat thy story! Say I'm not deceived !
Say that I do not dream! I am awake;
This is the Gipsy camp; this is Victorian,
And this his friend, Hypolito! Speak! speak !
Let me not wake and find it all a dream!

Vict. It is a dream, sweet child! a waking dream,
A blissful certainty, a vision bright
Of that rare happiness, which even on earth
Heaven gives to those it loves. Now art thou rich,
As thou wast ever beautiful and good;
And I am now the beggar.

Pre. [giving him her hand.] I have still
A hand to give.

Chis. [aside). And I have two to take.
I've heard my grandmother say, that Heaven gives almonds
To those who have no teeth. That's nuts to crack.
I've teeth to spare, but where shall I find almonds ?

Vict. What more of this strange story?

Nothing more.
Your friend, Don Carlos, is now at the village
Showing to Pedro Crespo, the Alcalde,
The proofs of what I tell you. The old hag,
Who stole you in your childhood, has confessed;
And probably they'll hang her for the crime,
To make the celebration more complete.

Vict. No; let it be a day of general joy;
Fortune comes well to all, that comes not late.
Now let us join Don Carlos.

So farewell.
The student's wandering life! Sweet serenades,
Sung under ladies' windows in the night,
And all that makes vacation beautiful !
To you, ye cloistered shades of Alcalá,
To you, ye radiant visions of romance,
Written in books, but here surpassed by truth, .
The Bachelor Hypolito returns,
And leaves the Gipsy with the Spanish Student.


SCENE VI.- A pass in the Guadarrama mountains. Barly morning. A muleteer crosses

the stage, sitting sideways on his mule, and lighting a paper cigar with flint and steel.


If thou art sleeping, maiden,

Awake and open thy door,
'Tis the break of day, and we must away

O'er meadow, and mount, and moor.
Wait not to find thy slippers,

But come with thy naked feet;
We shall have to pass through the dewy grass,

And waters wide and fleet.

[Disappears down the pass. Enter a Monk. A Shepherd appears on the rocks above.]

Monk. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Olá! good man! Shep. Olá! Monk. Is this the road to Segovia ? Shep. It is, your reverence. Monk. How far is it? Shep. I do not know. Monk. What is that yonder in the valley ? Shep. San Ildefonso. Monk. A long way to breakfast. Shep. Ay, marry. Monk. Are there robbers in these mountains ? Shep. Yes, and worse than that. Jonk. What ? Shep. Wolves. Monk. Santa Maria! Come with me to San Ildefonso, and thou shalt be well rewarded.

Shep. What wilt thou give me?

Monk. An Agnus Dei and my benediction. [They disappear. A mounted Contrabandista passes, wrapped in his cloak, and a gun at

his saddle-bow. He goes down the pass singing.)


Worn with speed is my good steea,
And I march me, hurried, worried ;
Onward, caballito mio,
With the white star in thy forehead!
Onward, for here comes the Ronda,
And I hear their rifles crack !
Ay, jaléo! Ay, ay, jaléo !

Ay, jaléo! They cross our track ! [Song dies away. Enter Preciosa, on horseback, attended by VICTORIAN, HYPOLITO,

DON CARLOS, and CHSPA, on fout, and armed.]

Vict. This is the highest point. Here let us rest.
See, Preciosa, see how all about us
Kneeling, like hooded friars, the misty mountains


Receive the benediction of the sun !
O glorious sight!

Most beautiful indeed.
Hyp. Most wonderful!

And in the vale below,
Where yonder steeples flash like lifted halberds,
San Ildefonso, from its noisy belfries,
Sends up a salutation to the morn,
As if an army smote their brazen shields,
And shouted victory!

And which way lies

Vict. At a great distance yonder. '
Dost thou not see it !

No, I do not see it.
Vict. The merest flaw that dents the horizon's edge.
There, yonder!

'Tis a notable old town,
Boasting an ancient Roman aqueduct,
And an Alcázar, builded by the Moors,
Wherein, you may remember, poor Gil Blas
Was fed on Pan del Rey. O, many a time
Out of its grated windows have I looked
Hundreds of feet plumb down to the Eresma,
That, like a serpent through the valley creeping,
Glides at its foot.

O, yes! I see it now,
Yet rather with my heart than with mine eyes,
So faint it is. And, all my thoughts sail thither,
Freighted with prayers and hopes, and forward urged
Against all stress of accident, as, in
The Eastern Tale, against the wind and tide,
Great ships were drawn to the Magnetic Mountains,
And there were wrecked and perished in the sea ! [She weeps.]

Vict. O gentle spirit! Thou didst bcar unmoved
Blasts of adversity and frosts of fate!
But the first ray of sunshine that falls on thee
Melts thee to tears! 0, let thy weary heart
Lean upon mine! and it shall faint no more,
Nor thirst, nor hunger ; but be comforted
And filled with my affection.

Stay no longer!
My father waits. Methinks I see him there,
Now looking from the window, and now watching
Each sound of wheels or foot-fall in the street,
And saying, “Hark! she comes !" O father! father!

[They descend the pass. CHISPA remains behind.] Chis. I have a father, too, but he is a dead one. Alas and alacka-day! Poor was I born, and poor do I remain. I neither win nor lose. Thus I wag through the world, half the time on foot, and the other half walking : and always as merry as a thunder-storm in the night. And so we plough along, as the fiy said to the ox. Who knows what may happen? Patience and shufile the cards! I am not yet so bald, that you can see my brains; and perhaps, after all, I shall some day go to Rome, and come back Saint Peter. Benedicite!

[Exit. [A pause. Then enter BARTOLOME wildly, as if in pursuit, with a carbine in his hand.)

Bart. They passed this way! I hear their horses hoofs!
Yonder I see them! Come, sweet caramillo,
This serenade shall be the Gipsy's last !

[Fires down the pass.)
Ha! ha! Well whistled, my sweet caramillo !
Well whistled !--I have missed her!-0, my God!

[The shot is returned. BARTOLOMÉ falls.)




The story of “EVANGELINE” is founded on a painful occurrence which took place in the early period of British colonization in the northern part of America

In the year 1713, Acadia, or, as it is now named, Nova Scotia, was ceded to Great Britain by the French. The wishes of the inhabitants seem to have been little consulted in the change, and they with great difficulty were induced to take the oaths of allegiance to the British Government. Some time after this, war having again broken out between the French and British in Canada, the Acadians were accused of having assisted the French, from whom they were descended, and connected by many ties of friendship. with provisions and ammunition, at the siege of Beau Séjour. Whether the accusation was founded on fact or not, has not been satisfactorily ascertained; the result, however, was most disastrous to the primitive, simple-minded Acadians. The British Government ordered them to be removed from their homes, and dispersed throughout the other colonies, at a distance from their much-loved land. This resolution was not communicated to the inhabitants till measures had been matured to carry it into immediate effect; when the Governor of the colony, having issued a summons calling the whole people to a meeting, informed them that their lands, tenements, and cattle of all kinds were forfeited to the British crown, that he had orders to remove them in vessels to distant colonies, and they must remain in custody till their embarkation.

The poem is descriptive of the fate of some of the persons involved in these calamitous proceedings.

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighbouring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.

This is the forest primeval; but where are the hearts that beneath it Leaped like the roe, when he hears in the woodland the voice of the

huntsman ? Where is the thatch-roofed village, the home of Acadian farmers,-Men whose lives glided on like rivers that water the woodlands, Darkened by shadows of earth, but reflecting an image of heaven P Waste are those pleasant farms, and the farmers for ever departed Scattered like dust and leaves, when the mighty blasts of October Seize them, and whirl them aloft, and sprinkle them far over the ocean. Naught but tradition remains of the beautiful village of Grand-Pré.

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