Perhaps ye will kill me-Pray ye, do it quick :
All here is wither'd and I should not live:
I only breathe and dream—no more.-
Ooall. (Within.) Ho, brother!

Almagro, brother!

Orall. Another victim for ye!

Enter Ooallie pursued. Oralloossa seizes her.

Look, thou infernal and pernicious fiend!

This was thy gage, and now shall perish for ye!

Ha!-ha!-a knife-blood-blood

Ooall. Alas, my brother!

(They rush towards him.'

(He falls into a swoon.)

Help, help, Almagro! Do not tear me from him:
There's none but me to love him.-O Almagro !
Thou shouldst not do this thing.

Manc. Drag her away.

Ooall. Wilt thou (To Alm.) not look upon me? Pray

you, uncle,

Let not my brother die.

(They raise up Oralloossa.)

Manc. Thy brother, woman!

Is this the sequel of thy shame ? that thou,

To be defended in thy wantonness,

Leaguest with this man, and madly call'st him Inca?

Unhappy wretch, mark thou the punishment.

Chiefs and Peruvians, behold the daughter

Of Incas, and the conqueror's paramour!
The doom is spoken by our ancient laws :
A grave for her dishonour.

Ooall. O mine uncle!

Almagro, speak; am I not innocent?

God of the sun, thou turn'st away thine eyes
Brother and Inca! hark, they doom my death:
Thou art the Inca and canst save me.

Orall. I!

Save thee-a paramour ?-the laws?—a grave?
Thou root'st out all my father's drooping stock,
Nor leavest a leaf to wither. Now I know thee!
Why should I speak with thee? thou art a fiend!

I'll turn me to the Spaniards. Hark, Almagro :
Thou hast undone me-I forgive thee that;
Cajoled me to the grave-but I forgive thee:
Thou art not yet so base as my own people :
I say, I pardon thee-But look to her;

It needs not she should die. Art thou still silent? Thou know'st, thou hell-cat, that when I had doom thee,

This young wretch saved; my knife was at thy throat,
When she unedged it; I did seek thy heart,

And she did shield thee with her bosom. Look,
She is very innocent, very pure and sinless:

Wilt thou not save her? O then madness seize thee,
Leper thy brain, and break thy heart by inches!-
Spaniards, that are my hateful enemies,

Can ye look on, and see this maiden murder'd?
Innocent murder'd?

Christ. By our lady, no!

Cousin Almagro.

Alm. Hist! art thou gone mad ?—
Remember!-

Orall. I did wrong thee. Speak again :
Thou art his kinsman-Nay, and so am I;
That will not move. But speak again, I pray thee.
Wilt thou be silent, when thy voice can save her?
Manc. The doom is past-The sin is manifest.
Orall. False churl, thou doom'st her with a lie !
Manc. Away!

(They seize upon Ooallie and Oralloossa.) Away with both. Our laws cannot be broken.

Orall. Grant she be doom'd then by those laws, baso uncle,

I am the Inca, and I abrogate them.

She shall not die.

Manc. Away with both-the madman Unto his cell, the Coya to her grave!

(Oralloossa and Ooallie are forced away a dif ferent sides as the curtain falls.)

DR. BIR!

185.-COLONEL ARDEN-RISSOLLE.

Colonel Arden was preparing to take a splendid house in London, and had ordered his servant to look out for a first-rate cook for his new establishment. When Rissolle was introduced the colonel was puzzled to find out what could be his particular profession. He saw a remarkably gentlemanly-looking man, his well-tied neckcloth, his well-trimmed whiskers, his white kid gloves, his glossy hat, his massive gold chain, to which was suspended a repeater, all pronouncing the man of ton; and when the servant announced the ring-figured gentleman before him as willing to dress a dinner on trial, for the purpose of displaying his skill, he was thunderstruck.

Col. Do I mistake? I really beg pardon-it is fiftyeight years since I learned French-am I speaking to aa-cook?

Ris. Oui, monsieur, I believe I have de first reputation in de profession; I live four years wiz de marquee de Chester, and Je me flatte dat if I had not turn him off last months, I should have supervise his cuisine at dis moment. Col. O, you have discharged the marquis, sir?

Ris. Oui, mon col-o-nel, I discharge him because he cast affront upon me, insupportable to an artist of sentiment. Col. Artist!

Ris. Mon col-o-nel, de marquee had de mauvais gout, one day, when he have large partie to dine, to put salt into de soup, before all de compagnie.

Col. Indeed! and may I ask is that considered a crime, sir, in your code?

Ris. I don't know cod; you mean morue? dat is salt enough widout.

Col. I don't mean that, sir. I ask, is it a crime for a gentleman to put more salt into his soup?

Ris. Not a crime, mon col-o-nel, mais it would be de ruin of me, as cook, should it be known to de world. So I told his lordship I must leave him, for de butler had said, dat he saw his lordship put de salt into de soup, which was proclamation to de univairse, dat I did not know de proper quantite of salt for season my soup.

Col. And you left his lordship for that?

Ris. Oui, sare, his lordship gave me excellent charactair. I go afterwards to live wiz my lor Trefoil, very respectable man, my lor, of good family, and very honest man, I believe

-but de king, one day, made him his governor in Ireland, and I found I could not live in dat deveel, Dublin.

Col. No?

Ris. No, mon col-o-nel, it is a fine city, good placebut no opera.

Col. How shocking! and you left his excellency on that account?

Ris. Oui, mon col-o-nel.

Col. Why, his excellency managed to live there without an opera.

Ris. Yes, mon col-o-nel, c'est vrai, but I tink he did not know dare was none when he took de place. I have de charactair from my lord to state why I leave him.

Col. And pray, sir, what wages do you expect?

Ris. Wages! Je n'entend pas, mon col-o-nel; do you mean de stipend—de salarie?

Col. As you please.

Ris. My lord Trefoil give to me seven hundred pounds a vear, my wine, and horse and tilbury, wid small tigre for him. Col. Small what! sir?

Ris. Tigre-little man-boy to hold de horse.

Col. Ah! seven hundred pounds a year and a tigre! Ris. Exclusive of de pastry, mon col-o-nel, I never touch dat department; but I have de honour to recommend Jenkin, my sister's husband, for de pastry, at five hundred pounds and his wine. O, Jenkin is dog a sheap at dat, mon col-o-nel.

Col. O, exclusive of pastry!

Ris. Oui, mon col-o-nel.

Col. Which is to be obtained for five hundred pounds a year additional. Why, sir, the rector of my parish, a clergyman and a gentleman, with an amiable wife and seven children, has but half that sum to live upon.

Ris. Poor clergie! mon col-o-nel. (Shrugging his shoulders.) I pity your clergie! But den you don't considare de science and experience dat it require to make de soup, de omelette

Col. The mischief take your omelette, sir. Do you mean seriously and gravely to ask me seven hundred pounds a year for your services.

Ris. Oui, vraiment, mon col-o-nel. (Taking a pinch of snuff from a gold snuff-box.)

Col. Why then, sir. I can't stand this any longer. Seven hundred pounds! Double it, sir, and I'll be your cook for the rest of my life. Good morning, sir. (In an angry manner, advancing towards Rissolle, who retreats out of the door.) Seven hundred pounds! Seven hundred-mon col-o-nel-rascal.ANONYMOUS.

186.-SCENE FROM THE GLADIATOR.

The Camp of Spartacus. Enter Spartacus and Enomaūs. Spart. SEVEN thousand true! A handful, but enough, Being stanch and prudent, for the enterprise.

Desert me! Well, well, well.-Among the hills

Are many paths that may be safely trod;

Whereby we'll gain the sea, and so pass o'er
To safer Sicily.-Perhaps I spoke

Too roughly; but no matter.-Did you send

To hire the shipping of those pirates? Well.

And all prepared to march at night-fall? Enomaüs,
Do you not think they'll beat him?

nom. I doubt it not;

Phasarius being a soldier but no leader.
Spart. Well, I care not:

We will to Rhegium.-Think you, Œnomaüs,
I might not, while the prætor steals upon him,
Steal on the prætor, and so save the army ?

Enom. Hang them, no. This brings Lucullus
On our seven thousand. Let the mutineers
Look to themselves,

Spart. Right, very right, right, Enomaüs ;
Let them look to themselves. He did desert me.
My father's son deserted me, and left me

Circled by foes. I say, 'tis very right.

Enom. Lo, you; a messenger!

Spart. From Phasarius !

Perhaps he is sorry.—

Enter Jovius.

Enom. Chief, an embassy

From Crassus.

Spart. And what would Crassus with the Gladiator, The poor base slave and fugitive, Spartacus?