_Calantha._—Away, away, call not such passion love! A man so loves his horse, his hound, his hawk, For that these things to’s pleasure minister; He’s proud to boast such peerless beauty his— Does gloat upon it—would have others gaze, And pine with envy. What’s this but self-love? Now mark, Antenor! He who loves indeed, With his whole soul! His study but to honour His lady’s name an hundred thousand ways! His sole joy, her contentment; and sole sorrow, Her disquiet. He with true devotion Approaches her, as something pure and holy, His bright incentive to high deeds. The beacon To light his path to virtue and to fame! _Old Manuscript Play._ CHAPTER I. Ten amor el arco quedo. Que soy niña y tengo miedo.—_Spanish Romance._ In a small but neat drawing-room, in the principal town of ——shire, Captain Wareham and his family were assembled at breakfast. Captain Wareham himself was sitting with the newspaper in his hand, his back half turned to the breakfast-table, and his feet resting on the fender; Caroline, his eldest daughter, was presiding over the tea-pot; Ellen, the second, was patiently waiting till the tea _had brewed_; the two elder boys were kicking at each other’s legs under the table; the youngest daughter was strumming away at a most unmusical piano-forte; and the youngest boy was amusing himself by adorning the slate, on which he was supposed to be doing a sum, with specimens of the graphic art, in the shape of helmeted knights and galloping war-horses. “Caroline,” said Captain Wareham, “do not give me water bewitched, by way of tea, this morning, I entreat!” “I hope it will be good, papa: the water does boil to-day.” Captain Wareham took his tea, and having added the cream and sugar, tasted it. “Caroline, you have let the tea stand too long! You know I hate it when it gets that rough disagreeable taste.” “Shall I put in a little water, papa? It is very easy to make it weaker.” “No! there is no use in doing that. If the tea is once too strong, you cannot make it right by adding water. Give me the toast.” Ellen handed him the toast. “It is all cold and tough. I cannot eat it!” “It has been here so long, dear papa; but you were so busy with the newspaper, I did not like to interrupt you.” “You know I hate cold toast!” “Shall I ring, and ask for some more?” “Ask for more! I never can teach any of my children that people who are poor must conform to their means. One would think I was made of gold, to hear the wasteful manner in which you talk!” “Shall I toast it afresh, papa?” interrupted Ellen; “that will make it almost as good as ever again.” “No, no! be quiet, child. How you pester me! Do you not see I am reading the newspaper? There is no possibility of understanding a word one reads, you all keep up such a clatter!”