Act 1 — THE VALENTINES.

The fires of February lit the hearth, And shone with welcome lustre on the brows Of two most lovely maidens, as they sat Expecting, in their heart of hearts, the notes Called "Valentines," that February brings Upon its fourteenth day, to tell, in rhyme, All fair and gentle ladies whether they Have made new conquests, or have kept the old As fresh as new-blown roses in the hearts Of their admiring slaves. One of the girls (Laughing and lovely was she), ever won High hearts to do her bidding, dreaming it No sin that all should yield her love and homage, Yet was no trifling, passionless coquette. Her winning beauty was the standing toast Of the wide neighborhood, and serenades From many a gallant woke the sleeping echoes Beneath her window, and her name was like The silvery pealing of a tinkling bell; (Perhaps 'tis yours, fair reader,) "Clairinelle." May sat beside her with a graver air, Something more matronly controlled her mien; Yet was she not a sighing "sentimentalist," But, like her cousin Cary, could be gay: Two Valentines had come for these fair girls, Which made the dimpled smiles show teeth like pearls Pray, read those tender missives—here they are—

The maiden I love is the fairest on earth, Her laugh is the clear, joyous music of mirth; I think of the angels whenever she sings— She's a seraph from Heaven, but folding her wings. The least little act that she doeth is kind; Her goodness all springs from a beautiful mind. I love her much more than I know how to tell; Let her do what she will, it is always done well: Her voice is the murmur the mild zephyr makes As it steals through the forest and ruffles the lakes: Her eyes are so gentle, so calm, and so blue, That I'm sure that she's constant, and trusting, and true: Her features are delicate, classic, and pure: Her hair is light chestnut, and I'm almost sure That the sunbeams that bathe it can't set themselves free: Her teeth are like pearls from the depths of the sea. A bee in a frolic once stung her red lip, And left there the honey he hastened to sip: Let her go where she will, she is always the belle, And her name, her sweet name, is the fair Clairinelle.

MY UNSENTIMENTAL COUSIN:— The moon was half bewildered by the vexing clouds That did beset her in her path serene, Veiling her beauty with their envious shrouds, Hiding her glorious, most majestic mien. There was a depth of silence in the night— A mist of melancholy in the air— And the capricious beams of Dian's light Gave something mystic to the scene most fair. I gave my cousin Dante's divine "Inferno," Imploring her to read il primo canto. "Lo giorno s'andava," she drawled; but, tired of plodding, Directly fell asleep, and pretty soon—was nodding!! "Cousin, sweet cousin," cried I out, "awake! I long for sympathy—compassion on me take: They say yon stars are worlds—dost think 'tis so?" "Really, my—dear (a yawn), I—don't exactly know." "Cousin," said I, "upon a night like this, Back to the heart steal distant memories From out the vista of the waning past"— "Harry, I've caught the horrid fly at last!" Shades of the angry Muses! worse and worse! She disappears!—is gone!—to knit a crochet purse!! "Cousin, come back again!" in vain I cried; Echo (the mocking-bird!) alone replied.

CARA.