University of Virginia Library

Scene III.

—A lower Apartment in Count Montalba's Palace.
ANTHONY, ANTONIO, AND GIACHIMO.
Antho.
'Tis an oppressive day—I scarce can breathe;
I' faith, the climate's very sultry now—
And our lord count is very strange, methinks.
'Tis hot unbearably, I vow and swear,
Inside and outside too o'the house—just now!—
Too hot to hold me, were't not for the sake
Of my sweet Lady Eva—gentlest lamb!
Heard you the thunder-storm this morning roll
O'er this old, ricketty, ruinous Rome, I warrant,
(This subterraneous, strange, amphibious place!—)
As though 'twould shake those few old bones—that seem'd
Quite out of joint enough before—to pieces!—
Your temples of Jew-Peter and the rest?
I am glad they had the decency to give
The Christian Peter a good thundering new one!—
Pheugh!—'tis so hot!—there is no breathing here!
I feel half strangled—stifled in my clothes.—

Giach.
(Walking round him and surveying him!)
I wonder not! poor Anthony! no doubt—
They feel uncomfortably strange to you!
Especially in this hot weather, now:—
'Twere better you took off your coat, methinks.

Antho.
You're about right! I vow I think so too! (takes off his coat.)


Giach.
Your waistcoat's doubtless sadly in your way—
Suppose too—you divest yourself of that—

Antho.
Well!—I have no objection—so here goes— (takes off his waistcoat.)

Why! you young hang-pup!—What art grinning for?
Did'st never see a stalwort man, like me,
A proper man of portly make and mould—
Take off his waistcoat on hot days before?—
Why! what art after?—Round and round you step
As in a mill—the tread-mill were your place,
I wish for your sake 'twere—with all my heart.

Giach.
And you my comrade!—Tony!—well and good!—
But Anthony, poor Anthony!—I feel—
Indeed I do, I feel for you!—Alas!—
How awkward must that chafing collar prove!

Antho.
You'd think the halter pleasanter, perhaps?—
Ha! ha! What we're brought up to—that you know!—

Giach.
Not I.—If you prefer it I would run
And fetch one that should suit you. Speak the word!
There may be one all ready made for you!

Antho.
Thou frontless impudence!—keep off!—keep off!

Giach.
Nay!—cool and comfortable—'twere be sure—
And economical!—'twould save all washing!
Now do, dear Anthony—do let me run!

Antho.
Brat!—Save all washing!—Save a murder!—Babe!—
Run—yes!—I'll run you through with this good cane!—
(Shakes a cane at him.)
Be off, or you're a double-dead baboon!
Tramp!—tramp!

Giach.
I feel such pity for your case!
Those cramping stockings!—those confining shoes!—
That shirt's vile bondage!—poor, poor Anthony!—

Antho.
If you can find, by rummaging within
That numskull, hoisted on your two lank shoulders—
One small groat's-worth of brain, and that can boast
One grain of meaning—give it me at once!—

Giach.
Poor Anthony!—We know you ne'er were used
To wear a thread or shred of clothes before!
But smeared with paint, ran wild in your old woods!
You ancient Britons!—

Antho.
Ancient Britons! Ho!
Am I an ancient Briton?—Mongrel!—I!
I am no ancient Briton!—grant me patience!—
Do I look like an ancient Briton?—fool!

Giach.
Oh, no! in truth, most young, and fresh, and green!
But want a leetle painting o'er afresh,—
Just a few brightening touches of the brush!
For here and there the paint's turned slightly rusty—
Just needs fresh varnishing, perhaps—or scouring!—

Antho.
Painting! I'll paint you sirrah—black and blue—
Good black and blue!—in stripes three inches broad:
What scouring?—I'll scour your thick skin, and scourge it,
Ape! Ancient Briton! heard man e'er the like?—

Giach.
(coaxingly,)
Come! Anthony!—you know—you know 'tis true!—
They wear no clothes in England!—and you know
Dear Anthony! your fingers are your forks!
Your tables are your knees—you keep no cooks!
You ante-diluvian Druids nothing eat
Save husks and acorns, and do dwell in dens;—
And once a year are roasted in brass bulls,
Which gives your name—John Bull. Come don't be shy—
Don't be ashamed of your own country, now!
Let's have it out, all friends together here!
Dear Anthony! good Anthony, take heart!

Antho.
(Running after him with his cane, trying to hit Giachimo, who nimbly avoids him; he has done thus during the latter part of Giachimo's speech,)
You scaramouch!—you scarecrow!—Why, you scrap!
You chuckling popinjay!—you chattering pie!
You ounce!—you patch!—you shred!—you thing!—you nothing!
You slippery eel!—you elf!—you eft!—you emmet!—
Anatomy!—abortion!—keep your distance,
Or you are condemned! killed! dead and buried! burnt!
Singed with quick lime, till nothing quick's left of you!
And nothing dead besides, you oaf!—you owl!—
And dug up, and dissected—limb by limb,
If those long spillikens be limbs indeed!
I'll scarify you! pulverize you!—Puppet!
Squeeze you to air and atoms!—stuff you, show you!—
Make you a bottle-imp—and seal you up!
Cork you so tight, you'll leave your skittish tricks!
Or flay you here alive, and sew your skin
Into a likely bag for backy snuff!—
That all the world may sneeze at you!—you shrimp!

Anto.
Now Anthony—come, come, be cool—be cool.—

Antho.
I wish I could in this hot furnace-clime.

Giach.
(To Antho.)
You would look grand now in a gilded frame,
New plastered o'er with coat of paint, I wot!
That coat of many colours fitting close.—
A fine old full-length painting all alive:
Not a rude villainous daub, smeared coarsely o'er.
Though I should doubt your native artists' taste;
Now, what is't called tit—tat—tat-tooing, heigh?—

Antho.
Won't I tat-too you, tag-rag!—Hop—tom-tit!
Or you are trounced and made mincemeat of!—How!—
You odd! you end! you farthing's-worth of frippery!
You dolt!—you dunce!—you chimpanzee-faced changeling!
Why, who hath filled that poor pin's head of yours
With such unconscionably trumpery trash?

Giach.
(gravely.)
Good father Anastasio!—learned is he;
Hath all your history at his fingers' ends!

Antho.
Would I could have him at my fingers' ends!—
Brass bulls and acorns!—Shall I go stark mad?—
(Mimicking him)
Good father Anastasio!—Good for what?
For pounding in a mortar, I'll be sworn.—
Well! one part of his name's appropriate too.

Anto.
What part?

Antho.
An ass.—You're one too—if you doubt it.
Druids and husks—good Lord! i' faith I'm husky,
Wasting my breath on such a raw racoon;
You will-o'-the-wisp, without one glimmering sparkle—
You Jack-a-dandy, with your toy-shop toggery.—

Anto.
Come Anthony—forgive this foolish child!—
And tell us, were you, after all, in time
To see the grand procession yester eve?
Saw you the carriages—the cardinals?—

Antho.
Not I!—'twas so insufferably hot,—
Like some sick superannuated snail,
Or tortoise with rheumatics pinched—I crawled!
And scarce could drag my melting limbs along;
But for musquitoes was your country made,—
And you're but men—and— (turns to Giach.)
monkeys by mistake.

Anto.
You saw not, then, the long and proud array?
The carriages of state—the cardinals?

Antho.
The carriages;—but not the cardinals:
(By far the best of it, I'm thinking—ha!)
These, having shot their rubbish, were returning,
And lumbered by—

Anto.
Their rubbish!—dare you speak
With such irreverent disrespect of men
So heaped with honours, and so grey with years?—

Antho.
Irreverent! well!—but cardinals are clay;—
And being worthy priests, too, would admire
The choice expression—since they surely preach
To all that flesh is grass, and man is dust—
And must despise their earthly part, no doubt.
Now do not interrupt—unmannered trick!
They lumbered by, and wanted greasing much:
Also new hanging:—nay, best give them up,
Perchance for firing—that's, the carriages!
They trundled past with all their gilded show,
With all their ponderous pomp and solemn state,
Since troth they creaked and rumbled awfully—
While their black steeds, fat, fat as butter all,
Reminded me a leetle of our breed
Of huge dray-horses!—had the cardinals
Indeed been in the coaches these had looked
For all the world like Meux and Co.'s turns out—
Since they're stout portly gentlemen—I heard,
And the round burly barrels filled with beer
Might claim the honour well to represent!

Anto.
Hast to our glorious Colosseum yet
Ere turned thy steps—that wonder of our Rome?—
If not, thou must some day, despite the heat,
Permit me to accompany thee there!—

Antho.
I have been to your Colosseum, troth!—
An 'twere called Cauliflower 'twere nigher truth!
Such a great round plum-pudding-looking place:
Save it hath no plums in't—nor nought so good!

Anto.
Pshaw—Surely you must now one point concede,
In England, you can boast not such a ruin!

Antho.
In England!—No!—No!—take your oath of that!
And fear not you will be forsworn!—you're right!—
In England no such ruins can we boast;
For rest assured, we should be most ashamed
To leave such littering rubbish straggling there—
A huge great heap of half-cemented stones;—
Gigantic nuisance!—blocking up the path,
And quite an eye-sore in the prospect too!—
In England, long ago, be very sure,
'Twould have been knocked to pieces—cleared away,
And carted off—with all the opened ground,
To let for building-leases—long—long since!
We are an orderly, decent people—we!
We are a notable nation!—with some taste.—
For yours!—but this I do not doubt—'tis not
So much your fault as your misfortune here;
You cannot well afford the expense 'twould be,
Removing all your gimcrack old remains—
Making a decent, habitable place
Of this rag-fair of odds and ends—this Rome!
In England!—why by this time you should see,
I' the place of that old tottering skeleton,
That mummy of a mountain of piled stones;
That heap of useless lumber,—half decayed;
That mouldering carcase of a Colly-see-um,
Some sweet, straight, little comfortable rows
Of snug, nice houses, speedily run up,
With lath and plaster—neatly white-washed o'er,
With Lilliputian gardens, well laid out—
With box and baize—that is—I mean with grass;—
By courtesy so called, though truth to say,
More like a remnant 'tis of well worn baize!—
Nebuchadnezzar would have starved there, sure!—
And on one side a Cupid and a rock,
On 'tother—a proportionate bower to match—
And all as spruce and pleasant, clean and neat,
As bricks and mortar, paint and wood can make it.

Anto.
(laughs.)
Ha! ha! ha!

Giac.
(laughs.)
Ha! ha! ha!

Antho.
What makes ye laugh?—
I do assure you I am serious quite—
For we shrewd Englishers like all reforms,
And know too how to make them—none so well.
(To Giach.)
Young Dunderhead—give o'er! would I could send
The upholsterer to your upper stories there, (points to his head,)

Which want complete new furnishing, I doubt!—
But Tony O! now, I will confess—of old
Your countrymen, to judge them by their dwellings,
Must have been proper men of portly size,
That house of theirs seemed built for Gog and Magog!—
Who have we here?
Enter two Mendicant Friars, with small boxes for charity in their hands.
What want these shaveling monks?

Anto.
They ask your charity—for they collect
Alms for the poor—gratuitously given.
We have no poor-law unions here in Rome!

Antho.
Heaven bless your pope and cardinals for that!
There you may boast—there, there you're happy!—yes,
Your beggars may be poor—but proud—since free!—
But poverty and prison too—think!—both!
One is enough of suffering, and too much—

Anto.
Alas! our poor are heavy sufferers oft,—
And like to starve e'en in the public streets!—

Antho.
Starve!—Starve!—but you know not the scantiest fare
On which our pauper-poor are kept alive;
Enough to feed their hunger, not themselves!—
And, oh! the famine of the feelings! torn,
In age and in decrepitude, from all
Whom they would live with to the last.

Anto.
But yet
The houseless poor of Rome by hundreds die.—
I have seen families of skeletons!—

Antho.
(interrupting.)
Then let them die—so they may die together!

First Monk.
Ah! Eccelenza!—

Antho.
Stop his gibberish—pray!—

Second Monk.
Oh! per i poveri!

Antho.
Old psalm-singing shark!
The poor, quoth he!—why deuce a bit—I guess—
Will they e'er see the colour of my coin,
That is, if I entrust it to their care.—
No! no! most worthy friars!—'tis vain! 'tis vain!
Commit no trespass here on button park!— (Laying his hand on his pocket.)

You look so plump—my partridges!—I doubt—
I doubt—the money all melts down your throats!—
Ye are indeed no pale anatomies—
Ye scarce can move for superincumbent flesh!
Your larder looks out from your pursed-up eyes,
That peer o'er two thick walls of solid fat!—
Flesh, fowl, and fish—but of the latter least!
Or I most hugely am mistaken.—No!—
A good half-handful I bestowed this morning,
On a poor beggar woman's seven starved brats.—

First Monk.
Ah! Carita!

Antho.
What! carry it her!—My friend!
Nay! not so fast—you are too obliging!—now,
With your good leave, I'd rather do it myself!
Though much beholden to your reverence, Sir.

Second Monk.
Oh!—Benedicite!

Antho.
What means the man?
Translate for me, good St. Antonio!—pray!

Anto.
Why!—'tis a blessing on thee!—

Antho.
Is it so?
I'll trouble you—my very worthy Sir,
Not to give me your blessing!—I mean, sell it—
(It costs too much; they never give it gratis!—)
(To Antonio.)
Now, in the twinkling of a bed-post, mark!—
How I will send these two impostors hence.—
This porpoise with a string of beads on's neck—
And that fat feather-bed in spectacles!
(To Monks.)
You speak a little English—friends!—I think?—

First Monk.
A vary little of the tong, signor,
But comprehend it when 'tis plainly spoke.

Antho.
I'll speak it plain enow!—I thought as much—
The cunning varlets! They have learnt our tongue
That they may cheat us, and delude us thus.—
Poor generous, innocent, munificent—
Soft-hearted, charitable Englishmen!
I have a proposition now to make,
Nay—two—the first, good monks!—but stay awhile.
You understand me—that I do decline
To make your reverences my almoners!
I like to give what I do give myself,
And not by proxy!—For yourselves, of course,
You nothing ask, nor need;—you're well to do
In this wild world, and want for nothing,—eh?
And certain, have no cause for saving, since
Through shaving, you've no hair apparent left.
Excuse this joke, ha! ha! You cannot take it!
Well! to proceed! Pray honour me to-night
By staying supper with me,—

Both the Monks together
Si! Si! Si!

Antho.
See! See!—Nay just hear first—(the hungry hounds!)—
This happens to be Friday.—Now I know
You keep to-day most strict and solemn fast!—
I would not lead you, for the world, astray!
And for your supper will with care provide,—
Just half a herring—half a one a-piece!
(Monks start back.)
Too much, you think!—perhaps indeed it may!—
Now I bethink me;—well, a quarter! say!
Lest you infringe your order's rules severe:
I would not prove your tempter!—heaven forfend!
And for the sake of your two precious souls,
I will myself the other half devour!—
A quarter of a herring each!—'twere best.
For my good share a separate board prepared,
May smoke with soup, and meat, stew, roast, and boiled;
Choice maccaroni—vermicelli too—
And other savoury and well-seasoned fare!
Nay!—stop!—what going?—'tis near supper-time!—
Come back!—you reverend worthies!—pray return;—
You can conclude your charitable walk
By pensive moonlight!—D'ye remember not—
Two propositions I'm prepared to make;—
The second I feel sure you both will hail
With joy unfeigned, (Monks come forward,)
but I must first unfold
Unto your sympathizing souls, a thing
Which doubly will delight you. I do feel
Strange visitings within me—conscience-qualms;
A leaning to your creed;—in short I own
Am half a convert now—and would become,
With your good help, a whole one.

First Monk.
Well! my son!

Antho.
I have heard much of scourgings, stripes, and blows—
And self-inflicted penances for sin;—
Fain would I see, with mine own eyes, such acts
Of piety performed! Behold my friends,
(Produces two thick old whips,)
A scourge a-piece. When you have swallowed down
Your bones of fish—for little else you'll find!—
You may begin your flagellations here;
Feed on them with what relish best you may,
'Twill aid digestion—wholesome labour, sure!
And lay on till the morning—if you will!
I will assist you when you're fagged—and flag,—
So show me how you mortify the flesh!—
Come!

Monks.
Buona Sera!

Antho.
Bony share, ah!—Yes,
It was a bony share I proffered you!—
And— (Monks go)
no use preaching more to empty benches!
And (turns to Giach.)
brains still emptier! Oh!—those fat old thieves!—
Pickpockets! swindlers!—but I served them out!—
They'll come no more to me—or if they do,
No more self-thrashings will I thus propose,
But with my own good hand administer!
Now, Tony O!—and you Jacky!—Come with me!—
'Tis supper-time indeed, (looks at watch,)
seven seconds past!
Those whining rascals have been cause that we
Shall lose seven seconds and one half of supper!

[Exeunt all.