University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

Scene I.

—An Apartment in a Palace at Rome, richly decorated.
EVA AND FLORA.
Flora.
How often, gentlest cousin! hast thou said
That thou wouldst trust the history of thy love,—
Now crowned with happiness,—to my true ear!
I pray thee to fulfil that promise now.
Thou knowest apart from thee and thine I lived,
'Mid mine own native hills, in Scotland's clime;
Till hearing of my wan and sickly state,
Thou kindly didst invite me to this clime
Of golden summer's breath, to come with thee.—
Gladly accepted I thine offer; thus
Following thy flowery fortunes!—and behold
I drink in health and strength with every breeze,
That whispers hope, and reassurance, here,
Baffled consumption has ta'en wing and flown
Back to her clouds and vapours—and—I live!

Eva.
How much do I rejoice, mine own sweet friend,
That thus it hath been mine to minister
To thy recovery. When I look on thee
I love my lord's bright Italy the more,
That its sweet airs have medicined thee so well,
And call'd back to thy cheek the banished rose.
And wills't thou, that to thee I should unfold
The story of my love, from its first birth
Until it bloomed in blushing pride full blown?
Thou'rt daring, dearest cousin! for, in sooth,
Love joys to hang on its own history,
And grows full garrulous whene'er it meets
With fostering kind encouragement. Methinks
'Twere best proceed at once upon my tale.
—On mine own happy England's distant shores,
Three years ago, my father's noble friend,
Montgomery's Earl, entreated us to pass
Some months at his most hospitable house.
My father, who had scarcely left his home
Since my lost mother's long-mourned death—and since
A crowd of dark misfortunes clouded o'er
His life's horizon—gave at last consent.
We went there—and there met Montalba:—first,
He loved me—I believed—and I loved him!
Yet though his aspect and his actions showed
Entire devotion—deep attachment's truth—
No formal declaration made he then;
Yet ever and anon, with troubled air,
Breathed vows of everlasting faith and love.—
But to be brief—without imparting aught
That could elucidate his 'haviour strange
To me—unhappiest!—he departed thence,
And sought his sunny Italy once more.
Then passed a year interminably long,
With six most miserable months:—the while
I writhed in all the torments of suspense
Till mine habitual movement grew a start—
And mine habitual breathing seemed a sigh!—
Suffice it, he returned.—Straight sought me, soon
Demanded and received thine Eva's hand.
Since then—a year, how golden and how short!
Flew—lightened by, with pleasures plumed and loves—
And some few months—

Flora.
What means that altered tone?—
That hesitating accent faultering low?—
Nay!—give me all thy soul! I pray thee speak;
Shut not thy lips upon thy half-told tale.
Something unspoken weighs upon thy heart—
These last few months?—have they less golden been,—
Less bright—less happy?—

Eva.
Hush! too loud thou speak'st;
But since—oh! Flora! art thou blind indeed?
Hast not thyself remarked a heavy change
In my beloved Montalba? Hast not seen
How wild, at times, his manner and his speech,
And always struggling as with some deep woe?
Though I have seen—and seen with sharper pain,
A riot of unnatural mirth break out,
E'en on the sudden, from his sterner mood—
The flash of funeral torches o'er the gloom!

Flora.
I own I have observed his altered mien,
And restlessness, and gloomier air of late;
But then—thou know'st I have not dwelt in Rome
For long;—and when I first arrived he seemed
Most variable and strange of mood—to me;—
I knew not he had e'er been otherwise!

Eva.
Ah, yes!—but day by day, I saddening mark
The increase and the inroads of that restlessness!
His noble brow is ploughed with deep'ning lines;
His eye is wild and hollow—evermore
His varying manner doth distract my soul:
Perpetual alternation—hour by hour—
Perplexing inconsistencies appear
To baffle and to mock my pondering thought.

Flora.
And hast thou not indeed the slightest clue
To his disturbing conduct's ravelled maze?
Can'st guess no cause?

Eva
(agitatedly.)
Perchance—yet hardly—yes—
I have some faint suspicions of the source
Whence rise his deep dejection and distress;—
Or ere we met he had affianced been
To a most lovely maid, of noblest birth—
In his own native Florence. It should seem
That love for me, which overtook his soul
With stealthy, soft encroachment, was to her
The unworthiest treason of inconstancy.—
Both being then in the opening bloom of youth,
'Twas deemed advisable the espousals should
Be for brief while delayed—and 'twas arranged
The count should travel in this interval.
Thus did he visit various distant lands—
Then came to our sweet island, as I said,
And there his heart, too, play'd the truant's part!—
When he rejoined her, that first love return'd,
And they were at the altar pledged to meet;
When death, a ghastly rival, forced her hence,
And spun the sackcloth of despair and fate
From the torn tissue of the marriage robes.—
He mourned her heavily—in lonely gloom,
In solitude unbroken—till his health
Slow breaking seemed beneath that sorrow's weight—
Then strenuously advised was change of scene,
Of clime, and air, to soothe him back to life.
He came once more to England—and we met,
As I have told thee, yet once more!—and so—
We parted not again!—

Flora.
But yet—'tis strange.
Why should his grief return upon him thus,
Once calmed and comforted, and won to peace;
Nay more—to happiness? Say what can mean
This flow and overflow of bitterness,
After the apparent ebb—for evermore?
This second harvest of the tares of tears,
And weeds of heaviest, worst—heart-widowhood?

Eva.
Alack! I know not—shall I whisper thee?
'Tis a most fearful surmise! black as fate!
And my soul rose within me when 'twas breathed,
To shake it off as some envenomed snake;—
That thought lies fathomlessly deep in tears!—
The worst, the unshed ones!—for I dare not weep;—
I must not give it way, like grief indulged!—

Flo.
Speak on! What mean'st thou?—Say! what canst thou mean?

Eva.
It hath been whispered in my shrinking ear—
That whisper, like the Archangel's trump, appear'd
To shake this solid steadfast globe for me:—
That that most dreadful curse which can crush down
Immortal man to the worm's level, e'en
Insanity—is in Montalba's blood!

Flo.
Horror of horrors!—still not rashly judge.
Who did suggest to thee this hideous clue?

Eva.
That fair Venetian countess whom thou know'st—
Giacinta—long my husband's trusted friend.

Flo.
Giacinta!—Was she long thy husband's friend?
It may appear unjust—ungenerous, but—
I do mislike her strangely!—there is that
In the fierce flash of her resplendent eye,
Which doth betoken—what, I know not well;
But something that seems cloaked in careful wiles,
And specious studied cunning.—

Eva.
Oh! not so;
Thou art indeed unjust, ungenerous now—
Accuse her of aught else! I well believe
That lies not in her power; whate'er her will—
She could not e'en deceive us if she would,
Her brow is such an index to her soul!
Ofttimes I think I see and know her thoughts
Ere she herself may know them; they do rush
In such deep crimsoning currents, full and free,
O'er her clear aspect, that concealment seems
Of all things most impossible for her!
So swiftly, too, the emotions come and go,
She scarce hath time to cool them—or to school.

Flo.
It may be so—but howsoe'er it be,
Let not a loose conjecture warp thy mind,
Or influence thy judgment.

Eva.
Oh, no! no!—
Think'st thou I could believe this and yet breathe!
Think'st thou I could support this thought and smile!—
I do not give it credence!

Flo.
Have a care—
Methought but now I heard Montalba's voice;
And, lo!—his step:—'twere best I left thee now.
Seek him, and probe his hidden wound of woe.—

Eva.
If I could gain but courage so to do!

[Exeunt different ways.

Scene II.

—A Gallery with Verandah and Statues.
MONTALBA AND EVA.
Eva.
My most dear lord, hast given thy steed the rein,
In gallant galloping o'er the old Campagna?
The flush of exercise is on thy brow—
Seems in thy limbs its elasticity.
Hast thou been wildly racing at thy wont?

Mont.
Yes! I have galloped, galloped o'er the plain!
Would I could ride for ever on and on;
Ride as the storm rides in its restlessness,
Still forward—forward! Wherefore must we pause,
And put dull check on our delirious speed?

Eva.
Nay—my Enrico; were thy courser asked,
Soon would he snort his answer's argument.

Mont.
Oh! with the speed of winds, the haste of thought,
To move for ever—who loves sunny skies?
Give me the clouds in their impetuous chase!
They shot above my head, erewhile, with speed
That made my racing little rapid seem!
How panted I to be among them then!
My tempest-thoughts—a whirlwind of swift wings,—
Upbear my soul—yet not my self, on high;—
Nay, nor my soul!—save only where the rack
Drives o'er the scowling skies with flying scorn,
And shuts out all the sun! Would all things were
On-driven with such mad swiftness—that were joy!
Would, would our lives were on one lightning launched,
That ere the eye's undazzled, should be done!
Would that one hurrying hurricane could be
All that we know of fate!

Eva.
Bethink thee yet:
Wouldst have my love a lightning seen and lost?
Our happiness such hurricane of haste?
Wer't not a fatal fleetness, my beloved?

Mont.
Thy love, my matchless Eva! Never let
A thought of change, or check, e'er dare to light
Upon that sunniest summit of all truth!
For happiness—no hurricane perchance
More like to snow, that when it melts, i' the heart
Is gone. A truce to such fantastic talk.
Hast seen Giacinta—my sweet wife! of late?

Eva.
Methinks not lately.—Yes! we met yestere'en,
But for one instant—she had little time;
Some Festa's preparations much engaged
(If I remember rightly her excuse)
Her thoughts and moments—to thy taste avowed,
Love mine! her visit thus had surely been;—
'Twas but a lightning-glance—and she was gone!

Mont.
Why, Eva! thou art merry as the May!
And so thou shouldst be, with her best of bloom
On thine envermeiled check of loveliness!
Whose flowery hues that sunrise hair doth tint—
With added brightness still!—smile on!—smile on!

Eva.
And so I will, if smilingly thou'lt give
Thy joyous counsel—but the words thou say'st
Are much belied by thine o'erclouded brow!—
My smiles are stars, and shine from thine—their sun—
Be happy, thou—and all my life's one smile!

Mont.
Oh! no! my face is rather likened to
The dial of a Sun of Beauty—thine!
Whose changes make it shift its shadows still,
Though never may it wholly shake them off!—

Eva.
Never say thou so sad a word again!—
Oh! never say it with thine Eva near,
Beloved Montalba, in thy sunny youth,
While fortune rains o'er thee her best of wealth,
When all should sparkle round thee with the dews
Of Hope's glad morning—love's Aurora too—
And the fair dawn of thy high station's pride!—
What should—what can afflict thee?—'twere most strange:
On thy clear future not a shadow rests,
No thought of self-reproach can dim thy past.—

Mont.
This is a tedious theme—and were well changed.

Eva.
To change it then.—Hast thou not promised oft
To bear me to thy favourite, flowery Florence—
Lady of the Appenines and the Arno stream,
The enchantress—murmuring with her Tuscan tongue
Such spells of sweetness that her guests are made
For evermore her lovers and her slaves?—
Take me to Florence—to thy native place,
Therefore the loveliest spot on earth for me,
Even though 'twere disenchanted of all else
That gives it beauty!—Take me to thy home,
To thine aged father's presence—nor again
With vain and vague excuses cheat my hope.

Mont.
Yes, thou hast changed the theme indeed—full well:
'Tis from the ripple to the roar of storms—
From the faint mist to midnight's gulphs of gloom.

Eva.
I cannot understand thy darkling speech.

Mont.
I pray thee pardon me:—my speech is wild;
But a dear friend hath told me heavy tales
Of his deep sorrows.

Eva.
What dear friend, my lord?
'Tis surely one I know—for hast thou one
Thou wouldst allow a stranger to remain
To thine own little Eva?—Ah! I guess
'Tis the young Guido who hath lately come—

Mont.
Guido? how say'st thou—who?

Eva.
Hast thou not heard?
The young Prince Guido Bellafiore—he
(hesitatingly)
Whom thou didst know at Florence.

Mont.
(sharply.)
What of him?

Eva.
I said he had arrived at Rome—and came
Two hours ago to see thee:—thou wert far,
Racing it o'er the wild Campagna's plains!
Tell me—I knew it not before—is he
A cousin of Giacinta's?—

Mont.
Oh! you know,
You know he is her brother!—hush! no more.

Eva.
Nay, my Enrico—I beseech your pardon:
I asked is he Giacinta's cousin.

Mont.
(abruptly.)
Aye!—

Eva.
He seems a noble youth, of princeliest port,
And gallant bearing—frank and cordial—

Mont.
Aye—

Eva.
What means this iteration, with a tone
So sharp and sudden and so hollow-sounding?
My husband—thou art aweary—seek repose.
The noon is sultry—thou must take, indeed,
A short siesta to recruit thy strength.

Mont.
I will do so—and after this, wilt thou
Touch thy dear harp and sing to soothe me, say?—

Eva.
All—any thing—that thou canst wish or ask!

[Exeunt.

Scene III.

—A Hall in the Palazzo Ceria, belonging to Count Montalba.
Anthony
(behind the Scenes.)
I told you now it was not me she called!—

Enter Anthony and Antonio.
Anto.
'Tis pity that our names are so alike—
'Tis too perplexing.

Antho.
Whew!—alike—why—yes—
Except that you've so Frenchified your own
You scarcely know it—which I'm not surprised at.
Why can't you leave good English names alone—
Without your onios and your aliases?
I would forgive your heresies and plots,
Your poisonings, robbings, stabbings all—but not
Your murdering thus the queen's sweet English; no!

Anto.
Murdering!—Nay, come, good Anthony—confess.

Antho.
Not I—'tis barefaced, bloody murder—'tis;—
I wish ye all well hang'd for't!—so! be cool—
Now don't stealetto me,—for I won't bear it!
I ne'er took up the trade o'knife-swallower yet!—

Anto.
(Aside)
More like a knife-grinder, with your harsh English.

Anth.
Well! hark ye, here, good Tony o! will you make
A kind of compact-bargain with me now?

Anto.
First tell me clearly what the bargain is—

Antho.
I warrant ye!—in English clear as crystal—
And no mistake:—thus then—suppose I now
Teach thee this most delectable of tongues—
White-satin—wax-work English!—for thou know'st
Thou dost pronounce it infamously ill;
Nay—most abominably. Thy return
Shall be, to let me—in thy private ear—
Abuse thy foreigneering country still—
Thy language and thy climate.

Anto.
Wherefore so?

Antho.
Indeed I must—I must some outlet find;
I must abuse them—soundly too—or burst;
I pray thee be my safety-valve—say, done!

Anto.
(laughing.)
Well!—done!—a bargain; for to own the truth,
Though sometimes you may try my patience hard,
'Tis most amusing your accounts to hear
Of all you meet and see.—But come—be just—
Own that the climate of the sweet, sweet south—

Antho.
Is fit for salamanders more than Christians!
Is it a bargain truly!

Anto.
Yes—agreed—

Antho.
Well, then I breathe more freely! 'tis a weight
Ta'en off my chest—but where shall I begin?
I'm sure I shall end never.—

Anto.
Nay! consent
To give me first one lesson in your tongue—
Methinks I yet can prove the Italian sounds
Are softer—piercing to the very heart,
With thrilling sweetness;—and for love, for love—
No language like the Italian on the earth—
Cara—carissima—oh—silvery words!

Antho.
I differ from you there outright—that's all!—
And think I can convince you—list to me.
When I was young, o'er head and ears in love,
'Twas thus I wooed my blooming angel—Scroggins!—
“Gie us a good gripe at thy fist, my gal—
Clap hands upon it—and go ask thy dad.—
Let's have no blushing and no blubbering nonsense:
Better for worse—wilt have me?”—Now, my friend,
That's what I call a language—meaning there,
And music too!—No tweedle-dum and deeing—
But tuneable and tender melody;
No drawling, dull caress-her-more's—i' faith
I think that scarce decorous—on my word:—
My speech was modest, mild, and innocent,—
Short—short and sweet,—aye, thrilling sweetness there,
That pierces to the heart, I grant you.

Anto.
Yes!
(aside)
And pierces both the ears too, better far
Than any jeweller!—(mine are smarting yet
Inside and out from tympanum to tip,
Breaks both the jaws besides this,—in the bargain!)

Antho.
I thought I should convince you; eh! thou own'st.

Anto.
(hastily)
Oh, any thing—I pray you'd not repeat.

Antho.
And then the name! a fine high-sounding name,
And very musical,—it rhymes so well;—
I turned a bit of verse off on the occasion.
Ahem!—ahem!—Attend to these soft lines:—
(Turning up his eyes)
Whoop! I'd bear many floggings
For black Sukey Scroggings.

Anto.
Black!—Was the lady one of colour, then?

Antho.
No! blockhead!—would you put black-ey'd at length,
And spoil the lovely, tender harmony?
But you Italians have no sentiment,
Nor flights of fancy and imagination.
Faugh! I'm quite sick at such gross want of taste!

Anto.
The maiden with the charming, lovely name,
(Which I would speak not for a Seignory!)
Say—was she won by thy seductive suit
And winning wiles of silvery poesy?

Antho.
Aye—was she!—We kept company four years,
And then (coughs)
ugh, ugh—ahem!—Why, then it chanced—
First she was carried off clandestinely
By a hard-trotting blade i' the horse-dragoons,
Who happened to be quartered near at hand—
Soon after—by a galloping consumption!

Anto.
Thus was she lost for thee! twice over lost—
Alack the day!—a heavy trial, sure!

Antho.
And between you and me, I do not doubt
She pined herself to death for love of me,
Sweet daffydowndilly of my dreams and hopes!—
Who have we here?—Oh! 'tis that skip-Jack page,
Who tries for ever to make game of me!

Enter Giachimo, with flowers, who goes to a small table in a corner and begins eating maccaroni.
Giach.
Good Signor Anthony—permit me thus—

Antho.
Once more I tell thee—never Signor me;
Nor Mounseer either—I'll not be insulted,
You maccaroni-masticating monkey—
Want you your jacket dusted, laced, and turned?

Giach.
Delicious maccaroni!—would you taste
Some of these strings—(to put you in good humour?—

Antho.
I'd sooner eat your livery shoulder-tags!
Strings, quotha—umph! strings cut from that good cord
That yet is destined to adorn thy neck,
Were quite as nourishing and better savoured.

Giach.
Well! you refuse my bounteous offer now,
Perchance you'll share that with me.

Antho.
How now, ape?
I'll write my answer on thy back, ere long,
In characters of good round cudgelling—
Where came those flowers you're grasping, spindle-shanks?

Giach.
From the Contessa di Castellenaria.

Antho.
Humph! Then I guess that thorns and snakes are 'midst them.

Giach.
Why so?—the Countess is a noble lady,
Indeed most excellent.

Antho.
Canst prove it, boy?

Giach.
Clearly! the proofs are in my pocket—there, (shows money)

Oh! a most generous lady—three times o'er.
Look, I can prove it to ye!—one—two—three— (counts money.)


Antho.
What has she oiled thy palm for—mountebank?
Mischief's abroad—and she makes thee her imp.
What wants this Countess Castle-in-the-area,
For ever coming here?—I wot no good.
Why what art paid for, child?—dost know not, chit?

Giach.
Paid for!—'tis but the bounteous overflow
Of the fair dame's munificence—but that!—

Antho.
The over-fiddlestick—I'll tell thee, then,
If thou'rt so blank an ignoramus, know,
Henceforth, thou'rt held the Lady Countess' spy—
Her eaves-dropper—reporter—mouth-piece—miscreant—
Thou must to crooked services be sworn!—
Become one art, one lie—one eye, one ear.

Giach.
Nay, suffer me, at least, to keep in the ark
Of my good person two of either kind!

Antho.
Thou meanest of the latter twain—'tis true
O'the former to thy precious making goes
Multiplied millions,—well! you understand—
You're sharp and shrewd enough, young infamy!
You must become all eyes—all ears—a lynx
To look, a hare to listen; add to these,
A mute, save to thy mistress; or as she
Should prompt thy whisperings—here and there, and hints
Enough to sow dark discords—wrong—mislead—

Giach.
Thou hast so well detailed in what consists
The office that thou speak'st of, Anthony!
'Tis evident thou'st ofttimes filled the same
With full and perfect credit to thyself,
And satisfaction too—to thy employers.

Antho.
Have at thee—buzzard—out on thee, baboon!—
Run for your life, young lily-liver, run;
For sudden death is hanging by a thread
O'er that most brainless skull.—Budge, budge—be off!

Giach.
Nay! Anthony—a little fun, that's all.
No harm meant.—

Antho.
Well! none done, then—let me see;
Where was I?—oh! at discord.

Giach.
Yes—you know
You are in general.

Antho.
Thou must, like a crab,
Walk sideling strangely—noiseless as a cat!—
Thou must be everywhere eternally—
Burrowing in corners—ambushed under couches—
Skulking in passages—through chinks of planks
Crannying—mild foretaste of the pillory—
And thrust up chimneys—sweet anticipation
Of loftier rising still—up the highest gibbet!

Gich.
Why—what hath soured thy temper's sweetness so?
'Tis almost irritable, friend!—to-day—
What makes thee hate the fair Venetian thus?—
What leads thee to suspect her?

Antho.
To say truth,
Nought but her looks—her manners—and her voice—
Add—her perpetual presence here unasked.

Anto.
How know'st thou that?—Her Excellency oft
Hath welcomed her.

Antho.
His Excellency don't.
Depend on it that he knows her well—of old.
For our sweet Countess, such a lambkin, she—
She'd run into the wolf's mouth—nor suspect.

Anto.
(aside.)
The old man's senses want no sharpening, troth;
They're ground—and good enough—for any game:
I must not leave him so to think of her:—
I fear for others—not for her.
(aloud)
Fie! shame!
How canst thou be so hard and so severe
On an aimable lady?

Antho.
There!—you, now!—
How you unenglished that good word, you wretch!
Say not aimable—it is a-mi-a-bul.

Anto.
A-mi-a-bel—

Antho.
Come—better—but not right.
A-mi-a-bul—bul—bul—

Anto.
Yes!—amiabul.—

Antho.
Right!—capital.—Now all the rest o' the day
I may console myself by launching forth
'Gainst your barbarious country. I am sure
I gave you valuable hints—indeed
A lesson worth two guineas, if a groat.
You know our bargain.—No wry faces now.
Stand to your colours—screw your courage up.
Dare you not face my taunts?—

Anto.
In sooth I dare!—
And parry them—or pay them back with usury.

Giach.
(starting.)
Was't the clock struck? I've idled here an hour—
Alas! forgotten too the flowers—they're spoilt!
The gentle Countess will be sore displeased—
Their beauty's faded—they are all but dead.

Antho.
So may the asps and adders be, I hope,
Which they conceal. (to Giac.)
So now up stairs, my gooseberry!

[Exit Giac.
Anto.
(anxiously.)
Art serious?—dost thou really think so?—say?
Be quick!—

Antho.
Think what!—that you're a gooseberry too!
Why really—

Anto.
No! No! No!

Antho.
Nay—Not so sure!

Anto.
Trash! think'st thou asps and adders are concealed?

Antho.
Go to, blunt-witted noodle;—no, not I;
'Twas but a trope—a figure—a fantastic—
But I can ill explain it—since that you—
You poor Italians, are so wanting—all
Dull, dull as ditchwater—and slow as snails
Of comprehension.—You have nothing light,
Refined, or airy in your mould and make.

Anto.
Compared with yours—you floating feather—

Antho.
Bed!
I find out and forestall your meaning. When
Will you do so for me?

Enter Francesca hurriedly.
Fran.
Antonio—quick.
His excellency calls you—he seems chafed;
He muttered wildly—hoarse and angry.—Run!
[Exit Antonio.
And Anthony—how came it thou didst not
Announce Prince Bellafiore?

Antho.
How do ye mean?

Fran.
He is above—ten minutes hath been there,
And the count met him unexpectedly
Just now—and seemed much vexed—and angered sore.

Antho.
Ho! then he got in at the garden side;
A cool hand for a young beginner—faith!—
Now, pretty Francy,—you may take your oath
There is a love-case in it!—Love ne'er deigns
Come in at open doors—if he can thrust
Himself through half-closed windows. We shall have
Our fair-haired Highland lassie soon, I guess—
Her highness—Principessa—Bell and Flowery,

Fran.
Ah! now I see it all—and they have met
At many a festa lately, I have heard;
At concerts too, and conversaziones.

Antho.
Done!—for a thousand then!—I dare be sworn
The settlements are making.

Fran.
'Twere good luck!—
Prince Guido seems a gallant cavalier,
Handsome, and gay, and noble:—it would be
A happy marriage!—At the least 'tis sure
He hath a very excellent moustache,
A lofty-minded-looking cloak besides—
And a most trust-worthy and priceless cane.

Antho.
Form these the whole sum of his worldly goods,
And total of his virtuous qualities?

Fran.
Oh, no! a pair of snow-white gloves, gilt spurs,
And ink-black love-locks, waving round his brow,
And such surpassingly-proportioned boots!—

Antho.
Ha! ha! a precious catalogue indeed
Of recommendatory charms and virtues;—
Also, of rich possessions.—I should trust
He hath more wealth than thou'st so aptly summed.

Fran.
Oh! these suffice for present purposes:
And then a prince!—why, what can man want more?

Antho.
Say woman, and I do believe my lass!—
Thou'rt about right!—So little satisfies
The sweet contented creatures!

Fran.
(seriously.)
I must hence!—
I am engaged in most important works,—
One for the Scotch signora; 'tis, to place
Around the corsage of her last new dress,
“A lovely silk!”—'tis shot and watered both.

Antho.
How! shoot and drown it too?—why! bless my heart!
What barbarous deeds of haberdashery's harshness!
What murder-mongering knaves must mercers be!
Then, to crown all—you doubtless cut it up!

Fran.
Assuredly!—'tis gored and slashed in style.
Well, 'tis to place around the front of this
(Be sure you keep the secret, Anthony;
'Tis to surprise them all with admiration.)

Antho.
(putting his finger to his nose,)
Mum as the grave!

Fran.
A trimming finely wrought
With lace and ribbons!—and the other is
To decorate an apron for myself:
The first—I think you will agree with me,
Is most momentous now!—Heavens! only think,
Should some stray end of ribbon—straggling, mar
The symmetry—the beauty of the whole,
Or a wrong pucker in the lace appear—
Crumpling the prince's new-blown leaves of love—
The bows and streamers, carelessly arranged,
Might come untwined, and with them loosen all
The golden ties of sympathy and soul!
(Sighs)
These—these, are dread responsibilities!

Antho.
And what of th' apron, little sorceress?—heigh!

Fran.
The apron, oh! (coquettishly,)
why, that may be perchance
Of consequence as well—but I scarce know—
However Paolo and Raphäel both,
And ev'n the grave Guiseppe have remarked,
That any one could see, from mine own dress,
My studies were completed with success
At Paris!—I must now devote myself
To my most arduous undertaking—so
Buon giorno!—Anthony!

Anth.
“Bone jaw! no!” there—
Why can't they say jaw-bone, like other Christians?
Break jaw, I think it is: and pray what means she?
Oh! no more jawing, doubtless, in plain English.
Well! 'tis the ourang-outangerst language, quite—
(Yawning,)
Aw—aw—aw.—Now business, business, straight! I must
Go hence and superintend the accounts at once!
Ahem!—with my interpreter—and—hem—
My private secretary, (that sounds well!)
Without them I should cut a sorry figure,
And my poor lord would pay a high one too!
I like my title—major duomo;—though
I never have discovered yet, nor heard
Whether I hold that high and noble rank
In the infantry or cavalry;—'tis strange!
And I like not to ask, lest I should show
My ignorance, and meet with mocking taunts—
That gibing page would plague me for my pains!

[Exit Anthony.