University of Virginia Library

Scene First.

—The Interior of a Fortress, with a Bridge in the background. A Tower serving as a State Prison, L. U. E. Morning.
Oglou is lying on the carpet, C.—By his side is the “Spiritual Magazine,” which has fallen from his hand—Agib appears at the grate of the gate.
Song—Agib. Air, “Love lies dreaming.”
The light of day returning,
Brings naught but sorrow to my mind;
Again it finds me mourning
Within these walls confined.

Agib.
My ears did not deceive me. How he snores!
Nasal declaimers are the worst of bores.
Prisoners, the papers say, are lodged too well,
What awful tarradiddles papers tell.
I won't endure it. Oglou!—No—Here goes
Slap at that most uncompromising nose!

(shoots a volley of peas at Oglou)
Oglou.
(starts)
Hollo! What's up? (rises)
I am—and what are these?
Bullets or hailstones? Neither—they are peas?

Agib.
Exactly, sapient man. You ought to go
As judge at next year's Agricultural Show.
Sir, they are peas—and here, sir, for some more
As a pis aller.

Oglou.
Surely from that door
By some mysterious agency are thrown,
Peas which it seems to me are early blown.

Agib.
Why right again.

Oglou.
That voice—I might have guessed.
Mingrelia's Royal Darling, and my pest. (aside)


Agib.
May I come down?

Oglou.
My prince, of course you can,
But leave behind the shooter, little man.
Agib disappears—Oglou unlocks gate.
The day has scarcely dawned, the coast is clear,
And all the porter's in a state of beer.

Enter Agib, from tower, L. U. E.
Agib.
So there you are.

Oglou.
Yes, fair Mingrelia's flower,
Like a slow clock—somewhat behind the hour.

Agib.
Nay, well you mark the hour with eyes half closing,
The hour is six and you are half a dozing.
I called you loud enough.

Oglou.
You always do.
But sleep has made me quite forget my cue.
Forgive me.

Agib.
Snoring Oglou, be at ease,
Though cues you heeded not, you minded peas.

Oglou.
Besides, to tell the truth—

Agib.
What when you've been
Studying the “Spiritual Magazine.”

Oglou.
In spite of that then—Well, my son, great Timour

Agib.
Prime word, no doubt, but miscreant were primer.

Oglou.
Nay, Prince, he is my son.

Agib.
Proceed, old quiz.

Oglou.
I really cannot help it, but he is.
Last night he gave a most tremengerous spread.

Agib.
There, don't be vulgar, feast's as quickly said.

Oglou.
Quite, prince, and at my Timour's feasts so fast,
The wine went round—as did my head at last;
'Tis his opinion not a Tartar man
While his Khan drinks should ever leave his can.
You know the famous gullet he has got.

Agib.
Habits like these will send the Khan to pot.
What handle had the Khan for this last shine?

Oglou.
Divinest princeling, can you not divine?

Agib.
Am I a spirrit rapper?—no such fun—
I'd have capsized his tables—every one.

Oglou.
Such sport might have relieved our dinners tedium,
But he goes the entire—and keeps no medium;
He finishes each job by amputation,
Like that fam'd surgeon, first in his vocation,
Or him who as Sam Weller used to hint,
Cut his boy's head off to correct the squint.

Agib.
But you're his father; he won't injure you.

Oglou.
My dear young friend, one can't say what he'll do.

Agib.
Is he so deaf to Nature's strongest call?

Oglou.
Nature! he scarce can hear a cannon bawl;
He's hard of hearing, as he's hard of heart,
And often at some harmless phrase he'll start.
But what of that, you're happy?

Agib.
Am I?—oh! (Oglou approaches him)

Not your initial, but a sound of woe.
Who am I, Oglou?

Oglou.
You're the rightful heir
Of all Mingrelia's plains and mountains fair.

Agib.
Who keeps me here in prison like a martyr?
Who finished off papa?

Oglou.
Timour the Tartar.

Agib.
Where's my mamma, sir?

Oglou.
Echo makes reply,
That she is afar, sir.

Agib.
And how then can I
Be happy, Oglou, when, to add to all,
I've got no room for hoop, or bat and ball;
The only whoop I know of, is the owl's,
My only bat's those night-flying fowls.
I languish these four dismal walls between,
That would not hold my mother's crinoline.
Believe me it is more than I can bear,
All the day long to play at solitaire.

Oglou.
Sigh on, sweet scion, for existence tame
You well may find if that's your little game.
Try study, prince.

Agib.
(carelessly)
Don't mind— (more earnestly)
if first agreed,
Princely vacations shall my terms succeed.
Like that which recently has touched, and tried
The Anglo-Saxon heart with joy and pride.
Not that poor I can reckon on appearing
With his rare qualities and perfect rearing.
The son of such a mother needn't fear:
His welcome's safe in either hemisphere.

Oglou.
But learning's necessary.

Agib.
Books, I find,
Serve but to bring captivity to mind.
The dreary “Accidence” but seems to tell
Of those sad accidents by which I fell.
The verbs, than which no mental food is tougher,
Seem passive all, recalling what I suffer.
Over the pronouns, hopelessly I nod;
Seeing that qui quœ, always leads to quod.

Oglou.
Afflicting tale, with which we'll now have done.
The sun is rising—go to bed, my son.
Some watchful guard may look on you, and I—

Agib.
(weeps)
Bad grammar, Oglou.

Oglou.
Never mind—don't cry!

Song.—Agib. Air, “Father's Love.” (Lurline).

Agib.
(going, L.)
Stop! I forgot—This letter for my mother.

(gives Oglou letter)
Oglo.
(R.)
Ah! You're a—a—a—a—a—

Agib.
You're another!

Runs into tower, L. U. E.
Oglou.
(solus)
So—“For my mother!”—Thus it is addressed!
In what vile pot-hooks are fond thoughts expressed:
Nor must we think the heart a bit less true,
Because the hand spells mother with a U.

Enter Bermeddin, L. 3 E.
Berm.
Great Timour comes!

(retires)
Oglou.
'Tis better to retreat,
At any time his temper is not sweet.
Now strong potations may have head-ache brought;
And Timour with a head-ache—horrid thought!

Exit, R. 1 E.
Enter Timour followed by Bermeddin and Tartars, L. 3 E.
Timour.
My skull is fit to split! (thoughtfully)
Perchance, 'twill dull
The pain to split some other party's skull.
No—that were trouble—Here! What, ho! Bermeddin!
Chop off the heads of Oglap and Noureddin!

Berm.
Why, mighty Timour?

Timour.
Slave! dost ask me why?
Thou'lt have to cut thine own off, by-and-bye.
Bermeddin gives orders to Tartars, who precipitately exit, L. 2 E., and return.
Why—why? because I like it—that's the reason:
They had no head-aches, and 'tis foulest treason
To wear a painless head while Timour's aches.

Berm.
(coming down, L.)
'Tis done!

Timour.
(R.)
How!—trembling? Then you're no great shakes.

Berm.
My prince—

Timour.
Speak up!—come, never look dismayed!
Dare you to tell me that you are afraid?
Afraid of me—a prince so calm and meek,
That— (furious)
Where's my axe, I ax?—why don't you speak?

Berm.
(terrified, offers paper)
This comes from a Mingrelian deputation.

Timour.
(as deaf)
Don't mumble so! Eh? “Wants a situation?”
I grant his prayer: my hangman let him be,
And hang himself directly on that tree.
(pointing off, Bermeddin remonstrates in gesture)
He doesn't like that tree? How kings are vext
With subjects' follies!—let him take the next.

Berm.
A dep-u-ta-tion!

Timour.
Well, you needn't bawl.
Perhaps 'tis best to read it, after all.
(he glances at paper—the Tartars are all stealing off, when Bermeddin is stopped by Timour)
Look here!—a pretty article you've brought!
Read that! (shews paper)


Berm.
I can't.

Timour.
By Jove, you shall be taught.
Bring in the knout, stout Oglap and Noureddin!

Berm.
Their heads are off.

Timour.
(sweetly)
True; so they are, Bermeddin.
But, oh, to think of these Mingrelian slaves—
Those red republicans—the saucy knaves!
“The trampled worm will turn,” they tell me: stuff!
That shews I have not trampled hard enough.
They ask reform—that means a revolution;
And what's all this?—they want a constitution.
What's that? (softly)
Explain the word—the meaning shew.

Berm.
Sire, I've no notion.

Timour.
Then you ought to know.
About young Agib's rights there's something here;
Rights always smack of treason.

Berm.
That is clear.

Timour.
Therefore, Bermeddin, o'er the world proclaim,
Whoever dares to mention Agib's name,
Even in jest—whoever dares to frown,
Or cross my path sublime with look cast down,
At once shall be beheaded. Those who sigh
Shall bless their stars if they untortured die.
Thus, universal happiness I give,
By blotting out whoever dares to grieve.

Berm.
Happy Mingrelia, conquered by a hero
As mild as Titus, (aside)
and as meek as Nero.

Timour.
Where is this brace of fools who vaunt their passion
For this same woman, whom they call Circassian.
The word Circassia tickles empty fops,
And makes a figure in perfumers' shops.
One of my wives I married from that quarter.

Berm.
She was Circassian Cream, you Cream of Tartar.

(Timour, in excessive rage, flashes out his sword and rushes at Bermeddin, who falls on his knees —as Macbeth with “Liar and Slave”)
Timour.
Blockhead and ass! (calms and smiles)
Away my anger flies:
The joke was quite inevitable. Rise!
But if such jokes occur again—don't poke 'em—
The man who makes a pun shall pick—

Berm.
What?

Timour.
Oakum!
Hurls him away, as Kerim and Sanballat enter, L. 2 E. (both silent), each holding a hand of Selima.
Ha, you are here! this maiden it appears
By the nose leads, and sets you by the ears.
Nay—by my father's beard, a splendid creature,
With fascination in each fairy feature!
Come here, two loving fools—one woman's scoff—
And lend your ears, or else I'll cut them off.
About this maid you bicker like game birds—
Though, as you never speak, you don't have words.
I've hit upon a plan the job to settle,
Instead of pluck, requiring precious metal:
The one who takes the girl, to stop all bother,
Shall just hand over five pounds to the other.
Now, don't stand staring like a pair of ninnies!
If pounds won't do, you can but make it guineas.
(Kerim and Sanballat make signs that they prefer the combat)
Ah, you don't see it—you would rather fight,
And save your money?—well, perhaps you're right.
Meet hereabouts at—eh?—yes, half-past six;
The lists, and all that sort of thing, we'll fix.
(they express satisfaction)
The man whose blows are most severely felt,
Shall have the maiden and the champion's belt.
Song—Timour. Air, “Sally, come up.”

Timour.
At half-past six—sharp—to a moment, mind.
(they are going off with Selima)
Be good enough to leave that girl behind.
They bow and exeunt, L., Selima is led off, R., by Tartars.
Let her be guarded safe as nun in cloister!
I once read of a lawyer and an oyster,
And of two bumpkins—“of which observation
The real bearing's in the application”—
Downey!—

Berm.
(returns to L.)
Methinks that Octar long has tarried.

Timour.
Proctor!

Berm.
No, Octar! you are to be married.

Timour.
True; I'd forgot that trifle. (loftily)
Patriot kings
Have but small time to spare on idle things:
We marry, solely for our subjects' sake.
What odds to us what wife, or whose we take?
(melancholy)
What did you say? (kindly)


Berm.
He brings your Georgian bride.

Timour.
Well, then a Proctor we shall want beside,
To draw the licence. Don't be quite so fast.

Berm.
To think that Timour's caught by love at last.

Timour.
By what?

Berm.
By mighty love!

Timour.
By fiddlestick.
Art thou so precious green—so dull—so thick?
Love for the sake of love is out of fashion.
Georgia, not Georgia's Princess is my passion—
This, which our neighbours call a “bon partie.”

Berm.
Mingrelia joined to Georgia. Yes, I see.
You'll be content?

Timour.
Content, thou paltry wretch,
Will Timour be content till he can stretch
His mighty hand, and, like the Atlantic wire,
Clutch two worlds, caitiff, in his grasp of fire!
Mark, minion, while in “Pinnock”—Nay, I'm greedier.
While in Charles Knight's “Imperial Encyclopædia,”
One place, but one is named that is not mine,
In peace I neither breakfast, lunch, or dine.

Berm.
But how attain this wondrous domination?

Timour.
Partly by arms, part by negociation.
(takes him confidentially)
Great Jonathan shall all creation lick,
Then I'll lick Jonathan. You have it slick.

(distant shouts heard, R. U. E.)
Berm.
She comes! She comes!

Crowd.
She's here! Hip, hip, hurraw!

Timour.
(furious)
Cut, all. (gently)
No—ask 'em what they're bawling for.

Berm.
She comes.

Timour.
Who comes?

Berm.
The Maid, whose happy lot
Makes her your bride.

Timour.
Of course. I had forgot,
If I go marrying much, I'll want, 'tis plain,
A Khan's Remembrancer from Chancery Lane.
How can I keep in mind this foolish marriage—
Hey day! the Lord Mayor's lent my wife his carriage.
Enter Zorilda under canopy in procession, over bridge, R. and down to L. C.
Exquisite loveliness! Can there dwell
On earth such lustre? Charming, pretty well,
I seem inflammable. My soul requires
Love; to be sure it's just the time for fires.
Upon that form let Timour's optics rest,
Till his heart turns to ashes in his breast;
Ashes from which a Phœnix straight will spring
Her own fair image on ambition's wing.
'Twill soar aloft, till in my madden'd brain,
The wondrous bird shall find a nest again.
Deign, lovely tyrant, o'er my sense to rule. (kneels)


Zoril.
(L.)
Get up, young man, don't make yourself a fool.
Ours is no match for love, but what in France,
The world calls marriage de convenance.

Timour.
(R.)
Exactly; not a syllable I heard,
But feel that honey dropp'd with ev'ry word.

Zoril.
You are Mingrelia's lord.

Timour.
Eh?

Zoril.
You are Mingrelia's lord.

Timour.
Yes, I am.

Zoril.
Are you quite certain that you are not a sham?

Timour.
Who calls me so doth foully lie;
I am no sham save Cham of Tartary.

Zoril.
I mean while Agib lives you're not secure.

Timour.
Then Agib dies ere cock-crow—be cock-sure.

Zoril.
You'll kill the boy—a very pretty plan—
'Twill stir up all Mingrelia to a man.
Folks who don't care a fig for Agib now,
Will jump at the occasion for a row.

Timour.
A row, my love, when we are wed you'll find
A glorious row to me is peace of mind.
But as for Agib, 'tis my thought precisely,
And so in yonder tower I've lodged him nicely.

Zoril.
(aside)
'Tis there then! oh, what thoughts his words arouse.

Timour.
Eh?

Zoril.
That a tower, 'tis scarce a station house—
Expect to keep him in that trumpery gaol,
With all Mingrelia offering swords for bail?
Stuff! I must watch this boy I see—not you.
He starts to-morrow.

Timour.
Princess, that won't do.
Nay, don't be angry that I speak in fun,
I only meant to say—it shan't be done.

Zoril.
Not done! There ends at once our scheme of marriage.
What! contradicted? Fellows, there! my carriage!
Tartar, ta, ta! (going)


Timour.
What! go? You'll ask my leave.

Zoril.
Oh no, I'll take my own.

Timour.
Now who'd believe
A living woman spoke to Timour thus
And lived? Proud girl!

Zoril.
Now, let us have no fuss.

Timour.
This fort is mine, those guards are mine, bethink you

Zoril.
One more such word and with this lance I pink you.

(tableau)
Timour.
She says she'll pink me, and by Jove I stand it,
What's got my temper, she can so command it.
That lovely head, it's mine, and I could strike it
Off, and I don't. She scolds me, and I like it.
Pink me—my rose, kill at a single blow,
Or torture me to death, but do not go.

Zoril.
Then Agib starts to-morrow, mind, no less.

Timour.
Name thou the train, a special or express?
My power is thine, take all my pomp, my riches,
Wear thou my crown, and also wear my—Witches
These women are by nature I've no doubt:
Timour and Barnwell both have found it out.
Would like that George an uncle I could find;
I'd go and kill him just to soothe my mind.

(they give orders to Attendants)
Enter Oglou, R. 1 E.
Oglou.
(curiously)
A fighting Princess never in my life
I saw—the thing most like it was my wife.

Timour.
(to Bermeddin)
My father—I would introduce to you, sweet love.

Zoril.
He! I'm betrayed!

Oglou.
What—she? I'm astounded!
You are Prince George—no, no! I'm so confounded—
You're Georgia's Princess?

Zoril.
Sir, of course I am
Daughter of Georgia's monarch.

Oglou.
(aside)
That's a flam!
From Georgia? Well, I never heard a finer.
You might as well have said from Carolina.

Timour.
What need of so much whispering, dearest duck?

Zoril.
I'm telling him how once I had the luck
To save his life.

Timour.
Whose life?—when—where?

Oglou.
That's true!

Timour.
When—where, I say?

Zoril.
Now, what is that to you?

Timour.
Another snub.

Zoril.
My nose? Retract the phrase.

Timour.
The loveliest nostrial ever met my gaze. (raptured)


Zoril.
(to Oglou)
Your debt of gratitude I'm sure you're bound
To pay.

Oglou.
Yes; twenty shillings in the pound.

Zoril.
Then help me to work out my subtle plan.
Pray, how is darling Agib, dear old man?

Oglou.
The meekest, best of boys—kicks up no bother,
But talks so prettily about his mother.

(Timour puts his head between them)
Zoril.
(L.)
Poor Agib!

Timour.
(C.)
Agib!

Oglou.
(R.)
And what's better—

Timour.
Better!

Oglou.
This very morning he gave me a letter.

Timour.
Bah! So, good sire, the Prince a letter gave you?
What next! Come come! no boggling lie will save you.

Oglou.
I promised to his mother I'd deliver it.

Timour.
Thinking of course that I should not diskiver it.

Oglou.
Don't frown. Suppose I promised. 'Tis not new
To break one's word.

Timour.
No; that I often do—
Oftener than not. Did you intend to post it?

Oglou.
No.

Timour.
Give it me.

Oglou.
(passing it to Zorilda behind)
I've been and gone and lost it.

Timour.
Lost it, thou dotard!—Could'st not safely lock it
In—Ha!—m'm—you slipped something in your pocket.

Zoril.
Of course;—the handkerchief I use to rub
What you, base man, (wheedling)
you dared to call a snub.

Timour.
That's false! Should females ever be believed;
Yet, sweet it is to feel oneself deceived!
My heart she steals—my wit she has destroyed it;
I know I'm humbugged—and I can't avoid it.

Concerted Piece.—Air, “The Cure.”
Zoril.

Timour.

Oglou.

Ensemble.

(closed in)