University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

—A Room in Lorenzo's House.
Lorenzo and Julian.
Lor.
—Enough! Now, mark me, Julian! you remember
I brook no opposition from my children:
By heaven, I will not! I have rear'd you as
A chosen vessel to contain my hopes;
But if you thus leak out my good advice,
And waste my dear and cherish'd expectations,
You cease to be a child of mine for ever.

Jul.
—Your pardon, sir! I am unfitted for
This single occupation which your love
Provides me; but in all things else, I am
Your most obedient son. Pray hear my reason!

Lor.
—Reason! What reason is there in deriding
And tampering with a parent's wish, incurring
Thus censure and rebuke from all our neighbours?

Jul.
—The censure of the busy, who decide
On things they cannot comprehend, by me
Is estimated lighter than the air.
I cannot mould my fortunes to receive
The impress of each idle fool's opinion.

Lor.
—Young man, this arrogance that thus outbraves
The world's opinion, is an earnest of
An evil inclination.

Jul.
Nay! I know
Good men's approval is a great reward:
And, richly merited and fairly won,
Outshines the stars of all nobility!
To this I have aspired, and therefore scorn
All intermedlers, as I spurn the dirt.

Lor.
—You must submit to many things perforce,
Like all the world, against your vagrant taste.
Would you lie down i'the sun, and idly wait
'Till fortune come to you? Behold your old
Companions all! how they're dispersed to bring
The produce of their labours home at night
To Venice, here, their great and native hive!
Why would you be the only drone?

Jul.
The drone!
You do not, or you will not, understand me.

Lor.
—I know I've chosen you a rich profession.
D'you weigh its honors rightly?

Jul.
Ay, its crown
Of laurels would be weeds and thorns to me!
Worse—poison, that would eat into my brain
And launch me down a maniac to my tomb!

Lor.
—Have you no rev'rence for your teacher's words
Of promise if you persevere?—For, mark, sir!
Lacking that, genius and good luck must fail
To grasp the topmost plumes of eminence—
These promise and predict success to you!

Jul.
—They judge like people who esteem the moon
And stars no bigger than they seem at distance.
Is't likely, they, who cannot plumb the source
From whence springs up the tide of what we do,
Can prophecy how high, how far, or wide
The stream of capability may flow?
O, sir! if we were speaking of a thing
Tangible, open, visible—my purse,
My dress, my manner—I should bow to years
And riper judgments; but of what pertains
To th'secret workings of another's mind,
Presumption's self should not pretend to speak.

Lor.
—Command then must assume the right to act!

Jul.
—No! do yourself not such a foul injustice;
Obey your reason, not your passion! O!
My father! If you knew how I revere
You with a child's affection, you would pause
E'er thus you snap the ties of my young love.
I must speak freely. I can brave your anger,
But not for all the wealth of Crœsus, will
I forge my honor to a paltry lie.

Lor.
—You're most grandiloquent in advocacy
Of this romantic beggary. It seems
A poet's rags have some peculiar charm.
You cannot both be idle and be rich.

Jul.
—Poverty is an evil of the mind—
A terror of imagination only.
The poor in circumstance, are frequently
The wealthiest in the blessings of content—
And oh! content's a treasure of such price,
That only he can count its value, who
Possesses this inestimable gem.

Lor.
—You choose your destiny then, beggary,
And th'applause of empty-headed fashion!
You deem it wiser than t'accompany me
On the Rialto, where Lorenzo's son
Would see a thousand bonnets doff'd to him,
And ev'ry bonnet lin'd with gold and gems.

Jul.
—Yet, each is happy in his own degree,
The Arab and the senator of Venice.
There's many a heart beneath th'imperial star
Of empire, born to perish miserably;
While many a savage roams the wilderness,
With thoughts and feelings that would grace a throne!
The poet's worldly sacrifice is great,
His sorrows many, but his joys surpass
Their gloominess, eclipsing with the light
Of immortality the storms of life:
And th' recompense of self-approval is
A gorgeous sun-set for the eve of life!

Lor.
—Look at your dissipated, worthless friends,
Angelo, and St. Cyr.—what has the painting
Or poetry of one or other won
For them, but poverty, neglect, and scorn?

Jul.
—With which, perchance, they're happier than arrayed
In all that wealth the meanest mind acquires.
But, let us grant these men unmeritorious.
The crime of one renders not others guilty.
Have we no wicked and dishonest senators?
Unthrifty merchants? lying lawyers? quacks?
And hypocritical, blaspheming priests?
There's imposition every where on earth!
Except against a calling for its followers;
And we must throw off all things old, and find
New occupations out for honest men.

Lor.
—Enough! such argument is useless, when
The resolution's taken. Well you know
I'll brook no opposition in my children.
You must obey, or be no son of mine!

Jul.
—But hear me, sir! I only ask your ear
For my most urgent argument.

Lor.
(Going.)
Peace, peace!
To night adjourn to Padua! There reflect
Whether obedience and a father's friendship,
Or disobedience and his enmity,
Be wiser choice.

Jul.
(Aside.
A father's enmity!)
For God's sake listen, sir!

Lor.
I will not listen!
A parent's duty is command—a child
Implicitly obeys, or from that hour
It disobeys, it is no child of mine.

Exit.
Jul.
(Following.)
But father! sir! Nay, sir!
(Returning.)
O God of heav'n!
What most fantastic tricks are these for nature
To play upon us? Why, his anger hangs
A lie upon the affection of his blessing!
I used to think, that, with the very beast,
The bonds of blood were something more than cobwebs,
To perish at the touch of interest!
O shame upon humanity! that gold,
Opinion, selfishness, a gross desire,
Usurps the throne of our affections, and
Cancels the law heav'n wrote upon our hearts.
O, Venice, Venice! flaunting in thy robes
Of splendour and untold magnificence!
Look at thy image in this old man's avarice,
And blush to think thou hast exchang'd the impulse
Of virgin nature for a painted cheek,
And hollow breast of harlotry! O shame!
Shame on us all that cannot elevate
Our souls above the dust we tenant!—Shame!

Enter Giacomo.
Gia.
—Sir, sir, sir! Signor Julian,

Jul.
What mystery?

Gia.

—O, sir, here's Signor St. Cyr here i'the
garden. He has been waiting these two hours, and, God
knows, they were two hours too long for him; but all,
as he says, out of pure affection for you. But he's

talked such nonsense to the parrots, that one would
suppose he hadn't a care.

Jul.
—Out, garrulous old fool; what know you of his cares?

Gia.
—Oh, know, sir—of course I know nothing—only—

Jul.
—Speak to the point, and stand not mouthing there
Your borrowed wit.

Gia.
You stop my mouth—

Jul.
Peace, peace!
We must attend on our own exegencies,
Or leave our urgent wants untended—hence!

Exit.
Gia.

—Hoity toity! Why how choleric be all these
college squibs! Well, well, when their blood runs as
slowly as mine—some of 'em though will never live to
to try it, or they'd find their words would not slip off
the tongue-end quite so merrily. Old servants now
o'days are old fools. All old things are old humbugs,
and a basket bottom stuck on four bulrushes, is a better
seat than our grandfather's chair. Ah! we shall see
these changes of all the old coinage turn out some
brass farthings. But Julian's a good boy. As for
that St. Cyr, master says he's a bad soil to sow good
precepts on. I'm sure he's a moist climate, and yet as
little acquainted with water as a Venetian might be.
Julian calls me ass, when I tell him this. Well, there's
many an ass' head between short ears.

Bell rings violently.

Ay, that's my master's ring. The very bells

get a benefit when he's in a passion. I could tell him,
if I dare, that he'll drive dear Julian to desperation,
and then what will become of us? Why the very cats
and dogs seem better pleas'd when Julian's at home.
I never heard a tongue that didn't wag in his praise,
except master's, and he thinks the best education for
a child is, to abuse and scold him from morning till
night.

Bell rings violently again.

Coming, sir!—Well, such passions as these bring their
own punishments, or I'm much mistaken.

Exit.