University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

—Lodoro's servants, beppo and others, arranging the room.
Enter Lodoro.
Lod.
—Come, bustle, sirrahs! Zounds! d'ye think
We pay our servants to be idle?

Bep.
(Aside.
By Saint Mark!
I'd rather earn a penny civilly,
Than dollars given with curses and with kicks.)

2d. Ser.
—Beshrew me, but a crabbed master's curse
Enough for any servant's sins!

Lod.
Come, sirrahs!

Bep.
—Signor, the company arrives.

Lor.
Well, bustle, sir!
Zounds! you're asleep.
Enter Lorenzo.
Lorenzo, welcome met!
A very, very hearty welcome, sir,
As I'd extend to any man in Venice.
(Aside.
I thought the vulgar fool would be the first.)

Lor.
—Thanks, signor, I esteem you as you speak.
We've been much less acquainted these late years,
Than when, i'the freakish days of friendly boyhood,
We robb'd the Doge's orchard, and, to school
Went, hand-in-hand, a munching o'the spoil.

Lod.
—Well, signor, come, dwell not on these remembrances,
They do recall—

Lor.
Things that I'm proud of, sir!
My lowly origin, my—

Lod.
Ay, 'tis true!
'Tis over true, Lorenzo. Hear me, sir.
I estimate you higher than you wot of.
No merchant here hath track'd the devious steps
Of commerce, thro' her dirty shifts, and borne
A more untainted character than yours.
Your word, sir—nay be patient, sir!—your word
Is money on exchange. Your honor's ne'er
Been pawn'd for interest. Now—mark the sequel!—
The senators, at my solicitation,
Intend conferring on your shoulders all
The honors of their robes. For this, I only
Entreat a very trivial return.

Lor.
—Name it.

Lod.
Report hath whisper'd, you retain,
Within the law's unyielding grasp, the lands
And palaces of the Lord Barbarigo?

Lor.
—Sir, I make no disguise of, thro' my agent,
Lending much money on that noble's 'states.

Lod.
—He's riotous in dissipation.

Lor.
So
'Tis rumour'd; and, for this, I have withheld
All further means to feed his follies.

Lod.
(Aside.
I
Remov'd that difficulty.) Will you speak
Aside with me?
Julian and Augustus enter from different sides.
Ha, Julian! welcome here!
In good time, too, a youth of mine—Augustus,
This gentleman's the Signor Julian, boy,
A Paduan student—son of my old friend.
I pray you make his friendship.

Exeunt Lodoro and Lorenzo.
Jul.
I enjoy
An honor I have long solicited.

Aug.
—O, sir, the very enviable repute,
All Venice trumpets of your growing fame,
Doth make me feel a prouder man henceforth.
The walk of genius through this merchant world,
Is something we should follow with delight.

Jul.
—Your scholar'd tongue hath learn'd the courtier trick
Of flattery betimes—

Aug.
You know, you feel,
You must confess, I only speak the truth!

Jul.
—Well, well! I long to be what thy too hasty
And generous temper makes me out already;
But, sir, I also know the long neglect,
Indifference, doubt, suspicion, slow applause,
Envy and opposition I must brave,
For years, e'er I can be the man you think me—
The man that for himself is lov'd of men.
But, come! we mock our youth with aged cares.
I beg you entertain me with your guests—
Who's this?

Enter the wife of Lodoro, a young Lady, an Officer and other Company.
Aug.
This lady is my mother, and
She curtsies to a damsel—oh! a maid
Who picks the flowers about Parnassus' foot,
And culls them into dainty bouquets. There,
Behold that soldier—martial in his cloak
And coward in his eye. Look, note him well!
D'you observe disorder in him any where?
A single hair curl'd out of tune? Oh no!
For therein lie his lands, his tenements.
His teeth are Indian pearls, and any dame
Who'll wear them near her lips, must give her hand
And fifty thousand ducats for the bargain.
Enter one fantastically dressed.
Oh! look you, too, a traveller! Mark his coat—
His Joseph's coat—his many colour'd coat!
See how he swaggers like a galliot with
Her painted banners hung to catch the breeze!
List, how he prates, of pyramids and pearls—
Jabbers in French and curses in Hebraic—
Quotes Sanscrit, mentions Allah, shows his shoes,
And swears he bought them in a Turk's bazaar.
During this, Bianca has entered and joined the company: Julian remains with his eyes fixed on her.
But, Lord! you do not mark me! How is this?

Jul.
—I do, I do—go on!

Aug.
The devil take it!
Who talks without a list'ner? If there's aught
On earth upsets our vanity, it is
Being eloquent without an audience. Ha!
A poet in his dreams! What is't you see?

Jul.
—A lovely vision! Hist! Augustus, tell me
Who owns yon fairy foot-fall on the earth
So spiritually light, it scarcely bends the flowers?

Aug.
—That spirit, of your conjuring fancy, calls
Me brother. I have kissed her as my sister,
And swear she's only delicate flesh and blood.

Jul.
—Time, since we met, hath been her playmate Then
She was but young, as is a May-day rose:
Yet, modell'd so enchantingly, that I
Have never dreamed of fairer form than hers.

Aug.
—You speak this out of compliment to me!

Jul.
—Blister my tongue then, if my heart respond
Not to the pulse of passion on my lip!
Augustus, you're my junior—and you hope,
With ripening years, as you are told, to see
Abroad more beauty than you find at home.
I know the world—I've peeped behind its mask:
And, tell you, when we have a virtuous flow'r,
In likeness of a sister, wife, or love,
The skies allow no more—earth's granted all
Its treasures in a moment, and we fool
Ourselves to madness if we hunt for others.

Aug.
—You love my sister, sir?

Jul.
To say, I love,
Is to give common utterance to a passion
That lords my every other sense, and bids
Me look to her as to the source of life.

Aug.
—Julian, my sister's honor'd in the love
And admiration of a man like you.
Nay, walk with me. I will prefer your suit,
And second your entreaties with my own.
Come, let us talk.

Jul.
For ever! 'tis so sweet
To talk with those who'll hear of those we love!

Exeunt.
Enter Lodoro.
Lod.
—This fool Lorenzo, now, refuses me
His aid to tangle Barbarigo in
A legal mesh, and bag him for my daughter.
And yet, I do detect the undercurrent
Of his manœuverings! He thinks to win
The girl for Julian—apes the prick o'conscience;
And clothes his speech in th' hypocrite's assumptions
About injustice, irreligion—out!
The driv'ller! Does he ween, I cannot see
His specious plotting through this paltry mask?
By heaven! I think we're all devising ill—
The secret is, the greatest villain thrives.
At least I rest not in obscurity
Because the shoe of greatness pinches here—
Here i'the conscience.
Enter Barbarigo.
(Aside.
Ha! I must be cautious!)
How very condescending now this is!

Bar.
—Indeed, Lodoro, I apologize,
I fear my visit's late.

Lod.
Nay, name it not!
Oh! late? ha! ha! my lord, we do not hold
These low observances of punctuality.
In your ear now, here is a scrub—a scrub!
The dirtiest merchant in all Venice, sir!
A very trickster to each filthy turn!
One, by-the-bye, whom you have little cause
To greatly love—Lorenzo, he is call'd.
I was constrain'd, through interest, to invite
His meanness to this comp'ny, and he comes
'Sieging my doors for supper, e'er I'd wip'd
The dinner from my beard—oh, late? ha, ha!
These are your early men! Not late, my lord.

Bar.
—(Aside.
The beggar, how familiar he is!
No matter, he's my tool, and they who work
With iron, must at times be singed.) O, sir,
I know this us'rer well—he has a son,
Curse him! he has a son, a puppy, sir!

Lod.
—A most assuming puppy, and given to vice
Of many kinds.

Bar.
I am his debtor, for
A rascal's trick he play'd me, and would fain
Take payment from his skin, but that I'd soil
My fingers with the hound.

Lod.
The saucy dog!

Bar.
—He fac'd me out of my undoubted right
To the first prizes at the Paduan schools.
I do assure you, it was all a trick.

Lod.
—A trick, my lord! I do believe a trick!
But come, my lord—I have an only daughter—
Nay, of her wealth and beauty I speak not;
But will you condescend to dance with her?

Bar.
—With all my heart—come on! Lodoro, mind,
To-morrow raise me some ten thousand ducats—
This was the bond on which I patronize
Your ball.

Lod.
Ten thousand ducats! Barbarigo,
Will nothing less bestead th' immediate want?

Bar.
—I cannot bate a dollar.

Lod.
Strange, my lord!
A month ago, you drew a larger sum.

Bar.
—No marvel in the matter—yesterday
I stak'd and lost it on a cast o'the die.

Lod.
(Aside.
Unthinking prodigal!) My lord, I fear,
If thus runs on the current of your fortunes,
'Twill timeless reach its leap, and dash into
Th'abyss of ruin! Love of gaming is
A falling stone that gains velocity
At ev'ry bound, until the fearful power's
Acquir'd to shiver all its strength to atoms.

Bar.
—Lorenzo, do you fancy he, who flings
His wasted frame upon the gamester's bed,
Sees not his ruin painted in his dreams?
Peace! you would ask impertinently, why
Not pause upon the precipice? You're sober,
But gambling is a drunkenness, and youth
A fever—some it wears away, and others
Outlive the trial—which shall conquer, I
Care little! come, your daughter, come, come, come!

Exeunt.
Enter Julian.
Jul.
—How marvellous slowly crawls the weary pace
Of the snail-blooded world, contrasted with
Th'impetuous eagerness of our desires,
Our hopes and fears!
Enter Augustus.
Augustus! speak to me!
What tidings? Is her answer affable?
You urg'd my proffers timidly? You lack'd
My ardour to enforce them? But she's young—
She's very young and fearful. She will think on't.
Nay, speak! Is this your friendship, that would trifle
A moment with the feelings of your friend?
For shame, young man!—for shame!

Aug.
No, listen, Julian!
I smile, but only at the impatient blood
O'erboiling in you, and usurping all
Your judgment. I have never, since we parted,
Found moments to prefer your suit. My sister
Dances with one Lord Barbarigo.

Jul.
Ha!

Aug.
—What is he?

Jul.
Noble.

Aug.
Is he much esteem'd?

Jul.
—He much esteems himself.

Aug.
How hold you him?

Jul.
—Where he holds me—at arm's length.

Aug.
How is this?
Short answers—exclamations!—these are not
The satisfaction candour owes to justice.
The Barbarigo is distinguish'd for
His rank and riches. Do you fancy, since
You love my sister, all are treasonable
Who interchange a courtesy with her?

Jul.
—Your grace, Augustus! I am ill! Adieu!

Exit.
Aug.
—What mystery is gathering round us now?
Julian is honourable. Barbarigo
Acknowledg'd noble, courteous, and rich—
And yet the other winces at his mention,
As at the hearing of some villain's name.
I'll follow Julian—something may be heard
Of moment to Bianca's destinies.

Exit.
Enter Bianca and Maria.
Bia.
—Maria! did I not behold Augustus
Bespeak the Signor Julian?

Mar.
Love is blind.

Bia.
—Blind to the world, when more than worlds within
The cloister of the bosom lie.

Mar.
A riddle?

Bia.
—Bear with me, I am very sad, Maria!

Mar.
—Sad in such company?

Bia.
The laughing lip
Often belies the heavy heart.

Mar.
Alas!
Sadness and youth make sorry company.

Bia.
—They do Maria! But the laughter from
The hollow chest of insincerity—
The affability of the contemptuous eye—
The compliment of the insidious tongue—
The pressure of the sycophant's warm hand—
The bow, the cringe, the slander of detraction,
Mingling like weeds upon a hot-bed, here
To night, have sicken'd me of gaiety.

Mar.
—This is the very mood of your disease.

Bia.
—Disease?

Mar.
Yes! love at first, is a disease,
That, from the object of its passion, turns
On all things with disgust and loathing.

Bia.
Love?

Mar.
—Yes! and I dare be sworn you are in love.

Bia.
—What matter—call it what you will, to me
'Tis misery—I feel no happiness.
Why did they christen Love a laughing god?
Alas! his herald is a stifled sigh,
His sojourn sorrow, and his bed the grave!
They never felt the wound, who deem'd the arrow
Tip't with a smile—it should have been a tear!

Mar.
—Your morning and your evening words belie
Each other.

Bia.
Ay, my heart hath prov'd me false!
Maria!—words are poor interpreters
Of feelings—when a woman speaks of love,
Hang your opinion on a blush, or draw
Conclusions from a look; but never trust
Your judgment to the weakness of her tongue.
Come with me, I'll to bed. I wish, Maria,
We could disrobe our minds, as easily
As we cast off the garments of our pride.

Exeunt.

SCENE II.

—A hall in Lorenzo's house.
Giacomo.

Well, here's a comfortable uproar for a neutral party!
what a pleasant thing to see every body fighting, and
nothing to do with the quarrel ourselves. Master curses
Julian—Julian curses his destinies, and mistress blames
them both. Now, I wonder who's right, and who's
wrong. Perhaps both, perhaps all. All right—all
wrong? Well, that's curious—but still it may be true.
Let me discuss the matter. I'm fond of discussion.
Master insists upon Julian not being a poet. Now, if
God made Julian a poet, master may make him a
cobler, but can't unmake him a poet—therefore master's
wrong, to insist upon what he can't do.

Bell rings.

Coming sir! that's Julian's bell. Stop till I discuss
the subject, whether Julian's right or wrong. Well,
Julian won't obey his father—there, then, Julian's

wrong. Ay, but Julian can't obey his father—there
Julian's right.

Bell rings again.

Coming, sir, directly, just let me discuss this! Well
Julian's wrong, and Julian's right—and—let me see—
master's wrong, and master ayn't right. Why, then,
Julian's more right than master, so Julian's most right—

Enter Frederick St. Cyr.
Fred.

—And most right means very right—and very
right is quite right—ergo, Julian is quite right. Now,
you old dotard! why didn't you answer the bell, and
not detain a gentleman at the door, while you were
philosophising in the hall?

Gia.

—I fancied it was Julian's bell, sir, and intended
going, as soon as I had settled which I should serve—
father or son.

Fred.

—Why, the one that's right, to be sure.

Gia.

—That's very right, sir—but suppose he cannot
afford a servant, sir, and the other can—then, if I serve
this one, I'm all wrong.

Fred.

—Giacomo, thou art more correct than thy
correctness imagines. Every man adapts his philosophy
to his interest, and, so, each is the best philosopher
after all. We are all right, and we are all wrong.

Gia.

—Upon my word, Master Frederick, I half
believe what you say is true.

Fred.

—Truly, I thank you for your half belief, inasmuch

as, if you go and retail my philosophy at the
corner of the next street, it's chance but you get your
head broke for a knave, and certain that you will be
wholly disbelieved for a liar and a fool.

Gia.

—But how is that, sir?

Fred.

—Because, you arrant blockhead! you must
take the world as it is, and not attempt to make it what
it should be—unless you wish to be stuck in the
pillory of every man's ridicule, and pelted with the
dirt of his abuse.

Lorenzo.
(Within.
Giacomo! Giacomo! Giacomo!)

Gia.
—Here's my master coming, sir.

Fred.
—Ay, so I hear.

Gia.
—O, sir, he's in a fury!

Fred.
—So am I.

Gia.
O, for God's sake, sir, begone!

Fred.
—For Peace's sake, you mean—she was a goddess.
Enter Lorenzo.
Ha! Lorenzo! pleasant day.

Lor.
—Sir, I'm not accustomed to this gross
Familiarity.

Fred.
True. Giacomo! a chair!
Giacomo places chairs.
Pray, sir, be seated.

Lor.
(Aside.
This in my own house!)

Fred.
—Be seated, signor. Nay, an you prefer
Standing, excuse me (sits down)
, I am rather weary.
We idlers seldom ruffle our sensations
By walking—streets are really horrible!

Lor.
—May I, sir, ask permission in this house,
Lately my own, to hear your business!

Fred.
—Lately your own!—you have parted with it then?

Lor.
—It seems so. But your business.

Fred.
O ay! Julian—
Julian your son, sir, he's a clever youth.

Lor.
—Indeed!

Fred.
Indeed, he is a promising youth.

Lor.
—Upon my word!

Fred.
Upon my word and honor!
But to the business. Pray, now, what d'you mean
To make of Julian?

Lor.
Make of Julian? sir!
Is this your special business, or mine?

Fred.
(Rising.)
'Tis yours Lorenzo! and to be more serious—
For I can set aside this levity
And reason like a man when necessary—
I here have forc'd myself on your attention,
To blame your unparental harshness with
My friend—my noble, generous, gifted friend!
You will not so belie your natural love
As punish an opinion with your anger?

Lor.
—And, may I ask, who constituted you
An umpire of your senior's conduct?

Fred.
Age,
That should lean on experience, like a crutch,
At times, too trusting in its strength, will tumble—
Eepecially in things that touch our happiness.
There, each by heaven is constituted judge,
And man may marr, but cannot mend the precepts
Ingrafted in our hearts from infancy.
Listen, sir! though you will not profit by
My warning, you shall hear it. Try your power!
Immure your son in pestilential cities.
Invent, contrive, adapt his energies
To purposes of base aggrandisement.
Torture his body, dispossess his mind
Of its affections, appetites, desires,
And natural love—and lead him in the chains
Of splendid slavery. Yet, after all,
O'er his disfranchised heart triumphant Nature,
Will vindicate her proud supremacy—
And, like an uncag'd eagle, to the clouds
And solitudes of poetry, his soul
Will rise victoriously, despite your wrath
And the denunciations of your curse!

Exit.
Enter Lorenzo's Wife.
Wife.
—What ails you, husband?

Lor.
Leave me!

Wife.
Are you ill?

Lor.
Begone!

Wife.
How have I merited this anger?

Lor.
—You've all colleag'd against my happiness.
You, and your disobedient son—and then
His worthless, heartless, good-for-nothing friend,
Dares to insult me to my very face.
Begone! I tell you!

Wife.
But, for mercy's sake!
Compel not Julian to this harsh adventure!
Recall your sentence—you will drive him mad.

Lor.
—I care not! not a straw! I'd rather see
Him perish at my feet, than disobey
My inclinations! Do you think I'll have
My children turn my masters?

Wife.
Ah! Lorenzo!
How we forget, in censuring our children,
The fooleries of our own younger days!

Lor.
—You advocate his disobedience?

Wife.
No!
But recollect we might as wisely order
The summer flowers to bloom, the trees to blossom,
As dictate to the nature of our hearts.

Lor.
—I care not! you may tell your hopeful son
To post to Padua, and fulfill my bidding—
Or leave my roof for ever!

Exit.
Wife.
Gracious God!
How passion can usurp our reason! Surely,
Surely, this is but momentary anger.
Affection, duty, honor, sense, and shame
All, all cry out upon such foul injustice!
Enter Julian.
O Julian! Julian!

Jul.
Mother! why these tears?

Wife.
—I wept for joy at thy nativity,
But little thought to weep for sorrow, now,
That ever thou wert born.

Jul.
Your blessing, mother!
I will remove this rheum from your eyes,
And cut the ulcer from my father's heart.
The world hath room enough for me—

Wife.
To starve in!

Jul.
—Starvation—death itself, in conscientious
Performance of the destiny assign'd us,
Is nobler than a splendid slavery
To the dominion of another's whims.

Wife.
—You little know the fearful obstacles
Life hath to combat.

Jul.
To the noble mind
Obstacles are, what fences, bars, and gates
Are to the generous temper'd hunter—trifles
To overleap—the trials of our power.

Wife.
—Youth's sanguine. In the morning of the heart's
Affections, hope is natural as sunshine
In the clear skies; but age is calculating—
Especially against our chance of fame,
And honor in the adventures of our skill.

Jul.
—I've friends.

Wife.
By name!

Jul.
You wrong them! I have given
My purse, my hand, my confidence to them.
Drunk, smiled, and laugh'd in comp'ny—shar'd their thoughts—
What fear, then, with such honourable men?

Wife.
—Honourable!

Jul.
Do you doubt them?

Wife.
Julian!
I would not dash a youth's affection with
The poison of suspicion; that will come,
With other passions that disgrace us—scorn,
Contempt, misanthropy—too soon!—alas!
Ere age hath blanched your brow, your heart will be
Old enough, God knows, in its hate of men.

Jul.
—These are the fears of your declining age.

Wife.
—No, Julian, it is our misfortune never
To have our foresight credited, until
The evils prophesied have been fulfill'd.
I cannot hope, that you, intoxicated
With the good fortune of your fancy, will
Regard my caution. Disappointment must
Effect more miracles in one short year,
To alter your opinion of the world,
Than would a lifetime spent in list'ning to
Another's counsel. Julian, take this purse—
Nay, sir, refuse it not! you cannot stir
A footstep in the world without it—No!
While you have money, you command mankind—
When you have spent it, you become their slave.
Be rich, and you are honor'd every where—
Be poor, and you lose every man's good word.

Jul.
—Your blessing.

Wife.
Yet a word—be honorable.
A ruin'd honor is a broken glass,
That artfulness may patch together, but,
Once broken, men will never more entrust
Aught precious to its leaky custody.

Jul.
—Mother!

Wife.
Be patient, Julian! when you rest
Within the world's embraces, you'll forget
Your mother—

Jul.
Never!

Wife.
Yes, we soon forget
In pleasure's arms, the arms that cherished us.
The heart is like a running brook, where each
Succeeding current wipes the last away.

Jul.
—Come, mother!

Wife.
Well, I'll try to live, if but
To pray for you!

Jul.
You are too serious.

Wife.
Julian!
Believe me, that your mother's farewell words
Will oft recur in other years, when she
Who utters them hath pass'd away for ever!
If you despise these marks of her affection,
Regret will haunt your memory to the grave.

Jul.
—Here, on my knees, I swear to venerate
Your love, and to fulfill your maxims, mother!

Wife.
—Then, whatsoever destiny be thine—
Brilliant, or blackened—honor'd, or revil'd—
The memory of a virtuous life shall hallow
The bitterness and agony of death.
Men may revile 't—but on their mockery tread
With scorn, as you would trample on an adder!
For, to the spirit, virtue is what silver
Is to the mirror, robb'd of which, the glass
Reflects no more the presence of one charm.
I weary you.

Jul.
Who wearies of such counsel
Is undeserving of its benefits.

Wife.
—Then, fare thee well! I cannot, cannot say
For ever—but it will be so.

Jul.
Nay, nay!

Wife.
—My boy! my boy! O Julian! you will never,
In all that world of gaiety you seek,
Find one whose prayers ascend to heaven for thee
So fervently and truly as a mother's.

Exit.
Jul.
—Her kindness shakes the resolutions from
My heart, like blighted blossoms from a tree.
How strange! that gentleness should overcome
Determinations proof to violence!
But, when I think upon my sullen father—
The marble-hearted stoic, on the pedestal
Of his own pride, who'd rather see his child
A victim at the altar, than descend
To study aught beneath his own opinions—
I feel a destiny invokes me hence!
Surely, if thieves, and rogues, and murderers
Can live and flourish, honesty can't starve.
And, yet, where villany so prospers, virtue
Hath little chance but to be rooted up.
If baseness, ignorance, hypocrisy
So thrive on earth, methinks it is no soil
For meritorious works to blossom in!
Enter Augustus.
Who enters here?

Aug.
Your patience! I have dar'd
To snap the pack-threads of good manners thus,
For weightier arguments must bind us here
A moment. To be very plain, you love
My sister—so some hours ago you pledg'd
Your honor—you solicited from me
A brother's influence—then, may I ask
What meant your most uncerimonious parting?

Jul.
—Love came to me, sir, most uncourteously—
And, when the mind is anxious, we forget
Our proper carriage to society.
Reflecting men forgive such errors.

Aug.
Julian,
I understand your love, but not your fears.

Jul.
—D'you know your father?

Aug.
Why this idle question?

Jul.
—Augustus, do you know your father properly?

Aug.
—Another man—and I should cut the string
Of bantering like this with sharper answer.

Jul.
—You have mistaken me. D'you know this man,
Your father, as you saw him in a glass?
He loves you—but he loves his interest more—
More, than that lily of his garden flowers,
Which he would madly pluck to plant upon
A noble's bonnet, where the gorgeous thing
Would droop and die—it is a tender flow'r!

Aug.
—I comprehend you—Barbarigo?

Jul.
Who
Will elevate the sister to his bed—
The father to his treasury—the son
To be the upper servant to his palace.

Aug.
You madden me! I see it all!—fool! fool!
Fools that we are, to talk of honor, while
Such villany surrounds us! Julian, now
I know my father, he shall deeply feel
The folly of adventuring his gains
Upon the prospect of his children's slavery.
Ha! ha! it will be excellent to laugh
Over the wreck of such a miser's dreams!
Come on! nay, stand not musing there, when all
My soul burns, like a war-horse for the fight.

Jul.
—Stop! you're enthusiastic—you are young!
Enthusiasm's the offspring of our youth—
Suspicion is the fruit of disappointment.
Be not surprised, then, that the bursts of sunshine,
In th' April skies of thy young fortunes, only
Affect me with incredulous disdain.

Aug.
—What has disturb'd you so?

Jul.
A trifle! only
My blood relations—on whose hearts, I deem'd
Heav'n grafted an eternal sympathy—
Have spurn'd my love, and proved my bitterest foes.
My father casts me on a world, that yawns
To eat our reputation up—and properly,
That charitable world, hath flung me back
Upon the poverty of my own self!
And now, with all my aspirations scorn'd,
My honor doubted, and my worth despised,
You smile, sir, do you? that I cannot dance
For joy, at every trifle of good luck?

Aug.
—O curse the tyrants!

Jul.
Ponder, sir! for all
The immortality of Cæsar would not
Hallow the damning crime of paricide!

Aug.
—But recollect the glories of their names,
Who, like the everlasting spheres, are doom'd
To shine eternally.

Jul.
I do, and think how many,
With unsung aspirations have gone down,
Unepitaph'd, into a beggar's grave!

Aug.
—Nor stirred by glory, nor by love?

Jul.
Love is
A holy word—if you have never felt
How much of heav'n it lends to all of earth,
Profane it not!

Aug.
What are your purposes?

Jul.
—I know not! ask the gods my destiny!
I think upon Bianca, and I cannot
Wed her fair blossoms to my wither'd fortunes!
I love her, but 'tis with a love so holy,
That I would not profane her happiness.

Aug.
—Then Barbarigo weds Bianca, and—

Jul.
—O agony! why visit misery
With your reflections on its wretchedness?

Aug.
—Enough, sir, I have done!—I court you not
To wed my sister—Nobles seek her hand,
And you—

Jul.
I know it all! and I, a beggar—
A beggar living on the world's opinion!—
Should not be over dainty.—Sir, you wrong
The scruples of an honorable man.

Aug.
—I only taunted you—your pardon, Julian.

Jul.
—The guiltless need no pardon.

Aug.
Will you see
My sister?

Jul.
I believe I must; but if
Aught evil from this night betide her years,
Eternity will never expiate
My deep remorse! I fear, I madly seek
A destiny, that wisely I should shun.

Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A Tavern, with table and glasses.
Frederick St. Cyr, Angelo, Antonio, and other Venetian Gentlemen.
Fred.
—A curse! a curse upon your melancholy!
Why should a man be overcome by bile
T'expose his folly in the public ways,
A sign for scorn; and make our sad humanity
A thing so odious and intolerable,
That on the very beasts we look with envy?

Ang.
—You argue right, an' we could save ourselves.

Fred.
—Zounds! but if I should say you could not help
Being cheerful, you would laugh at me. Then why
Not rule our melancholy as our mirth?

Ang.
—But Julian's fortune's are adrift—the tide
Of destiny sets in upon his duty,
Threat'ning to deluge it, and yet he clings
Nobly, though sadly, to obedience.

Fred.
Bah!
Noble? Ha! ha! a slave's nobility!

Ang.
—To live, we must live in the world's opinion.

Fred.
—Life's a strange riddle, that some men do guess,
But most relinquish—never understanding.
Few, very few do guess it. These are call'd
Men of the world. The many give it up—
Are laugh'd at, cheated, cozen'd, and so die.
Or living, live in vain attempts to solve
Its mysteries—mistaking right for wrong—
Cavilling, carping, toiling, cursing, sinning
A thousand ways against observances;
And waging universal war, to hold
An inch—a hair breadth of existence here.
Enter Waiter.
What, ho! my Ganymede! some nectar, boy!

Waiter.
—More Rum?

Fred.
Oh! Rum for such as we? ye Gods!
Bacchus, Silenus! thou immortal ass,
That bore the immortal weight! is't come to this,
Men cannot judge our humours by our faces?
You are from England, and have serv'd in Grub-street,
Where poverty is still the poet's bride.
Begone, you varlet! bring me wine, with sparkles,
Shall lift my fancy to ambrosial bowers,
Where dance the Houris in Mahomet's heaven.
Nothing like wine! nought like the generous grape!

Ang.
—You seem to think so. You are drinking deep.

Fred.
—Well, so is all the world—of love or war,
Or avarice, stupidity, or something—
What matter, what, so long as worldly cares
Die with the sparkles from our goblet's glory!

Ang.
—You make the aim of living then to revel?

Fred.
—I do!—and 'till I find a sober man,
Why not!

Ant.
I'm sober.

Fred.
Nay, now, you are drunk!
Drunk with your vanity, drunk with your griefs—
Drunk with a passion for your mistress—drunk—

Ant.
—Enough, enough! Angelo, art thou drunk?

Fred.
—Ay, with his paints, his hopes of fame or gain.
The latter, if he take a friend's advice.

Ant.
—Nay, with the fame, an' he would be a man.

Fred.
—Back feather'd fame to heavy gold? you're drunk!
Angelo, heed not what the fellow says.
He's drunk, mad drunk!—paint, sir, for gold, gold, gold!
Paint portraits—flattering, false, fair faces paint!
Make ugliness angelic—tip the lie
To nature—you will starve upon the truth!

Ant.
—Then what will Julian do with poetry?

Fred.
—Write his own epitaph, and die a beggar!

Ang.
—He speaks of writing plays.

Fred.
He'll play the fool, then!
Sdeath! worse and worse! who listens to the play
In Venice now? Our senses, drunk with folly,
Reel through the streets to gape at monstrous things,
Spurned by our father's sober faculties!

Ang.
—A sermon from a sinner—how appropriate!

Fred.
Who oft'nest fall, best know the tripping place.
I own I'm drunk, but I can waken sober,
And with the morrow be a man again.
Whereas this huge intoxicated city—
Besotted with some stupid mummery,
Until its wise men and its counsellors,
Distort their gravity with vile grimaces,
And all our grey beards wag in approbation
At th' antics of some foreign mountebank—
Will wallow in its ignominy, till
Some prophet voice rolls o'er its slumbering senses,
And stirs them to their former majesty.

Ang.
—I wonder how your fellow citizens
Would hear this sweeping judgment of their virtues?

Fred.
—Like men who honor truth wherever spoken!
Let Julian make a drama of his life.
It may want kings and queens, daggers and swords,
Battles and bugles, and machinery—
Ay, that's the word—machinery, for show:
But, if calamity in her rough garb—
Grief as she is, naked, and every day
Walking our mighty city—suffering—
If truth, if nature, if unpainted scenes
Of human life, in human words, have power
To wet the eye or warm the soul of man,
By heaven! then let him write but what he's seen,
Heard, played a part in, on this busy world,
And, if it fail, I have not rightly read
The human heart—and that's my only book!
But where's this Jule? This traitor Jule! Ah! Julian!
Thou'rt no philosopher to feed thy cares
On water!
Enter waiter.
Ho! some wine!—
Get drunk, say I!
Get merrily drunk, my boys! the head ache o'er,
The conscience settled with a few potations,
You're a freemason in philosophy,
And know the panacea for all ills!
But where's my Jule? ay, I'll admonish him!

Ang.
He has a sweeter teacher far to-night.

Fred.
Sweeter? but not a truer.

Ang.
Yes, it is
Nature: and the preceptress a sweet girl.

Fred.
Bianca?

Ang.
Ay, and much I fear that villain,
The Barbarigo, thwarts his love.

Fred.
What's that?
Repeat it, friend, I'm rather elevated—
Rather above my understanding—a little!

Ang.
I say, I have been told that Barbarigo
Is Julian's rival.

Fred.
Where is Julian now?
Not present, is he? Jule, my boy! art here?

Ang.
Here? good luck! He's serenading, man!

Fred.
He's serenading woman, I should think.
Which of you will bestead me to the spot?

Ant.
Shame, man, to break a lover's sanctity!

Fred.
Sanctity! friend, I comprehend you not.
I fancy Jule's in danger—that's enough—
A friend's a friend, sir, be he drunk or sober!
Ho, there! a gondola! a gondola!

Ang.
—You cannot stir, you're hardly steady.

Fred.
Steady?
Its very likely—but a drunken friend
Is better than a sober enemy.

Ang.
—I doubt it.

Fred.
O, for shame, sir! Would you pause
To doubt when danger's near your friend—to the devil.
Go to the devil with such friendship! go!
What, ho! a gondola! a gondola!
Come, keep thy foot as steady as thy heart!
Thy hand as firm and strong as is thy friendship,
And, Master Barbarigo—ha! ha! ha!

Exit.
Ant.
—Unconscionably drunk, upon my conscience!

Aug.
—I wish his conscience stood him better friend
Than does his foolery. Come! we must look to't!

Exeunt.