Doge. How many are ye?

I. Ber.

Till I am answer'd.

Doge.

I'll not answer that

How, sir! do you menace?

I. Ber. No; I affirm. I have betray'd myself;
But there's no torture in the mystic wells
Which undermine your palace, nor in those
Not less appalling cells, the "leaden roofs,"
To force a single name from me of others,
The Pozzi (1) and the Piombi were in vain;

They might wring blood from me, but treachery never.
And I would pass the fearful "Bridge of Sighs," (2)
Joyous that mine must be the last that e'er
Would echo o'er the Stygian wave which flows
Between the murderers and the murder'd, washing
The prison and the palace walls: there are

Those who would live to think on't, and avenge me.
Doge. If such your power and purpose, why come
To sue for justice, being in the course
To do yourself due right?

1. Ber.

Because the man,

Who claims protection from authority,

Showing his confidence and his submission

To that authority, can hardly be

Suspected of combining to destroy it.

Had I sate down too humbly with this blow,

[here

At Sapienza, for this faithless state.
Oh! that he were alive, and I in ashes !
Or that he were alive ere I be ashes!

I should not need the dubious aid of strangers.
I. Ber. Not one of all those strangers whom thou
But will regard thee with a filial feeling, [doubtest
So that thou keep'st a father's faith with them.

Doge. The die is cast. Where is the place of meeting?

I. Ber. At midnight I will be alone and mask'd Where'er your highness pleases to direct me, To wait your coming, and conduct you where

moved

By the reference of the Avogadori

Of Michael Steno's sentence to the Forty
Had reach'd me. I had served you, honour'd you,
And felt that you were dangerously insulted,
Being of an order of such spirits, as
Requite tenfold both good and evil : 't was
My wish to prove and urge you to redress.
Now you know all; and that I speak the truth,
My peril be the proof.

Doge.

You have deeply ventured; But all must do so who would greatly win: Thus far I'll answer you-your secret's safe. I. Ber. And is this all? Doge.

What would you have me answer?
I. Ber.
I would have you
Trust him who leaves his life in trust with you.

(I) "The state dungeons, called Pozzi, or wells, were sunk in the thick walls of the palace; and the prisoner, when taken out to die, was conducted across the gallery to the other side, and being then led back into the other compartment, or cell, upon the bridge, was there strangled. The low portal through which the criminal was taken into this cell is now walled up; but the passage is open, and is still known by the name of the Bridge of Sighs." Hobhouse. -L. E.

(2) "That deep descent (thou canst not yet discern
Aught as it is) leads to the dripping vaults

Under the flood, where light and warmth were never;
Leads to a cover'd bridge-the Bridge of Sighs-
And to that fatal closet at the foot,

Larking for prey, which, when a victim came,
Grew less and less, contracting to a span;-
An iron-door, urged onward by a screw,
Forcing out life." Rogers.-L. E.

[Exit ISRAEL BERTUCCIO Doge (solus). At midnight, by the church Saints John and Paul,

(3) "The Doges were all buried in St. Mark's, befar Faliero. It is singular that when his predecessor, Andres Dandolo, died, the Ten made a law that all the futur Doges should be buried with their families in their os churches-one would think, by a kind of presentiment So that all that is said of his ancestral Doges, as buried s St. John's and Paul's, is altered from the fact, they bein in St. Mark's. Make a note of this, and put Editor as th subscription to it. As I make such pretensions to accuracy I should not like to be twitted even with such trifles on the score. Of the play they may say what they please, but no so of my costume and dram. pers.-they having been rea existences." B. Letters, Oct. 1820.-L. E.

(4) A gondola is not like a common boat, but is a easily rowed with one oar as with two (though, of course not so swiftly), and often is so from motives of privacy and, since the decay of Venice, of economy.

There sleep my noble fathers, I repair-
what? to hold a council in the dark
With common ruffians leagued to ruin states!
and will not my great sires leap from the vault,
Where lie two doges who preceded me,

nd pluck me down amongst them? Would they could!
For I should rest in honour with the honour'd.
as! I must not think of them, but those
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name
Noble and brave as aught of consular

Roman marbles; but I will redeem it
Back to its antique lustre in our annals,

By sweet revenge on all that's base in Venice,
And freedom to the rest, or leave it black
Te all the growing calumnies of time,

Which never spare the fame of him who fails,
Bat try the Cæsar, or the Catiline,

By the true touchstone of desert-success. (1)

Ang.

Would he were return'd!
He has been much disquieted of late;
And Time, which has not tamed his fiery spirit,
Nor yet enfeebled even his mortal frame,
Which seems to be more nourish'd by a soul
So quick and restless that it would consume
Less hardy clay-Time has but little power
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike
le other spirits of his order, who,

In the first burst of passion, pour away
Their wrath or sorrow, all things wear in him
An aspect of eternity: his thoughts,

lis feelings, passions, good or evil, all
lave nothing of old age; and his bold brow

Bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years,
Not their decrepitude; and he of late

las been more agitated than his wont.

Would he were come! for I alone have power
pon his troubled spirit.
Mar.

It is true,

fis highness has of late been greatly moved by the affront of Steno, and with cause: Bat the offender doubtless even now s doom'd to expiate his rash insult with ach chastisement as will enforce respect To female virtue, and to noble blood. Ang. 'Twas a gross insult; but I heed it not

"What Gifford says of the first act is very consolary. English-sterling genuine English, is a desideratum mongst you, and I am glad that I have got so much left; hough Heaven knows how I retain it: I hear none but from my valet, and he is Nottinghamshire; and I see none at in your new publications, and theirs is no language at

He is so.

Mar. What! is the sentence pass'd? is he condemn'd? (2)

Ang. I know not that, but he has been detected. Mar. And deem you this enough for such foul scorn? Ang. I would not be a judge in my own cause, Nor do I know what sense of punishment May reach the soul of ribalds such as Steno; But if his insults sink no deeper in The minds of the inquisitors than they Have ruffled mine, he will, for all acquittance, Be left to his own shamelessness or shame.

Mar. Some sacrifice is due to slander'd virtue.
Ang. Why, what is virtue if it needs a victim?
Or if it must depend upon men's words?
The dying Roman said, "'t was but a name:"
It were indeed no more, if human breath
Could make or mar it.

Mar.
Yet full many a dame,
Stainless and faithful, would feel all the wrong
Of such a slander; and less rigid ladies,
Such as abound in Venice, would be loud
And all-inexorable in their cry

For justice.

Ang. This but proves it is the name, And not the quality, they prize: the first Have found it a hard task to hold their honour, If they require it to be blazon'd forth; And those who have not kept it, seek its seeming, As they would look out for an ornament Of which they feel the want, but not because They think it so; they live in others' thoughts, And would seem honest as they must seem fair.

Mar. You have strange thoughts for a patrician dame.

Ang. And yet they were my father's; with his name, The sole inheritance he left. Mar. You want none; Wife to a prince, the chief of the republic.

Ang. I love all noble qualities which merit
Love, and I loved my father, who first taught me
To single out what we should love in others,
And to subdue all tendency to lend
The best and purest feelings of our nature
To baser passions. He bestow'd my hand
Upon Faliero: he had known him noble,
Brave, generous; rich in all the qualities
Of soldier, citizen, and friend; in all
Such have I found him as my father said.
His faults are those that dwell in the high bosoms
Of men who have commanded; too much pride,
And the deep passions fiercely foster'd by
The uses of patricians, and a life

Spent in the storms of state and war; and also
From the quick sense of honour, which becomes
A duty to a certain sign, a vice

When overstrain'd, and this I fear in him.

And then he has been rash from his youth upwards,
Yet temper'd by redeeming nobleness

In such sort, that the wariest of republics
Has lavish'd all its chief employs upon him,
From his first fight to his last embassy,

From which on his return the dukedom met him.
Mar. But previous to this marriage, had your heart
Ne'er beat for any of the noble youth,

Such as in years had been more meet to match
Beauty like yours? or since have you ne'er seen
One, who, if your fair hand were still to give,
Might now pretend to Loredano's daughter?

Ang. I answer'd your first question when I said I married.

Mar. And the second?
Ang.
Needs no answer.
Mar. I pray you pardon, if I have offended.

Ang. I feel no wrath, but some surprise: I knew not
That wedded bosoms could permit themselves
To ponder upon what they now might choose,
Or aught save their past choice.

Mar.
'Tis their past choice
That, far too often, makes them deem they would
Now choose more wisely, could they cancel it.

Ang. It may be so. I knew not of such thoughts.
Mar. Here comes the Doge-shall I retire?
Ang.

Be better you should quit me; he seems rapt

It may

(1) "This scene is, perhaps, the finest in the whole play. The character of the calm pure-spirited Angiolina is developed in it most admirably;-the great difference between her temper and that of her fiery husband is vividly portrayed; but not less vividly touched is that strong bond of their union which exists in the common nobleness of their deeper natures. There is no spark of jealousy in the old man's thoughts, he does not expect the fervours of youthful passion in his wife, nor does he find them: but he finds what is far better.-the fearless confidence of one, who, being to the heart's core innocent, can scarcely be a believer in the existence of such a thing as guilt. He finds every charm which gratitude, respect, anxious and deep-seated

In thought.-How pensively he takes his way! [Exit MARIANNA

Enter the DOGE and PIETRO.

Doge (musing). There is a certain Philip Calendaro Now in the arsenal, who holds command Of eighty men, and has great influence Besides on all the spirits of his comrades: This man, I hear, is bold and popular, Sudden and daring, and yet secret; 'twould Be well that he were won: I needs must hope That Israel Bertuccio has secured him, But fain would be

Pie.

My lord, pray pardon me For breaking in upon your meditation; The Senator Bertuccio, your kinsman, Charged me to follow and inquire your pleasure To fix an hour when he may speak with you. Doge. At sunset.-Stay a moment-let me seeSay in the second hour of night.

[Exit PIETRO

Ang. My lord! Doge. My dearest child, forgive me—why delay So long approaching me?-I saw you not. Ang. You were absorb'd in thought, and he who to Has parted from you might have words of weight To bear you from the senate. Doge. From the senate?! Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty And theirs.

Doge. The senate's duty! you mistake; "Tis we who owe all service to the senate. Ang. I thought the Duke had held command i Venice.

Госпи Doge. He shall.-But let that pass.-We will How fares it with you? have you been abroad? The day is overcast, but the calm wave Favours the gondolier's light skimming oar; Or have you held a levee of your friends? Or has your music made you solitary? Say-is there aught that you would will within The little sway now left the Duke? or aught Of fitting splendour, or of honest pleasure, Social or lonely, that would glad your heart, To compensate for many a dull hour, wasted On an old man oft moved with many cares? Speak, and 't is done.

affection can give to the confidential language of a love and a modest, and a pious woman. She has been extremt troubled by her observance of the countenance and gesta of the Doge, ever since the discovery of Steno's guilt a she does all she can to soothe him from his proud irritatio Strong in her consciousness of purity, she has brought b self to regard without anger the insult offered to berse and the yet uncorrected instinct of a noble heart makes! try to persuade her lord, as she is herself persuaded, Steno, whatever be the sentence of his judges, must punished-more even than they would wish him to bethe secret suggestions of his own guilty conscience, deep blushes of his privacy." Lockhart.-L. E.

Doge. "Tis nothing, child.—But in the state
You know what daily cares oppress all those
Who govern this precarious commonwealth;
Now suffering from the Genoese without,

And malcontents within-'t is this which makes me
More pensive and less tranquil than my wont.
Ang. Yet this existed long before, and never
Till in these late days did I see you thus.
Forgive me; there is something at your heart
More than the mere discharge of public duties,
Which long use and a talent like to yours
Have render'd light, nay, a necessity,
To keep your mind from stagnating. 'Tis not
In hostile states, nor perils, thus to shake you;
You, who have stood all storms and never sunk,
And climb'd up to the pinnacle of power
And never fainted by the way, and stand
Upon it, and can look down steadily
Along the depth beneath, and ne'er feel dizzy.
Were Genoa's galleys riding in the port,
Were civil fury raging in Saint Mark's,

You are not to be wrought on, but would fall,
As you have risen, with an unalter'd brow-
Your feelings now are of a different kind;
Something has stung your pride, not patriotism.

Doge. Pride! Angiolina? Alas! none is left me.
Ang. Yes-the same sin that overthrew the angels,
And of all sins most easily besets
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature:
The vile are only vain; the great are proud.

Doge. I had the pride of honour, of your honour, Deep at my heart- -But let us change the theme. Ang. Ah no!-As I have ever shared your kindness In all things else, let me not be shut out From your distress; were it of public import, You know I never sought, would never seek, To win a word from you; but feeling now Your grief is private, it belongs to me To lighten or divide it. Since the day When foolish Steno's ribaldry detected Cafir'd your quiet, you are greatly changed, And I would soothe you back to what you were. Doge. To what I was!-Have you heard Steno's

sentence?

Ang. No.

Doge.

A month's arrest.

Ang. Is it not enough? Doge. Enough!—yes, for a drunken galley-slave, Who, stung by stripes, may murmur at his master; But not for a deliberate, false, cool villain, Who stains a lady's and a prince's honour Even on the throne of his authority.

Ang. There seems to me enough in the conviction Of a patrician guilty of a falsehood; All other punishment were light unto His loss of honour.

Doge. Such men have no honour; They have but their vile lives and these are spared.

(1) "This scene between the Doge and Angiolina, though intolerably long, has more force and beauty than any thing that goes before it. She endeavours to soothe the furious od of her aged partner; while he insists that nothing bat the libeller's death could make fitting expiation for his offence. This speech of the Doge is an elaborate, and after all, ineffectual attempt, by rhetorical exaggerations, to give

Ang. You would not have him die for this offence? Doge. Not now:-being still alive, I'd have him live Long as he can; he has ceased to merit death; The guilty saved hath damn'd his hundred judges, And he is pure, for now his crime is theirs,

Ang. Oh! had this false and flippant libeller Shed his young blood for his absurd lampoon, Ne'er from that moment could this breast have known A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more.

Doge. Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood?

And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it.
Is it the pain of blows, or shame of blows,
That make such deadly to the sense of man?
Do not the laws of man say blood for honour?
And, less than honour, for a little gold?
Say not the laws of nations blood for treason?
Is't nothing to have fill'd these veins with poison
For their once healthful current? is it nothing
To have stain'd your name and mine-the noblest
Is't nothing to have brought into contempt
A prince before his people? to have fail'd
In the respect accorded by mankind
To youth in woman, and old age in man?
To virtue in your sex, and dignity

[names?

[him. (1)

In ours?-But let them look to it who have saved
Ang. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies.
Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan saved
From wrath eternal? (2)

Ang.
Do not speak thus wildly-
Heaven will alike forgive you and your foes.
Doge. Amen! May Heaven forgive them!
Ang.

And will you? Doge. Yes, when they are in heaven! Ang. And not till then? Doge. What matters my forgiveness? an old man's, Worn out, scorn'd, spurn'd, abused? what matters then My pardon more than my resentment, both Being weak and worthless? I have lived too long. But let us change the argument. My child! My injured wife, the child of Loredano, The brave, the chivalrous, how little deem'd Thy father, wedding thee unto his friend, That he was linking thee to shame!--Alas! Shame without sin, for thou art faultless. Hadst thou But had a different husband, any husband In Venice save the Doge, this blight, this brand, This blasphemy had never fallen upon thee. So young, so beautiful, so good, so pure, To suffer this, and yet be unavenged!

Ang. I am too well avenged, for you still love me, And trust, and honour me; and all men know That you are just, and I am true: what more Could I require, or you command? Doge. "Tis well, And may be better; but whate'er betide, Be thou at least kind to my memory. Ang. Why speak you thus? Doge.

It is no matter why; But I would still, whatever others think, Have your respect both now and in my grave.

some colour to the insane and unmeasured resentment on which the piece hinges." Jeffrey.-L. E. (2) In the MS.—

"Doth Heaven forgive her own?

But be it so."

From wrath eternal ?"-L. E.

is there not Hell?

is Satan saved.

Ang. Why should you doubt it? has it ever fail'd? Doge. Come hither, child; I would a word with you. Your father was my friend; unequal fortune Made him my debtor for some courtesies Which bind the good more firmly: when, oppress'd With his last malady, he will'd our union, It was not to repay me, long repaid Before by his great loyalty in friendship; His object was to place your orphan beauty In honourable safety from the perils, Which, in this scorpion nest of vice, assail A lonely and undower'd maid. I did not

Think with him, but would not oppose the thought Which soothed his death-bed.

Ang.

I have not forgotten
The nobleness with which you bade me speak,
If my young heart held any preference

Which would have made me happier; nor your offer
To make my dowry equal to the rank
Of aught in Venice, and forego all claim
My father's last injunction gave you.
Doge.

Thus,

'Twas not a foolish dotard's vile caprice,
Nor the false edge of aged appetite,
Which made me covetous of girlish beauty,
And a young bride: for in my fieriest youth
I sway'd such passions; nor was this my age
Infected with that leprosy of lust

Which taints the hoariest years of vicious men,
Making them ransack to the very last
The dregs of pleasure for their vanish'd joys:
Or buy in selfish marriage some young victim,
Too helpless to refuse a state that's honest,
Too feeling not to know herself a wretch.
Our wedlock was not of this sort; you had
Freedom from me to choose, and urged in answer
Your father's choice.

Ang.
I did so; I would do so
In face of earth and heaven; for I have never
Repented for my sake; sometimes for yours,
In pondering o'er your late disquietudes. (1)

Doge. I knew my heart would never treat you harshly;
I knew my days could not disturb you long;
And then the daughter of my earliest friend,
His worthy daughter, free to choose again,
Wealthier and wiser, in the ripest bloom
Of womanhood, more skilful to select
By passing these probationary years,
Inheriting a prince's name and riches,
Secured, by the short penance of enduring
An old man for some summers, against all

That law's chicane or envious kinsmen might

Lasting, but often fatal, it had been
No lure for me, in my most passionate days,
And could not be so now, did such exist.
But such respect, and mildly-paid regard
As a true feeling for your welfare, and
A free compliance with all honest wishes;
A kindness to your virtues, watchfulness
Not shown, but shadowing o'er such little failings
As youth is apt in, so as not to check
Rashly, but win you from them ere you knew
You had been won, but thought the change your

choice;

A pride, not in your beauty, but your conduct,A trust in you-a patriarchal love,

And not a doting homage-friendship, faithSuch estimation in your eyes as these

Might claim, I hoped for.

And have ever had,

Ang. Doge. I think so. For the difference in our years You knew it, choosing me, and chose: I trusted Not to my qualities, nor would have faith In such, nor outward ornaments of nature, Were I still in my five-and-twentieth spring; 1 trusted to the blood of Loredano Pure in your veins; I trusted to the soul God gave you to the truths your father taught you— To your belief in Heaven-to your mild virtues— To your own faith and honour, for my own.

trust,

Ang. You have done well.-I thank you for that Which I have never for one moment ceased To honour you the more for.

Doge.
Where is honour,
Innate and precept-strengthen'd, 'tis the rock
Of faith connubial: where it is not-where
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart,
Or sensual throbs convulse it, well I know
"T were hopeless for humanity to dream
Of honesty in such infected blood,
Although 't were wed to him it covets most:
An incarnation of the poet's god
In all his marble-chisell❜d beauty, or
The demi-deity, Alcides, in

His majesty of superhuman manhood,
Would not suffice to bind where virtue is not;
It is consistency which forms and proves it:
Vice cannot fix, and virtue cannot change.
The once-fall'n woman must for ever fall;
For vice must have variety, while virtue
Stands like the sun, and all which rolls around
Drinks life, and light, and glory from her aspect. (2)
Ang. And seeing, feeling thus this truth in others,

And not less truly in a faithful heart.

Ang. My lord, I look'd but to my father's wishes, Hallow'd by his last words, and to my heart For doing all its duties, and replying With faith to him with whom I was affianced. Ambitious hopes ne'er cross'd my dreams; and should The hour you speak of come, it will be seen so. Doge. I do believe you; and I know you true: For love, romantic love, which in my youth I knew to be illusion, and ne'er saw

To the most fierce of fatal passions, and Disquiet your great thoughts with restless bate Of such a thing as Steno?

Doge.

1

You mistake me. It is not Steno who could move me thus; Had it been so, he should—but let that pass. Ang. What is't you feel so deeply, then, even now Doge. The violated majesty of Venice, At once insulted in her lord and laws. Ang. Alas! why will you thus consider it? [back Doge. I have thought on 't till-but let me lead you

(2) "These passages, though not perfectly dramatic, bave great sweetness and dignity, and remind us, in their rich ver bosity, of the moral and mellifluous parts of Massinger.” Jeffrey.-L. E.