The last may then be doubled, and the former Matured and strengthen'd.

I. Ber.

You are the sole ally we covet now. Doge. But bring me to the knowledge of your chiefs.

To keep the faith that we will pledge to you.

Doge. When? where ?

I. Ber. This night I'll bring to your apartment Two of the principals; a greater number

Were hazardous.

Doge. Stay, I must think of this. What if I were to trust myself amongst you, And leave the palace ?

1. Ber.

You must come alone, Doge. With but my nephew. 1. Ber.

Not, were he your son. Doge. Wretch! darest thou name my son? He died in arms

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
You shall receive our homage, and pronounce
Upon our project.
Doge.
The moon?

At what hour arises

I. Ber. Late; but the atmosphere is thick and

'Tis a sirocco.

[dusky

Doge. At the midnight hour, then, Near to the church where sleep my sires(1); the same, Twin-named from the apostles John and Paul; A gondola (2), with one oar only, will Lurk in the narrow channel which glides by. Be there.

To 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,

And pluck me down amongst them? Would they could!

For I should rest in honour with the honour'd.
Alas! I must not think of them, but those
Who have made me thus unworthy of a name
Noble and brave as aught of consular
On 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
To all the growing calumnies of time,
Which never spare the fame of him who fails,
But try the Cæsar, or the Catiline,

By the true touchstone of desert—success. (3)

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.

(5) "What Gifford says of the first act is very consolatory. English-sterling genuine English, is a desideratum amongst you, and I am glad that I have got so much left; though Heaven knows how I retain it: 1 hear none but from my valet, and he is Nottinghamshire; and I see none but in your new publications, and theirs is no language at all, but jargon. Gifford says that it is good English, and Foscolo says that the characters are right

'Here are in all two worthy voices gain'd.'"

B. Letters, Sept. 1820.-F.

Less hardy clay-Time has but little power
On his resentments or his griefs. Unlike
To 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,
His feelings, passions, good or evil, all
Have 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
Has been more agitated than his wont.
Would he were come! for I alone have power
Upon his troubled spirit.

His highness has of late been greatly moved
By the affront of Steno, and with cause:
But the offender doubtless even now
Is doom'd to expiate his rash insult with
Such chastisement as will enforce respect
To female virtue, and to noble blood.

Ang. 'T was a gross insult; but I heed it not
For the rash scorner's falsehood in itself,
But for the effect, the deadly deep impression
Which it has made upon Faliero's soul,
The proud, the fiery, the austere-austere
To all save me: I tremble when I think
To what it may conduct.

Mar. What! is the sentence pass'd? is he condemn'd ? (1)

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 The sole inheritance he left. [name

Mar. You want none; Wife to a prince, the chief of the republic. Ang. I should have sought none though a peasant's But feel not less the love and gratitude [bride, Due to my father, who bestow'd my hand Upon his carly, tried, and trusted friend, The Count Val di Marino, now our Doge. Mar. And with that hand did he bestow your heart?

Ang. He did so, or it had not been bestow'd. Mar. Yet this strange disproportion in your years, And, let me add, disparity of tempers,

Might make the world doubt whether such a union Could make you wisely, permanently happy.

Ang. The world will think with worldlings; but my heart

Has still been in my duties, which are many,
But never difficult.

Mar.

And do you love him? 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.

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 hat been more meet do 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.

[daro

Doge (musing). There is a certain Philip CalenNow 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; 't would 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 see

(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 ferYours 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 affection can

[Brit 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

now

Has parted from you might have words of weight
To bear you from the senate.
Doge.

From the senate? (1)
Ang. I would not interrupt him in his duty
And theirs.

Doge.

The senate's duty! you mistake;

'T is we who owe all service to the senate.

Ang. I thought the Duke had held command in [jocund.

Venice. Doge. He shall.—But let that pass.—We will be 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.

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

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
Unfix'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.

A month's arrest.

Doge. 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.

They have but their vile lives-and these are spared. Ang. You would not have him die for this offence? Doge. Not now:-being still alive, I'd have him Long as he can; he has ceased to merit death; [live 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
A joyous hour, or dreamless slumber more. [known
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 [names?
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, aud dignity
In ours?-But let them look to it who have saved
Aug. Heaven bids us to forgive our enemies.
Doge. Doth Heaven forgive her own? Is Satan
From wrath eternal ?(2)
[saved
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.

[him. (1)

And not till then?

All other punishment were light unto

His loss of honour.

[thou

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!

(2) In the MS.

"Doth Heaven forgive her own?

But be it so."

From wrath eternal ? ".

}

is there not Hell?

is Satan saved