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SCENES AND PASSAGES FROM THE ITALIAN DRAMATISTS.
BY CHARLES H. HITCHINGS.
my friend ?
to our game.
BETTER HEART THAN TEMPER. Dor. [who appears convinced.] Come, let us
Ger. Yes, let us play our game.
Dor. [playing.) I am very sorry-very. “ E di buonissimo fondo ma assai burbero, e fan
Ger. (playing.] Check to your king! tastico al sommo.”-Act I. sc. 1,
Dor. [playing.] Aud that poor girl, too.
Ger. Angelica-ah! that's another affair. What [Delancour, a spendthrift, having dissipated the
of her, eh ?
[Leaves off playing. fortune of his sister Angelica, is desirous of im
Dor. She must suffer a great deal. muring her in a convent. Her uncle Geronte,
Ger. I have thought of that, and provided for however, hearing of his intentions, and having
it. I must look out for a husband for lier. had previously no very good opinion of him,
Dor. She deserves one. determines to thwart his projects by marrying Angelica to some worthy husband. Dorval,
Ger. She is a dear good girl-is she not, Dorval ?
Dor. She is indeed. Geronte's most intimate friend, is anxious to
Ger. She'll be a prize to any man that gets her. mitigate the fury of the uncle against his pephew.]
[After a moment's reflection.] Dorval, you are GERONTE and DORVAL.
Dor. Do you doubt me?
Ger. If you like her, I will give her to you. (A Chess-board laid ready for play.)
Dor. Give whom ?
Ger. My niece Angelica. Geronte. Say no more about it, but let us at once Dor. Eh?
Ger. [mimicking.] Eh! Are you deaf, man? I Doreal. We were speaking of your nephew. spea : plain enough. If you like my niece Angelica, Ger. My nephew-a fool! a coward the slave | I will give her to you. of his wife and the victim of her unbounded Dor. Will you ? vanity
[ Angrily. Ger. And with her a hundred thousand francs Dor. Not so warm, my dear friend.
ut of my own pocket, besides her dowry. What Ger. Pshaw! Your coolness puts me in a fever. do you say? Dor. I speak for the best.
Dor. My dear friend, you do me great honour. Ger. Sit down now.
Ger. The fact is, I know you, and am sure that Dor. Poor fellow. Well! well! I will sit down, in promoting this match I am providing for my but before I do you must hear me speak.
niece's happiness. Ger. Of Dalancour?
Dor. But Dor. Possibly,
Ger. But what ? Ger. Then I will not hear you.
Dor. Her brotherDor. Do you hate him, then?
Ger. ller brother has nothing whatever to do Ger. I hate no man living.
with it. I have the disposing of her. The law-Dor. But if you will not
my brother's will. In short, I have the power over Ger. Come, come! enough of this. If we are to her. So come! decide at once. play, let us begin ; if not, I go.
Dor. But, iny dear sir, this is not a matter on Dor. One word, and I have done.
which it is possible to decide in a moment. You Ger. Oh, patience! patience!
are too hasty. Dor. You have property.
Ger. I see no obstacle. If you love her—if you Ger. Thank heaven!
esteem her—and it she suits you, why the thing is Dor. Beyond your means.
done. Ger. Enough to serve a friend.
Dor. But-Dor. And you will not assist your nephew.
Ger. But, but! Well, what is your but? Ger. Not with one peiiny.
Dor. Does it not seem to you that there is some Dor. Therefore
little disproportion between our ages-sixteen and Ger. What?
five-and-forty-eh? Dor. Therefore you hate him.
Ger. Not a bit of it. You are still young, and I Ger. You know nothing of the matter. I hate know Angelica's disposition.
She's none of your his mode of thought, and detest his cvil conduct. Alighty girls, I promise you. Were I to give him money, I should only be feeding Dor. She may have some other attachment. his vanity, his extravagance, and his folly. Let Ger. But she has not. him but mend, and I will alter too. What I wish
Dor. Are you sure? is, that his amendment should command iny favour
Ger. Certain : so let us at once to business. not that my favour should impede his amend will go to my notary, and tell him to draw up the ment,
contract. Angelica is yours.
Dor. Not so fast, my good friend, not so fast. Ang. [aside.) Heavens !
Ger. What !-don't put me out of temper-don't Dor. You are a prudent girl, and you would irritat
me with your slow, cold-blooded procras- yield to the wishes of your uncle? tination.
[Getting angry. Ang. Do you think, then, that my uncle would Dor. You wish, then--
wish to sacrifico me ? Ger. To give you a good, worthy, excellent girl, Dor. Hum! What do you mean by sacrificing? with a dowry of a hund ed thousand crowns, and a Ang. But--with consulting my own wishespresen. of a hundred thousand livres more on her and my uncle so good, too—who can have been wedding-day out of my own pocket. But perhaps persuading him ? who can have been proposing such you consider that as an affront.
a match ? Dor. No, indeed! you do me an honour infinitely Dor. Such a match, ma'amselle! What now if above my merits.
I were your intended husband ?
Ang. You, sir! I wish you were !
Ang. Yes. For I know you to be a reasonable-a Dor. Very well, then ; I will.
sensible man, in whom I can confide. If you have Ger. You will ?
given this counsel to my uncle—if you it is that Dor. On one condition.
have proposed this match, I hope you too will find Ger. And that is
a way to make him change his resolution. Dor. That Angelina consents.
Dor [aside.) Eh! eh! not bad. Ma'amselle! Ger. Oh! is that all ?
Ang. Ah, sir! Dor. All.
Dor. Are your affections pre-engaged ? Ger. I'm very glad to hear it. I'll answer for Ang. Ah, sir ! her.
Dor. I understand you. Dor. So much the better, if you can.
Ang. Then have pity on me. Ger. I'ın sure-I'm certain of it; so, embrace Dor. [aside.] I told him so.
I foresaw it all. me, nephew.
A lucky thing for me that I was not really in love Dor, Uncle !
with her! I must say I was beginning to be a little
touched. DORVAL and ANGELICA.
Ang. Perhaps, sir, you have some regard for this
gentleman to whom they intend to give me. Dor. Ma’anselle!
Dor. Well, I have a little. Ang. Sir!
Ang. I warn you, then, that I shall hate him. Dor. Have you seen your uncle ? Has he told | O, sir, be pitiful, be generous. you anything?
Dor. I will, ma’amselle; I promise you I will. Ang. I saw him this morning, sir.
I will speak to your uncle for you, and will do all Dor. Before he went out ?
in my power to make you happy. Ang. Yes, sir.
Ang. O sir, I shall love you so. You are my Dor. Is he returned ?
benefactor-my protector, my father. Ang. Not yet, sir.
Dor. Very good. [Aside.] She knows nothing at Dor. My dear girl present. Ang. Excuse me, sir-but-has anything hap
Enter GERONTE. pened, that you look at me so strangely? Dor. Ah ! your uncle is very fond of you.
Ger. Bravo! bravo! nothing could be better. Ang. He is very kind.
That's right. I'm very pleased to see it. [Angelica Dor. And thinks a great deal of you.
retires in confusion. Dorval smiles.] Eh! Why Ang. I am very happy to hear it.
you are not afraid of me, are you? I don't object Dor. And wishes to see you married. [Angelica to these little familiarities when they are proper. looks confused.] Eh! what say you ? would you You did quite right to tell her, Dorval. Come here, like to marry ?
mistress, and give your husband a kiss. Ang. That's as my uncle pleases.
Ang. What do I hear? Dor. Small I tell you a secret ?
Dor. (smiling aside.) Now the secret's out. Ang. If you please, sir.
Ger. Tut! tut! What's all this nonsense? Pshaw [With some show of curiosity. this modesty is out of place. Before I came you Dor. Well, then-the husband is already chosen. were familiar enough, and now I am here you stand Ang. [aside.] Oh heaven! I am all in a tremble. at distance as if you'd never seen each other before.
Dor. [aside.] She does not seem to dislike the Go to her, man; go to her! idea.
Dor. Very well, my good friend, I am willing. Ang. May I venture to ask you, sir
Ger. Eh ! what! you are laughing, Dor. Well!
Those laugh that win, eh? I don't mind your Ang. If you know the person whom he has se- laughing; but zounds ! don't put me in a passion. lected.
You understand me, Signor Smiler, eh? Come Dor. Know him? To be sure I do-and so do here, and listen to me. you.
Dor. Let me speak. Ang. [with an expression of delight.] Do I, Ger. Come here. [Takes I. ngelica by the hand, though?
and leads her to the middle of the stage-then Dor. To be sure you do.
turns laughing to Dorval.] She can't escape me. Ang. And may I venture
Dor. Sir, will you hear me speak ? Dor. Eh?
Ger. Silence ! Ang. To ask the young inan's name.
Ang. My dear uncle. Dor. Ahem ! But what if he should not be Ger. Silence! [Angrily, then more softly.) I exactly what you would call a young man ? have been to my notary's, and he has prepared the
[Takes his hand.
are you? contract in my presence. He will be here presently, [Drives Piccardo back, until he falls over a and then we can all sign.
chair and against the table. Geronte runs tu Dor. Sir, will you hear me ?
his assistance, and raises him. Piccardo Ger. Silence! I say. As regards the dowry, my groans, and supports himself against the brother was foolish enough to leave that in the back of a chair, giving signs of great pain. hands of her brother. He will make no objection, Ger. What's the matter? I dare say-and indeed it's no great matter if he Pic. Oh, sir! I am hurt. You have crippled me. does. Those who trusted their affairs in his hands Ger. I am very sorry.
Can you walk at all ? were fools for their pains—but she shall not want Pic. (sulkily.) I think I can a little. a dowry, I will take care of that.
[He tries, but walks badly. Ang. (aside.] I can bear no more.
Ger. That's right-go on. Dor. [embarrassed.] This is all very well, Pic. Do you wish me to go, sir ? but
Ger. Yes, yes! Go home to your wife, and let Ger. But what?
her nurse you. Take this [gives a purse), it will Dor. Ma’amselle has something to say to you help to cure you. about it.
What a Ang. I, sir?
master! Ger. I should like to catch her demurring at Ger. Take it, anything I do, anything I command, anything I Pic. No, thank you, sir--I hope is nothing. desire. That which I desire, that which I com
Ger. Take it, I say. mand, and that which I do- I do, command, and Pic. Sir-nodesire for her good. Do you understand me? Ger. How dare you refuse my money. Is it
Dor. Then I must speak myself. I am very from anger, contempt, or hatred. Do you think I sorry, but this marriage cannot take place.
did it on purpose ?
Take this money directly. Ger. The deuce it can't. [Angelica retires Take it, unless you wish to put me in a fury. frightened— Dorval steps back a little.] You have Pic. Dont be angry, sir. I take it, with many given me your word of honour.
thanks. Dor. True, but on condition.
Ger. Now, then, off with you. Ger. Why you don't mean to tell me that that Pic. Yes, sir.
[Walks badly. baggage—eh ? [Turns to Angelica.) If I thought Ger. Take your time. that-if I did but doubt her-- [Threatening. Pic. Yes, sir. Dor. You are wrong, sir, entirely.
Ger. Stay-take my stick. Ger. Oh, then, it's you, is it, that are determined Pic. Sir. to thwart me? [Turns to Dorval — Angelica Ger. Take it, I say; you shall. escapes.] You that abuse my friendship, and thus Pic. (aside-taking it.] What a good master! requite the regard which I entertain for you?
[Exit. Dor. Hear the reasons, sir.
Ger. This is the first time in all my life that ever Ger. Reasons! what reasons ? there are no –confound this violent temper of mine ; but it was reasons. I am a man of honour; and if you are Dorval's fault for putting me in such a fury.* one too, do as you promised, and that instantly.
IL BURBERO BENEFICO, Angelica!
(Turns to where he left her-Dorval escapes. Ger. (missing Angelica.] Why, where's she gone? Angelica! Who's there? Piccardo! Martuccia ! Pietro ! But I shall find her. It's you I wish
THE SOUND OF THE SEA. to-[Turns and misses Dorval.] Eh? Dorval !
BY MARY CHEETHAM. friend Dorval! The vile-ungrateful! Is no one coming. Piccardo!
It is not sadness, in the distant moan
Of yon bright waves, borne to my listening ear; Enter PICCARDO.
But I could dream some mighty spirit near
Chanted in solemn jubilate tone Pic. Sir.
The everlasting hymn our hearts have known: Ger. You rascal ! Why don't you answer when I
All fancies manifold, that are most dear call.
To life's ambition in its primal year
Of hope, in that low voice may trace their own. times.
To the slow measure of desponding care Pic. I am very sorry, sir.
Sounds that to some breathe sweetest fantasies. Ger. A dozen times, you rascal.
But the world's glorious larvest will but bear Pic. [Angrily aside.] Now he's in one of his The wealth of blessing, that within it lies,
To hearts whose daily wisdom seeks it there!
* One cannot help being reminded by this scene Pic. Gone.
of Johnson's observation on Swift's petulance with Ger. Gone? how ?
servants : “To his domestics he was naturally rough; Pic. As other people go.
and a man of rigorous temper, with that vigilance Ger. [in a great rage, which constantly in- of minute attention which his works discover, must creases.) You varlet. How dare you answer your have been a master that few could bear. That he master in that manner?
was disposed to do his servants good, on important (He threatens Piccardo, who retreats backward. occasions, is no great mitigation: benefaction can be Pic. [greatly irritated. Take my warning, sir : but rare, and tyrannic peevishness is perpetual.”— Ger. Your warning ! you infernal scoundrel ! | Lives of the Poets.
In the breakfast-room of one of those sweet which, after all, constitutes woman's greatest little villa cottages so peculiar to England, em- , charm; and her carriage possessed all the bowered in shade, with elegantly furnished | haughty reserve of her mother's, united with a drawing-room, opening on the one side into the considerable portion of pride and self-esteem exquisitely arranged conservatory, and on the peculiar to herself. other, through French windows, upon
grace- They were engaged in an earnest and appaful lawn, studded with rainbow clumps of all rently very interesting conversation ; for the gay flowers, and a few noble firs, and pines usually marble-pale cheek of Clara was flushed here and there, with China roses, and other with a rich crimson glow; and her dark eyes choice parasites clustering round its projecting sparkled with unwonted excitement and brilgothic casements, sate, on the sweet May morn- liancy; and this was the cause of the more than ing my story commences, Mrs. Ellerton and usual animation of mother and daughter. her elder daughter, Miss Clara Ellerton.
The neighbourhood, as is generally the case I will briefly say, that Mrs. Ellerton herself in retired country places, abounded in young was descended from a family of great respecta- ladies of every style of beauty and degree of bility, and was the widow of Colonel Ellerton, respectability, but was sadly deficient in correwho left her at his death in possession of the sponding beaux, the brothers and cousins of the pretty cottage, the few surrounding acres of said young ladies being almost invariably meadow land, and a property in the Funds, which drafted off at the proper age, some to the army he had received with her, not quite sufficient to or navy, some to India, East or West, and support the splendid establishment which at heart others to the metropolis, to occupy stools in the both mother and daughter sighed for, yet quite offices of professional men, who, for a ceriain enough for every comfort and even elegant remuneration, condescend to swallow up the requisite of a refined country life. She had but country youths of respectable parents ; or in two children, both daughters, between whom those of mercantile, to seek fortune in the the whole properly was to be divided at her speculations of commerce ; leaving blooming death.
sisters and cousins to waste their sweetness in The mother had been a remarkably fine the desert air of country retirement, till some woman, and traces of a beauty of no common blessed chance should convert them into blushorder were still discernible in the large, dark, ing brides, and full-blown wives and mothers. though rather cold, severe eyes, and features of Now, not one of these young beauties sighed classical regularity, set off by still fine teeth, and more for the realization of this charming idea a figure tall and rather stately. But her address than did Miss Clara Ellerton, who had arrived was not fraught with that charming suavity at the ripe age of twenty-one, and most ardently which is so irresistibly fascinating, both in panted to step from the gloom of country retireyouth and old age; and a certain assumption ment, into the full, fashionable hubbub of Lonof grandeur, which her neighbours thought her don life. position in life by no right justified, rendered Not one grain of romance had Clara in her her by no means that great favourite in society whole composition : no sweet womanly reveries which she fondly imagined herself to be. of reciprocal love, domestic comfort, or the
Her elder daughter Clara, her companion at sweet yearnings of maternal responsibility. No; the breakfast-table, was certainly a very beau- all her dreams were of style, splendour, diaful young woman, and for some years past had monds, and adıniration; and provided the band been considered, both by herself and indeed which led her to the altar placed in her posses. most others, as the reigning belle of the neigh- sion the coveted golden key which unlocked bourhood far and wide. Clara possessed both these treasures, she cared not whether it grasped her mother's regularity of feature and stately hers with the vigorous warmth of fond youth, figure; but the one embellished by a spotless or the decrepid palsy of old age. complexion, and all the charms of youth ; the Clara had received several offers of marriage, other perfectly rounded into the swelling grace it is true. More than one of the above-menof young womanhood. But her large dark tioned young gentlemen of the neighbourhood eyes, like those of her mother, spoke little of had, either in the entire innocency of their the inner warm feelings of kindness and suavity | hearts, or led on probably by Clara's treacherous
smiles, made bold, in utter ignorance of the of my heart—and of yours, too, if I mistake not, intricacies of woman's lieart, to offer their hands my siveetest !” said Mrs. Ellerton, with a meanand future prospects to her acceptance. The ing sinile. haughty surprise-her indignation that they “Oh yes, mamina!” exclained Clara, claspcould possibly entertain the insane idea that she ing her hands and looking up with flashing eye, would condescend to enter into a long engage- , “it is, indeed !-ten thousand a-year! only ment with a nobody, or accept the addresses of imagine! What exquisite style it would keep one whose fortune had yet to be realized by up! Town-house ! diamonds ! everything ong years of arduous industry and perse- comme il faut.” verance-the scornful smile which accompanied “Well, my darling, heaven grant
it her instant refusal, speedily undereived and to pass; and it assuredly may, and will, by sent them off post-haste to their several destina- good management.
You must remember tions, considerably lightened of self-esteem, and Eustace, that beautiful boy, who used to visit us enlightened upon the erroneous opinions they sometimes during the holidays: he must be now lad formed of the interior of a young lady's grown into a fine young man, doubtless; and heart.
there is no one to be put, one moment, in comThe parish in which Rosemead, their pretty parison with my Clara! that is very cervilla, was situated, was a very extensive one, a lain! And if he only reinains a few months in few miles only removed from the sea; and at the country--why-" the other extremity there stood, embowered in “Let me see,” said Clara, inusing," he must the solemn grandeur of the stately groves of a be about three years my senior. Oh yes, I refine park, a very fine old mansion called “Al member hin very well; he was a very handsome lonby," the property of a very old county family boy indeed: but there is one thing, mamma, I of the same name.
would just hint to you; do pray school CatheThe old baronet—Sir Marmaduke Allonby-rine; for you know she won't mind me: she is had died, something more than a year and a really so forward, and even saucy; so---svhat' half previously; whilst his only child and heir, shall I say?-coquettish, too, I am afraid ; so Eustace, was travelling with a tutor through the regardless of all etiquette; so hoydenish in her picturesque countries of Norway and Sweden, manners, that I much fear she will give Sir Eusprosecuting his studies, as it is generally termed, tace, when he calls, a very unfavourable opinion but in reality laying in an abundant stock of of our gentility, if she be allowed to run on the good health, by constant exposure to the bracing nonsense she generally does. I don't wish to air of the climate, and improving his young offend her myself
, for several reasons, which ideas considerably in the most necessary arts of you know; but surely you might, mamma?” fishing and shooting. This young gentleman- 'Yes, my dear Clara, I see what you mean ; now Sir Eustace Allonby- was just returned she is too forward in her manners a great deal, to take possession of his ancestral halls, with a and might prove exceedingly detrimental
I clear rent-roll of ten thousand a-year. And will give her a hint, and yonder she comes this all-exciting piece of news it was which, through the garden-Not, mind you, that you spreading like wild-fire through the parish, had have anything to fear. Sir Eustace could never just reached the ears of mother and daughter, for a moment look seriously at her little chit's causing their ambitious hearts to swell with face beside yours; that is quite impossible ; so fond dreams of what might, by judicious ma- do not be alarmed.” nagement, and Clara’s great beauty of face and “Oh no, mamma, not that for a moment," form, be brought to pass-her union, namely, hastily returned Clara, with a scornful laugh. with the heir of this old family, and splendid “ I have no fear of that sort, I can assure you! mansion and estate, which had always formed But she says such things, and is so utterly rethe dearest wish of their hearts.
gardless of the feelings of others, that she “What a fortunate thing, mamma,” exclaimed night, as you say, prove very detrimental; but Clara, looking up from a long, and doubtless hush! here she is." pleasant reverie, “that I have never entered into an engagement with Arthur Meredith! His prospects really were very good at least,
. are so now; for his rich uncle, whose heir he will undoubtedly be, is dying, they say; but At that moment a beautiful young girl, whose still"
age could barely have reached seventeen sum"Oh, as to that, my dear Clara, it could mers, came bounding through one of the open easily have been broken off had you done so. I French windows that led from the garden into should certainly have said that it was entered the room, laughing, and almost breathless, her ints entirely without my consent, and I well face radiant with happiness and fun, with masses know that you are too dutiful a child not to of rich gelden hair hanging all round her face have instantly acquiesced. There is not the and down her shoulders in charming disorder. slightest comparison, you know! The prospects She was arrayed in a sort of fancy riding-habit
, of the one are, at least as yet, doubtful; while which consisted of a long brown skirt, and á the other is all that the fondest and most am- black satin spencer made tight to her figure, bitious mother could desire ; and to see you laced in front, cut in Venetian shape round her mistress of that fine place is the very dearest svish slender waist, and buttoned tight up round her