What!

Mem.
Again?
Mar. His voice! it seem'd so: I will not
Believe it. Should he shrink, I cannot cease
To love; but-no-no-no-it must have been
A fearful pang which wrung a groan from him.
Sen. And, feeling for thy husband's wrongs,
wouldst thou

Have him bear more than mortal pain, in silence?
Mar. We all must bear our tortures. I have not
Left barren the great house of Foscari,
Though they sweep both the Doge and son from life;
I have endured as much in giving life

To those who will succeed them, as they can

In leaving it but mine were joyful pangs:
And yet they wrung me till I could have shriek'd,
But did not; for my hope was to bring forth
Heroes, and would not welcome them with tears. *
Mem. All's silent now.
Mar.

Perhaps all's over; but

I will not deem it: he hath nerved himself,
And now defies them.

Even if she be so, cannot save her husband.
But, see, the officer returns.

[The Officer passes over the stage with another person.
Mem.
I hardly
Thought that "the Ten" had even this touch of pity,
Or would permit assistance to this sufferer.

Sen. Pity! Is't pity to recall to feeling
The wretch too happy to escape to death,
By the compassionate trance, poor nature's last
Resource against the tyranny of pain?

Mem. I marvel they condemin him not at once.
Sen. That's not their policy: they'd have him live,
Because he fears not death; and banish him,
Because all earth, except his native land,
To him is one wide prison, and each breath
Of foreign air he draws seems a slow poison,
Consuming but not killing.

Confirms his crimes, but he avows them not.

Sen. None, save the Letter 1, which he says was written,

Address'd to Milan's duke, in the full knowledge
That it would fall into the senate's hands,

And thus he should be re-convey'd to Venice.
Mem. But as a culprit.
Sen.
Yes, but to his country;
And that was all he sought, -so he avouches.
Mem. The accusation of the bribes was proved.
Sen. Not clearly, and the charge of homicide
Has been annull'd by the death-bed confession
Of Nicolas Erizzo, who slew the late
Chief of "the Ten." 2

Then why not clear him?

That's not the cause; you saw the prisoner's state.
Lor. And had he not recover'd?
Bar.

Upon the least renewal.

To relapse

Mem.

Sen.

They ought to answer; for it is well known

That Almoro Donato, as I said,

Was slain by Erizzo for private vengeance.

[than

Mem. There must be more in this strange process The apparent crimes of the accused discloseBut here come two of "the Ten;" let us retire. [Exeunt MEMMO and Senator.

Enter LOREDANO and BARBARICO. Bar. (addressing LOR.). That were too much : believe me, 't was not meet

The trial should go further at this moment.

1

["Night and day,

Brooding on what he had been, what he was
'T was more than he could bear. His longing fits
Thicken'd upon him. His desire for home

Became a madness; and, resolv'd to go,

If but to die, in his despair, he writes

A letter to the sovereign-prince of Milan,
(To him whose name, among the greatest now,"
Had perish'd, blotted out at once and rased,
But for the rugged limb of an old oak.)

* Francesco Sforza. His father, when at work in the field, was accosted by some soldiers, and asked if he would enlist. "Let me throw my mattock on that oak," he replied," and if it remains there, I will." It remained there; and the peasant, regarding it as a sign, enlisted. He became soldier, general, prince; and his grandson, in the palace at Milan, said to Paulus Jovius," You behold these guards and this grandeur: I owe every thing to the branch of an oak, the branch that held my grandfather's mattock."— ROGERS.

To my surprise too, you were touch'd with mercy,
And were the first to call out for assistance
When he was failing.

Soliciting his influence with the state,
And drops it to be found."- ROGERS.]

2 [The extraordinary sentence pronounced against him, still existing among the archives of Venice, runs thus:"Giacopo Foscari, accused of the murder of Hermolao Donato, has been arrested and examined; and, from the testimony, evidence, and documents exhibited, it distinctly appears that he is guilty of the aforesaid crime; nevertheless, on account of his obstinacy, and of enchantments and spells, in his possession, of which there are manifest proofs, it has not been possible to extract from him the truth, which is clear from parole and written evidence; for, while he was on the cord, he uttered neither word nor groan, but only murmured something to himself indistinctly and under his breath therefore, as the honour of the state requires, he is condemned to a more distant banishment in Candia." Will it be credited, that a distinct proof of his innocence, obtained by the discovery of the real assassin, wrought no change in his unjust and cruel sentence? See Venetian Sketches, vol. ii. p. 97.]

He's silent in his hate, as Foscari
Was in his suffering; and the poor wretch moved me
More by his silence than a thousand outcries
Could have effected. 'T was a dreadful sight
When his distracted wife broke through into
The hall of our tribunal, and beheld
What we could scarcely look upon, long used
To such sights. I must think no more of this,
Lest I forget in this compassion for
Our foes, their former injuries, and lose
The hold of vengeance Loredano plans

For him and me; but mine would be content
With lesser retribution than he thirsts for,
And I would mitigate his deeper hatred

To milder thoughts; but for the present, Foscari
Has a short hourly respite, granted at

The instance of the elders of the Council,
Moved doubtless by his wife's appearance in
The hall, and his own sufferings.-Lo! they come :
How feeble and forlorn! I cannot bear

To look on them again in this extremity:
I'll hence, and try to soften Loredano.

Sen.
Obey. I had in charge, too, from the Council
That you would fix an hour for their re-union.
Doge. Say, when they will now, even at this
moment,

If it so please them: I am the state's servant.
Sen. They would accord some time for your re-

pose.

Doge. I have no repose; that is, none which shall

cause

The loss of an hour's time unto the state.

Let them meet when they will, I shall be found
Where I should be, and what I have been ever.

[Exit SENATOR. [The DoGE remains in silence.

Enter an Attendant.

Att. Prince !
Doge.
Att.

Say on.

The illustrious lady Foscari

Requests an audience.

Doge.

[The DoGE remains in silence as before.

Enter MARINA.

I have ventured, father, on

Your privacy.

Doge.

I have none from you, my child. Command my time, when not commanded by The state.

Mar. I wish'd to speak to you of him.
Doge. Your husband?

Mar.

Doge.

And your son.

Proceed, my daughter!

2["Mistress of Lombardy-it is some comfort."— MS.]

This ducal ring with which I wed the waves
A talisman to still them-I'd give all
For him.

Mar. With less he surely might be saved.
Doge. That answer only shows you know not
Venice.

Alas! how should you? she knows not herself,
In all her mystery. Hear me- -they who aim
At Foscari, aim no less at his father;

The sire's destruction would not save the son;
They work by different means to the same end,
And that is-but they have not conquer'd yet.
Mar. But they have crush'd.
Doge.

Nor crush'd as yet - I live. Mar. And your son,—how long will he live? Doge.

For all that yet is past, as many years
And happier than his father. The rash boy,
With womanish impatience to return,
Hath ruin'd all by that detected letter;

A high crime, which I neither can deny

Nor palliate, as parent or as Duke:
Had he but borne a little, little longer
His Candiote exile, I had hopes.

He must return.

I trust,

he has quench'd

Doge.

You well know

This prayer of yours was twice denied before
By the assembled " Ten," and hardly now
Will be accorded to a third request,
Since aggravated errors on the part

Of your lord renders them still more austere.
Mar. Austere ? Atrocious! The old human fiends,
With one foot in the grave, with dim eyes, strange
To tears save drops of dotage, with long white
And scanty hairs, and shaking hands, and heads
As palsied as their hearts are hard, they council,
Cabal, and put men's lives out, as if life
Were no more than the feelings long extinguish'd
In their accursed bosoms.

Mar. I do I do—and so should you, methinks— That these are demons: could it be else that Men, who have been of women born and suckled— Who have loved, or talk'd at least of love—have given Their bands in sacred vows-have danced their babes Upon their knees, perhaps have mourn'd above them— In pain, in peril, or in death— who are, Or were at least in seeming, human, could Do as they have done by yours, and you yourself, You, who abet them?

Doge.

I forgive this, for You know not what you say. Mar.

And feel it nothing.

Doge.

You know it well,

I have borne so much, That words have ceased to shake me. Mar.

Oh, no doubt!

You have seen your son's blood flow, and your flesh shook not:

And, after that, what are a woman's words? [you. No more than woman's tears, that they should shake

Doge. Woman, this clamorous grief of thine, I tell Is no more in the balance weigh'd with that [thee, Which but I pity thee, my poor Marina !

Mar. Pity my husband, or I cast it from me; Pity thy son! Thou pity!-'t is a word Strange to thy heart—how came it on thy lips? Doge. I must bear these reproaches, though they wrong me. Couldst thou but read

Mar. "Tis not upon thy brow, Nor in thine eyes, nor in thine acts, -where then Should I behold this sympathy? or shall? Doge (pointing downwards). There!

Mar.

Doge.

In the earth? To which I am tending: when It lies upon this heart, far lightlier, though Loaded with marble, than the thoughts which press it Now, you will know me better.

them

Better for me. I have seen our house dishonour'd.

Would it were so! Better for him he never had been born;

Mar. That's false! A truer, nobler, trustier heart, More loving, or more loyal, never beat Within a human breast. I would not change My exiled, persecuted, mangled husband,

Oppress'd but not disgraced, crush'd, overwhelm'd, Alive, or dead, for prince or paladin

In story or in fable, with a world

To back his suit. Dishonour'd! -he-dishonour'd!
I tell thee, Doge, 'tis Venice is dishonour'd;
His name shall be her foulest, worst reproach,
For what he suffers, not for what he did.
"Tis ye who are all traitors, tyrant!-ye!
Did you but love your country like this victim
Who totters back in chains to tortures, and
Submits to all things rather than to exile,
You'd fling yourselves before him, and implore
His grace for your enormous guilt.
Doge.

He was

Indeed all you have said. I better bore
The deaths of the two sons Heaven took from me,
Than Jacopo's disgrace.

[The interest of this play is founded upon feelings so peculiar or overstrained, as to engage no sympathy; and the whole story turns on incidents that are neither pleasing nor natural. The younger Foscari undergoes the rack twice (once in the hearing of the audience), merely because he has chosen to feign himself a traitor, that he might be brought back from undeserved banishment, and dies at last of pure dotage on this sentiment; while the elder Foscari submits, in profound and immoveable silence, to this treatment of his son, lest, by seeming to feel for his unhappy fate, he should

Is that so strange, That you repeat the word emphatically? Lor. So far from strange, that never was there In my mind half so natural as theirs. Think you not so ?

Doge,

What should I think of mortals? Lor. That they have mortal foes. Doge.

I understand you;

Your sires were mine, and you are heir in all things.
Lor. You best know if I should be so.
Doge.
I do.
Your fathers were my foes, and I have heard
Foul rumours were abroad; I have also read
Their epitaph, attributing their deaths
To poison. "T is perhaps as true as most
Inscriptions upon tombs, and yet no less
A fable.
Lor.
Doge.
Your fathers were mine enemies, as bitter
As their son e'er can be, and I no less
Was theirs; but I was openly their foe:
I never work'd by plot in council, nor
Cabal in commonwealth, nor secret means
Of practice against life by steel or drug.
The proof is, your existence.
Lor.

Who dares say so?

IT is true

I fear not.

Doge. You have no cause, being what I am; but were I

That you would have me thought, you long ere now
Were past the sense of fear. Hate on; I care not.
Lor. I never yet knew that a noble's life
In Venice had to dread a Doge's frown,
That is, by open means.

Doge.

But I, good signor,

Am, or least was, more than a mere duke,
In blood, in mind, in means; and that they know

be implicated in his guilt though he is supposed guiltless. He, the Doge, is afraid to stir hand or foot, to look or speak, while these inexplicable horrors are transacting, on account of the hostility of one Loredano, who lords it in the council of "the Ten," nobody knows why or how; and who at last "enmeshes" both father and son in his toils, in spite of their passive obedience and non-resistance to his plans. They are silly flies for this spider to catch, and feed fat his ancient grudge upon."- JEFFREY.]