CONTARINI. The Englishmen indeed, Sir, have graced us, Not we the Englishmen. How instantly

Sebastian's friend laid himself out o' the boat,
Before our thoughts had time to find themselves,
And gave us back our pale one.

MOLINO.

Like a god

In his own element. 'Twas a strange thing,-
That sudden shock. I never knew the like
Happen before in Venice, though our gondolas
Serve us for every purpose of the road,

And pierce about like fish.

CONT.

It marred so too

The stately self-possession of the day,
Especially before our naval emulators.
How Malipiero's vexed!

MOL.

He seized directly

Piero, the gondolier, who is supposed

To have meant this mischief out of some revenge
Towards his good master; and conveyed him off
With his fierce fist against the scoundrel's throat.

CONT. That's settled then. Some singular punishment Will mark this singular disgrace of Venice.

Yet though she had no drowning, takes on still,
Kissing my sister's hand, and cheek, and pressing her,
And then again turning to plenteous tears,

As if she wept for all that might have happened.
MOL. I have observed it so: the heart, as 'twere,
Takes pity on itself, and so turns fond

On it's own gentle nature.

SEB.

Yes, when tears

Come, as these do, seldom, and out of sweetness.
My dearest mother is of a true clay,

Much like her daughter; only former trouble-
The loss of a loved partner,-made her quit
The dance, and sit her down in a still patience,
Happy to see us nevertheless enjoy it.

She seldom weeps: but now that this rude shock
Has shaken up the long-collceting fountains,
She bathes her heart's great thirst.

I think his natural emulation chides him

For not being quicker than the Englishman.

CONT. He'll make it up to him with double praise.
This jealousy in noble spirits runs forth
For it's own self, only to turn again
With a new shape of ardour, and perform
Another's messages to fame more quickly.

SEB. It does so. I have heard my noble friend
Our visitor say, that spirits which have wings
Of muscular root enough to winnow up,
As they go on, the petty from the great,
Find something more successful than success
Itself, or rather than the name of it,-
Succeeding most where they most realize
Their own calm world of beauty, and inspire
A self-divested sense of it in others:

Like odour-wafting airs in summer-time,

In which the odour's praised, though not the air.
CAND. "Tis wondered at by some, that Piero escaped;

And certainly 'tis strange, especially

As his own tribe are jealous of their fame,

And fall, like clamorous birds, upon foul play.
Yet as to what concerns our anxious friend,
Who is to wonder, that a spirit like his,
Unused to keep constrained it's very thoughts,
Should let his generous hand forget it's hold,
And find it a bad jail.

CONT.

Who, Sir, indeed?

But we'll detain you, gentlemen, no longer

From our fair friends; pray tell them of our joy,

And willing envy of the Englishman.

CAND. Nay we will praise, and thank him, but not envy. We can afford, I hope, to let a foreigner

Plunge in our waters for a lady's sake,

Without making the windows stare the wider,

And lift their stony brows up in astonishment.

But he's a gallant fellow, and we'll tell him so.

SCENE.-The front of the Candian Palace.

Enter GREGORY.

GREGORY. This comes of travelling. It seems all a dream. I'm not sure that I sha'n't wake and find myself in the arms of the dear old chair at the Bull. My master, whom it is impossible to resist, offers me to go with him; I consent; and so he ties me in a manner to his coat like a witch, and off I go; first scouring over the road to the sea-side; then rocking up and down, up and down, till I'm sick; then scouring away again; then dragged up mountains into the clouds, till my teeth chatter for fear and cold; then whew! down again like a flourish on paper; then jolted along, all unbuttoned for heat; then bitten till I could have got the sign of the comb to scratch me; or scraped acquaintance with a brick wall; or taken to the cunning custom of flogging myself for penance; or winced, and tumbled, and beaten myself and the very air about me, like a shirt hung out to dry in a high wind:-then comes some more sea-rocking, and then says my master, "Now, Gregory, we land for good:"-thinks I, looking about me, and seeing nothing but canals for streets, and houses standing out of them like so many cows in a pond,—I hope we don't land for evil: and I had scarcely thought the word, when we took to boating it again, and hey! presto! down goes that Will-o'-the-wisp, my master, souse over head and ears after a fish in petticoats.

Enter VANNI.

VANNI. Well, Gregory, this is a strange unaccountable circumstance, isn't it!

GREG. What, a fall in the water! not half so strange to me, Vanni, as that you Venetians will have so much water to fall in.

VAN. If we hadn't so much water to fall in, we shouldn't have so much love to fall in. Our shews and our shews-off by day, our gondolas, and our serenades, what should we do without them? And the water causes or sweetens them all. You'll hear guitars to-night twinkling about like stars. I won my mistress's heart by a plunge higher than was known before into the River of Song!

GREG. How these Venetians do talk! Guitars twinkling about like stars! and a plunge into the River of Song! there's a name for a canal! It's fine talking, and sometimes puts me in mind of my master's friends, Master Shakspeare and the others at the Mermaid; but what name comes home to me like the manly and natural one of Fleet Ditch!

VAN. You seem sad, Gregory. We shall cheer you up before long. We have every thing here to make a man merry,-rowing, laughing, sunshine, music, women, every thing.

GREG. No, Sir,-no, Sir,-you haven't my wife and Bunhill-fields.

VAN. There's plenty of fields over the water, and as to your wife, my dear Gregory, I never heard you talk much about her before. Besides, she told you she should be quite happy, you know; and she looked so.

GREG. Ah, Sir, and then you pretend that the English women are not so chearful as your's. Oh, I never loved my wife more than now I am in the thick of 'em. Oh, how I loved her during the squall at sea! and how prodigiously I did love her, when I thought I should have broken my neck on the top of the Alps! I hope; Sir, you found your intended as well as could be expected after your absence.

VAN. Better than ever: as hearty as you'll find your wife, Gregory:-but how formal and ceremonious you seem to think it necessary to be in your pathetics. Come, man, I'll shew you the lions, as you used to say, and keep my word better too, as far as stone lions can go; and then I'll introduce you to Momola. She'll rouse your spirits for you. We'll cross the way to St. Mark's. Bartolo, there! Hallo! Mind the canal, Gregory, you'll run over the parapet.

GREG. Lord! the very dangers in this place have nothing Christian about them! We can't even be run over by a horse, but must be warned how a parapet is run over by a man.

VAN. We'll go round by the bridge if you prefer it, Gregory.

GREG. Ah, do.

VAN. Never mind, then, Bartolo, this time.

GREG. Perhaps I shall have the pleasure of meeting with some dust. [Exeunt.

SCENE.-An apartment in the Palace Candian. VITTORIA and FIAMMETTA sitting together, with books, music, and flowers about them; the former with her face towards a looking-glass, adjusting something about her head.

FIAM. My dear, dear mother, let me make you merry again.

I'm merry.

VIT.

Be so, child,-be so, dear child.

FIAM. You see how stout I am; I'm drest before you.

'Twas but a kind of unexpected bath.

"Twas frightful to be sure; the sudden missing

Of one's dry senses,-the deaf plunge and bubbling,

And wrapping up in heavy wateriness:

But now that it is past, somehow or other,
One feels the grander for it, and, poor soul!
Fancies one's accident a grand achievement!
You're absent, mother! You're in the boat still!

VIT. No more of that, my love, I have you fast;
Your brother is come home, our noble bird,
Nobler than ever! What can I want more
To make me happy? I believe I want
Some pain to pinch away these foolish tears,
And make me, as before, give smile for smile.

FIAM. Shall I read to you, mother?

VIT.

No, my child.

FIAM. Or sing? or dance? or bring your favourite picture Of Dido playing with the cheeks of Cupid,

As if she said unwittingly, " You rogue!"

VIT. Oh no, no, no! talk to me of things common;

Of dress, for instance, flounces, coifs, and fashions,

And what new creature we're to look like next,

When some great lady quarrels with her shoulder-blade,

Or has a private pique against her waist.

FIAM. Oh, if no waist, like a tied sack of charcoal,

Or like the letter B run up to seed;

And if a waist, why then we must be wasps

Cut right in two, or hour-glasses that shew

The time by letting their wise heads run empty.
Or if we must be neither, we'll preside
O'er hoops, like busts upon a cupola;
Or turn to real walking bells, with feet

For double clappers; and let mother church
Look to high winds, or we'll have belfry and all,
For bonnet, with the penthouse, and stick in it
The whole Flower-Market and the shops of plumes,
And all the Sunday ribbons in the parish.

VIT. Why you dash on this morning like Sebastian,
Along your gay reflections in wit's gondola.

FIAM. And you must think of gondolas again,

And sigh, dear mother. Well, if you will think of 'em,
Pray tell me now what think you of the Englishman;
Taking him in the common light, you know,-

His look, his figure; for to say the truth,
Only don't tell, I've hardly seen him yet;

Though I've the recollection at my heart
Of-

VIT. What, my love?
FIAM.

His terrible pinching fingers.

VIT. Why, you sweet trifler! this is the way, is it,

You treat a gentleman that saves your life.

FIAM. A gentleman that saves one's life! Well, really now, That is a proper philosophic way

Of putting it, before we've got the right

Of speaking highlier of him for himself.

You mean, I know, you dare not trust yourself

Just now, upon that watery subject, mother ;

But this, believe me, is the very way

To speak of such good chances giv'n the gentlemen.
From what I've read, there are some ladies who
Think one such plunge renders a man invulnerable
To all objection. By their rule, one ought
To save one's life, only to lose one's freedom;
Begging the gentleman, that since a shark
Was not to have you, or since he had kindly
Taken the trouble to pick you up, he'd have you.
'Tis lucky, mother, the same principle

Does not extend to limbs, or 'twould be requisite
To give one's hand for saving it a scratch;

Or when a dog was hindered of his bite,

Present one's foot with an elaborate stretch,

Like a French dancer, and say, "Gracious Sir,

You saved this foot of mine; will't please ye accept it?"
VIT. Oh rattler, rattler! How am I to know
That all this smiling surface of your talk
Has not grave ground beneath?

Nay, mother, now

You make me blush to think that I could give
More than my thanks at first to one of whom
I know so little; grateful thanks, 'tis true,
Most grateful,-but-I'm sure you think a man
Should shew that he has picked up a few qualities
As well as ladies, ere he picks our hearts.

My brother, to be sure, is fond of truth,
Extremely fond,-but then as uncle said-

Enter CANDIAN, followed by MOLino, Contarini, and Malipiero,

CAND. And what did uncle say? Ladies, allow me

The Signor Malipiero, a sad gentleman,

Who thinks it necessary to apologize

For not being a king-fisher. We found him

Eyeing his would-be element at the door.

MAL. Nay, Sir, I yield to none in hearty chearfulness;

And as I hope and think the best of others,

'Tis thought, I trust, of me: and yet, dear ladies,

A man may reasonably regret, that chance

Should on the turn, as 'twere, of one swift instant,
Whisk him from shewing all his zeal for ye.

VIT. My daughter loves a good intention, Sir,

Too well to make it answerable to fortune.

MAL. (to FIAM.) Then, Madam, I may hope that this omission Will not be held a punishable sin,

When heavenly eyes look down upon one's homage.

FIAM. If you mean my eyes, Signor Malipiero,

Which heaven forbid should look down on tall gentlemen,
I think no evil of our other friends here,

And why should I of you?

CAND.

Come, Malipiero,

Settle these grave state questions by and bye,
For here's Sebastian and the Englishman:

I saw them from the window, coming in.

Enter SERVANT.

Signor Sebastian, and his noble friend, Sir.

Enter SEBASTIAN and WALTER HERBERT.

SEB. Dear mother, uncle, sister sweet, and gentlemen,

I need not introduce my noble friend

And your's-the Signor Walter Herbert, Englishman.
Dear Walter, this is the affectionate circle

I've told you of so often. Heaven be praised

You're in the midst of it, and have been so.

CAND. Our silence, Sir, must shew you what we feel. This ready swiftness to oblige your friends,

Is, I perceive, a habit with you.

HERB.

If, Sir,