Ben. Ah! very true, my good master! all very true! but lord, lord, lord! it is really mighty difficult to forget one's own dear self. Heaven knows, poor sinner that I am, a few twinges of the gout are always enough to make me as hard-hearted as a rock of adamant; and even when dear lady Josepha died, I'm almost afraid I should have felt very little for any body but myself, if just at that time I had happened to have a touch of the toothach! ah! we are all poor weak creatures! poor weak creatures! poor weak creatures! (going)

Father Michael enters hastily.

Michael. Friend! hist! friend!

Ben. (returning) Well, friend! hey a monk? I beg your pardon then; well, father!

Mich. The viceroy is at length arrived?

Ben. He is.

Mich. Conduct me to him: I must speak with him instantly.

Ben. Stop, stop! no hurry— the viceroy is already gone out.

Mich. Unfortunate! my business is of such importance——

Ben. Well, well! I dare say, some few hours hence——

Mich. My superior knows not that I am absent; I have ventured here without permission, I dare not stay, and perhaps my return may be impossible!

Ben. Indeed! that's a pity! and is your superior then so rigid, that he would'nt excuse— (looking at his habit) ha, ha! I see now how it is. Is not your superior the prior Coelestino?

Mich. The same! and— (looking round anxiously, and lowering his voice) and I am no favourite with him.

Ben. No? that's very much to your credit.

Mich. (acquiring confidence) Nor am I partial to him.

Ben. Nor I neither, heaven knows! there's my hand upon it. Father, you're a very sensible honest man.

Mich. You appear to be well acquainted with the prior's character: but for heaven's sake do not betray me!

Ben. I betray you? to be sure one ought not to wish one's neighbour ill. But if the fire, which lately consumed a wing of your convent, had consumed in it— you understand me, I wont say no more: but if a certain event had taken place, I dont believe I should have broken my heart for grief, father.

Mich. The prior was absent at the time of the conflagration; he ran no danger; but that accident may be the source of other dangers to him, of which at present he little dreams.

Ben. Indeed! as how, pray, as how? as how? dear, I shall be mighty glad to hear how.

Mich. I dare not explain myself except to your lord. But tell me, good old man, is not the viceroy greatly interested in the fate of young Venoni?

Ben. Extremely.

Mich. Is he aware, that tomorrow Venoni will pronounce his vows?

Ben. Bless my heart! so soon!

Mich. The victim of despair, looking on the world with horror and disgust, considering as the only good left for him on earth, the permission to inhabit an asylum contiguous to that which contains the ashes of his beloved. (mysteriously) For you are aware, that our monastery is only separated from the Ursuline convent by a party-wall.

Ben. Indeed? the Ursuline convent? it was there, that Josepha breathed her last— if I remember rightly, it is under father Coelestino's direction?

Mich. (expressively) Under his direction? you are right! yes! it is under his direction; and who says that, says every thing.

Ben. Well, father; and so Venoni— ?

Mich. (with energy) Assists the superior's views, and languishes till the hour arrives when he must sacrifice his liberty for ever: when, renouncing the world and himself, he will become subject to the insolent caprice, to the arbitrary commands, to the tyrannical hatred of a man frequently unjust, never to be appeased; and who is himself the prey of all those worldly passions, which he secretly and dearly cherishes in his own heart, but whose slightest indulgence he punishes without mercy upon others.

Ben. Well, father, this at least I must say for you, you seem to be perfectly well acquainted with the moral characters of your fellows. Dear, dear! and so then it is tomorrow, that this poor gentleman, so amiable— with talents so brilliant, with a heart so generous and so good—

Mich. His talents? his heart? those perhaps are still unknown to our superior:— but Venoni is immoderately wealthy, and of that the prior was perfectly well informed. But the viceroy returns not, and I dare not tarry longer!— good old man, give your lord this letter; say that my seeing him before tomorrow is of the utmost importance to Venoni— to himself!

Ben. You will return then?

Mich. Alas! that will be impossible! entreat, that for heaven's love, the viceroy would deign to visit me at my convent. He must inquire for father Michael.

Benedetto. For father Michael? I'll not forget; and he shall have this letter immediately.

Mich. I thank you— as to the manner in which I have spoken of my superior, the most profound secrecy——

Ben. Oh! mum's the word.

Mich. Should it reach his knowledge— blessed saints, protect me! Jeronymo, the prior's confidant, comes this way! (drawing his cowl over his face in great agitation) should he observe me— my liberty— perhaps my life— friend, farewell! (going.)

Ben. (opening a side door in the palace) Stay, stay! go down this passage; at the end of it, turn to the left— it leads to the garden; traverse it, and you will find a little door unlocked, which will let you out unseen within a bow-shot of your monastery.

Mich. Heaven's blessing be with you! a thousand, thousand thanks!

[Exit hastily.

Ben. (calling after him) That's right! a little further! take care, there are two or three steps. To the left, to the left!— that's it— your most obedient servant— (with a low bow; after which he turns from the palace) and now— mum, mum!

Enter father Jeronymo.

Jer. Bless you, son!

Ben. Save you, father!

Jer. Was not a friar of our order here even now?

Ben. Not that I saw— (aside) there's a good round lie now!

Jer. I suppose, then, I was mistaken.

Ben. I suppose you were: I can't conceive any thing more likely.

Jer. (aside) I could have sworn, that father Michael— this shall be inquired into further— salve, son!

[Exit.

Ben. (bowing) Your sanctity's most obedient.— And this is the prior's confidant? then the prior's confidant is as ill-looking a hang-dog, as I've set my eyes upon this many a day!

Enter Fishermen.

Ben. Now lads, now! why, you look busily.

1st fish. Well we may, signor: the viceroy entertains all the grandees of Messina this evening, and our fish will bear a treble price. Come, come, look to the nets, lads, (they go to their boats)

Ben. Ay, ay! good luck to you! and now I'll seek my lord with this letter. So, so, my reverend father Coelestino!— a convent of nuns under your direction! only separated by a party-wall!— ha, ha! that looks to me very much as if— hush, hush, signor Benedetto! what you are saying is not quite so charitable as it should be! bless my heart, bless my heart, how naturally is a man disposed to think the worst he can of his neighbours! ah, fy upon you, Benedetto; fy upon you!

[Exit.

1st fish. (in the boat) Now, lads, are you ready?

2d fish. Ay, ay! pull away!

1st fish. Off we go then.

All. Huzza!

GLEE.

Ply the oar, brother, and speed the boat; Swift o'er the glittering waves we'll float; Then home as swiftly we'll haste again, Loaded with wealth of the plundered main. Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

Hark how the neighbouring convent bell! Throws o'er the waves its vesper swell; Sullen it bomes from shore to shore, Blending its chime with the dash of the oar. Pull away, pull away! row, boys, row! A long pull, a strong pull, and off we go.

SCENE II— An apartment in the Caprara palace.

The viceroy enters, followed by Hortensia and the Marquis; a servant attending.

Hor. Nay, but in truth, my dear brother, this is carrying your prejudice too far. What! refuse to endure, for a single half hour, father Coelestino in your presence, merely because his countenance and manner happen not to be exactly to your taste?

Vic. His conversation is as little to my taste as his manner and countenance: he uses too much honey to please my palate!— surely, if there is one thing more odious than another, tis your eternal maker of compliments; one who lies in wait for opportunities of thrusting down your throat his undesired applause; and who compels you to bow in return for his nauseous civilities, till he makes your neck feel almost as supple as his own.

Hor. You know no ill of him.——

Vic. I know him to be a flatterer: what would you more?

Hor. Well, I protest, it never struck me that he flattered.

Vic. Very likely; and yet my good sister, it's possible that he might be flattering, while to you he appeared so be speaking the pure simple truth.

Hor. However, if not for his own sake, at least endure him for mine. He is my friend; you are now the chief person in the island; and should you compel me to reject his offered visit, such a mark of contempt from the viceroy of Sicily might injure the good prior in the world's opinion.

Vic. If the good prior be in fact as good as you assert, the contempt of the viceroy of Sicily or of any other viceroy, must be to him a matter of the most absolute indifference. However, be it as you please.

Hor. I thank you; (to the servant) the prior's visit will be welcome.

[Servant bows, and Exit.

Hor. Ah! did you but know the good man's heart as well as I do, this unreasonable dislike——

Vic. Unreasonable? ah! Hortensia; have we not all then reasons but too strong for abhorring the sight of this Coelestino? was it not his advice, which induced you to place Josepha in that fatal convent?

Mar. Right, right, Benvolio; twas his advice, twas his alone.

Hor. I do not deny it; but I appeal to yourself, marquis, whether he gave not good reasons for that advice? the dangers of the voyage— the inclement season— ah! had Josepha lived, perhaps the example of that holy sisterhood might have weaned her heart from worldly follies, and inspired——

Mar. (surprised) How, Hortensia! I hope that in placing your daughter in that convent, no views concealed from me— (Hortensia looks confused)

The servant ushers in the prior, and retires.

Pri. Humbly I bend in salutation to this illustrious company! will the lady marchioness deign to confirm my hopes, that at length she begins to bear her afflictions with some serenity?

Hor. Thanks to your pious exhortations, father, I am at least resigned; more shall I never answer— for my heart is broken.

Pri. Little as I dare flatter myself, that a poor monk's congratulations can be acceptable to your excellency, I cannot refrain from expressing my joy at your newly acquired dignity. But it is not the count Benvolio, whom I congratulate on being appointed governor of Sicily; tis Sicily, on being governed by the count Benvolio.

Vic. I am perfectly aware, reverend sir, that the high-flown elegance of that compliment can only be equalled by its sincerity; believe me no less sincere, when I assure you on my honour, that my gratitude for your approbation bears an exact proportion to the pleasure experienced by yourself at my appointment.

Pri. (bowing) More can I not desire. Yet must I excuse myself for intruding into your presence at a moment when fraternal attachment must needs make you wish to be undisturbed: but the claims of compassion admit of no delay, and my heart is ever too weak to resist the entreaties of a sufferer. My noble lord and lady, I bring to you the request of an unfortunate youth— of Venoni.

All. (eagerly) Venoni?

Pri. His noviciate is nearly expired; tomorrow he will pronounce his vows.

Mar. Unhappy youth!

Vic. Tomorrow?

Pri. But ere he renounces the world for ever, he intreats permission to take leave of those dear and illustrious persons, who once did not disdain to look upon him as their son.

Hor. (greatly agitated) No, no! I cannot— I dare not——

Vic. (seriously) Sister— Venoni must not be refused.

Pri. Reflect, dear lady; the ear of true piety is never closed against the sighs of the wretched. The poor youth is already in the palace, and—

Vic. (eagerly) Already here?— where, where is he?

Mar. Who waits? (servant enters) signor Venoni— conduct him hither instantly, away!

[Exit servant.

Pri. (observing the viceroy's emotion) Ah! my good lord, what a heart have you for friendship! happy, thrice happy he whose worth or whose misfortunes can inspire you with such interest and such zeal! (The viceroy answers by a gesture of contemptuous impatience)

Venoni, in the habit of a novice, pale, wild, and haggard, enters, conducted by the servant, who retires.

Vice. } together. { My friend! Mar. } { My son! (hastening to receive him)

Venoni. (embracing them with a melancholy smile) I am permitted then to see you once more— you, whom I have ever loved so truly— you, the only ones who are still dear to me in the world! (he sees Hortensia; his countenance becomes disturbed, and he shudders: then recovering himself, he bows humbly, but with a look of gloom, and addresses her in a lowered voice, with much respect) noble lady, can you pardon this intrusion? I fear the sight of one so lost, so wretched—

Hor. (embarrassed) Venoni can never be unwelcome. I have not forgotten— I never shall forget— that there was a time when— that had I not hoped to make my child adopt—

Pri. (interrupting her hastily) Dear lady, compose yourself: your extreme sensibility overpowers you.

Vice. But answer me, Venoni; why is it that I see you in this habit?

Mar. Wherefore renounce the world? wherefore adopt a resolution so desperate, so extreme? your country has a right to your services, and—

Pri. My noble lords, when the voice of religion calls an unfortunate to her bosom—

Venoni. The voice of religion! no, father, no! the voice which has called me, is the voice of despair, my friends. I have lost every thing, every thing! and what then have I to do with the world? they who would serve their country, must possess strength of mind and health of body: mine have both yielded to the pressure of calamity! they who would serve their country, must possess their reason in full force and clearness: my reason— it is gone, quite gone! despairing passion has deranged all my ideas, has ruined all my faculties— I now have left but one sentiment, one feeling, one instinct— and that one is love!

Pri. What say you my son?

Venoni. (passionately) I say, that one is love! and I say the truth! father, I have engaged to renounce the world, to descend alive into the tomb; but I have not engaged to forget that I had, that I still have, a heart; that that heart is broken; that it burns, and will burn till it ceases to beat, with a passion which heaven cannot blame, since it was an angel who inspired it! I have told you, that her image would accompany me even to the altar's foot; I have told you that I would give up the world, but would never give up her; her who exists no longer except in this sad heart, this heart, where she shall never cease to exist— till I do!

Vice. Dear unfortunate youth!

Venoni. Unfortunate, say you? oh, no! the day of misfortune, the day of despair was that when I heard the death-bell sound, and they told me— twas for her! when I asked for whom was that funeral bier, and they told me— twas for her! but from that hour I ceased to suffer. It's true, my heart— all there is a devouring fire— my brain— all there is confusion and clouds: but that fire, it was she who first kindled it! but among these gloomy clouds, she is the only object which I still perceive distinctly— she is there, near me, always there; I see her, I speak to her, she replies to me— oh! judge then, my friend, whether with justice I can be called unfortunate! (sinking into the viceroy's arms)

Mar. Two victims! Hortensia, two victims! one has already perished, and the other—

Hor. (greatly affected) Oh! spare me, my husband! could I have forseen— never, never shall I cease to reproach myself—

Pri. My daughter, this trial is too severe for sensibility like yours. Let me entreat you, retire, and compose your mind!

Hor. You are right, father; you shall be obeyed. Venoni— farewell, Venoni! (going)

Venoni. (starting forward with a frantic look, and grasping her by the arm) Hold! you must not leave me yet! first tell me, why was the marriage so long delayed? why were your orders given, that Josepha should not see me at the convent? answer me— I will be answered!

Pri. My son, my son! you will make me repent that I allowed this interview— let us retire!

Venoni. (violently) No, no, no! I will stay here— here (with affection, and embracing the marquis) with my father. (returning to Hortensia) Answer me!

Hor. (terrified) Venoni! for heaven's sake! have mercy!

Venoni. (furious) Mercy? had you mercy upon me?

Pri. Venoni! follow me this instant! I command you!

Venoni. (violently but firmly) Tomorrow I will obey you; today I am still free! (to Hortensia) Answer, or— (turning suddenly to the marquis, while he releases Hortensia, who throws herself on a couch, and weeps) You know it well, my father, she was inexorable! you, you pitied me; but your wife saw my anguish, and her eye was still dry, and her heart was still marble! she opposed your granting me permission to see Josepha; she even insisted on your resuming that permission; but I rushed from her presence— I hastened to Messina— to the Ursuline convent— as I approached it, the death-bell tolled! the sound echoed to the very bottom of my soul, every stroke seemed to fall upon my heart! I trembled, my blood ran cold— (in a faltering voice) "who is dead?" (with a loud burst of agony) She, she! your daughter; my betrothed! my brain whirled round and round— I rushed into the chapel— a bier— a coffin— it inclosed your daughter! my betrothed, my happiness, my life! I sprang towards it— I extended my arms to clasp it, what followed I know not; I was at peace, I was happy, I had ceased to feel: but oh! the barbarians, they restored me to sense, and twas only to the sense of misery! (he falls weeping upon the viceroy's neck)

Hor. Every word he utters— seems a dagger to my heart!

Pri. (aside) Ah! how I repent!

Venoni. (recovering, and looking round) Twas here— in this very room— that I have passed so many happy, happy hours? twas here that I received your sanction to our union; twas in yon alcove, that I endeavoured to transmit to canvas Josepha's features— features impressed upon my heart indelibly! love guided my pencil— that portrait— tis there! tis she! tis Josepha! (he suddenly draws away the curtain, and discovers a picture of Josepha at full length— the prior stands forward on the scene, his hands tremble with passion, and his countenance expresses extreme vexation and stifled rage— on the picture's being discovered, Hortensia springs forward, sinks on her knees, and extends her arms towards, it— the marquis turns away from the picture, towards which his left hand points, while he hides his face on the viceroy's bosom; the viceroy stands in an attitude of grief with his arms extended towards the picture; he and the marquis are rather behind the other persons— Venoni stands before the picture, which is to the left of the audience, and gazes upon it with rapture)

Hor. My child! my child!

Mar. My Josepha!

Pri. (aside) Oh rage!

Hor. I expire! (Venoni on hearing Hortensia's last exclamation, turns round, hastens to raise her from her kneeling attitude, places her on the couch, and throws himself at her feet)

Venoni. You weep? you repent?— ah! then my resentment is over, and I find my mother once more! (kissing her hand affectionately, and in the gentlest voice) Look on me, my mother! cast on me one kind look; twill be the last; you will never see the wretched frantic youth again— tomorrow— oh! Hortensia, before we part for ever, tell me that you forgive me— tell me, that you do not hate me for having thus wounded your feelings— for having inflicted on you this unnecessary pain!

Hor. (embracing him passionately as he kneels) Forgive you? yes, yes my son! my beloved son! I pardon you—— heaven knows, I pardon you— and oh! in return may heaven and you pardon me!

Pri. (aside) Ah! how I suffer!

Venoni. I thank you! tis enough! now then I have no more to do with the world! (to the prior) good father, your pardon: I offended you even now; I remember it well.

Prior. (embracing him with dissembled affection) And I, my son, had already forgotten it— but tis time for us to retire— come!

Venoni. Yes, yes! let us away— farewell, my friends! my mother, farewell! I shall never see you more; but you will never cease to be dear to me; never, never!— and you too, my Josepha— farewell! for a little while farewell! whom death hath divided, death shall soon re-unite— come, father, come!— farewell! bless you, bless you: oh! come, come, come! (during this speech, his voice grows fainter; he leans on the prior, who conducts him slowly towards the door; at the end of the speech he sinks totally exhausted on the bosom of the prior, who conveys him away; while the viceroy and marquis lead off Hortensia on the other side).

End of Act I.



ACT II.

SCENE I.— The gardens of St. Mark— in the background is a gothic chapel, to which is a flight of steps; adjoining is the cemetery of the Ursuline convent, and several tombs are visible through a large iron gate.

[Vespers are performing in the chapel; the last words are chanted, while the curtain rises— the organ plays a voluntary, while the prior and his monks, descend from the chapel in procession. Father Jeronymo enters hastily, and accosts the prior, who comes forward; he starts at the information given him, and hastily bestows his benediction on the monks, who go off.]

Prior. Father Michael, say you? he wishes to see father Michael?

Jeronymo. Wishes? nay, he insists upon seeing him.

Prior. What business can he have with father Michael? what connexion can possibly subsist between them? how should it be even known to the viceroy, that such a being as father Michael exists?

Jer. On these points I can give you no information— yet now I recollect, that this very morning I observed a friar, whose air greatly resembled father Michael's loitering about the viceroy's palace.

Prior. Indeed! Jeronymo, I have long suspected this Michael to be a false brother; there is an affectation of rigid principles about him— of philosophical abstinence— of reserve respecting his own conduct and of vigilance respecting that of others, which make me look on him as a dangerous inmate of our house. However, he has not yet encountered the viceroy?

Jer. Fortunately, it was to me that count Benvolio expressed his wish to see this friar. I promised to go in search of him, and instantly commanded father Michael, in your name, not to presume till further orders to set his foot beyond the precincts of his cell. I then returned, to inform the viceroy, with pretended regret, that the person whom he desired to see was not at that time to be found in the monastery.

Prior. Good!

Jer. He appeared much disappointed, and announced his intention of waiting the friar's return. I was compelled to promise, that as soon as he should re-enter these walls, father Michael should be sent to him.

Prior. The viceroy then is still here?

Jer. He is: I left him in the garden parlour adjoining the refectory.

Prior. No matter: night approaches, and then he will be compelled to withdraw. Yet that he should rather desire to see father Michael than Venoni— that, I own, appears to me unaccountable. I was prepared for his endeavouring to obtain another sight of his friend, and using every possible means to disgust him with the idea of renouncing the world for ever. Secure of my influence over Venoni, absolute master of his understanding, and feeling my own strength in the knowledge of his weakness, I meant not to object to their interviews; and would have suffered count Benvolio to exert all his efforts freely, convinced that all his efforts would have been exerted in vain.

Jer. And in acting thus, you would have done wisely: else, if the viceroy had been denied admittance to his friend, he might have spread abroad, that you feared lest his arguments should dispel Venoni's illusion.

Prior. True; therefore should he demand to see our novice, even let his wish be gratified— this hated youth is ours beyond reprieve, this Venoni whom Josepha preferred to me, this Venoni to whom alone I impute my disappointment. I had worked upon the superstition and enthusiasm of the weak-minded Hortensia; I had persuaded her, that happiness and virtue existed not, except within the walls of a convent; already she saw in fancy her daughter's head encircled with a wreath of sainted glory, and she placed her in the Ursuline convent, in hopes that the example of the nuns might induce her to join their sisterhood— Josepha was in my power defenceless!

Jer. And yet she defeated your views!

Prior. She did, oh, rage! though snares were laid for her at every step, though where'er she turned, her eye met seductions of such enchanting power, as might have thawed the frozen bosom of chastity herself! but virtuous love already occupied Josepha's whole heart; and no room was left for impurer passions: or if for a moment she felt her wavering senses too forcibly assailed, she only pronounced the name of Venoni, and turned with disgust from every thought of pleasure, whose enjoyment would have made her less worthy of his love. But the hour of my revenge approaches! Venoni——

Jer. His last abode is prepared: his wealth once secured to our monastery, the donor shall be soon disposed of.

Prior. I hear a noise— tis Venoni: ever about this hour he comes to bathe yonder grating with his tears. Let us retire: solitude and the ideas which Josepha's tomb suggests, can but increase the confusion of his mind, and rivet the chains which bind him in our power. He is here: follow me in silence.

[Exeunt.

[As they go off on one side, Venoni enters on the other: he walks slowly; his arms are folded, and his head reclines on his shoulder.

Venoni. It was no mistake! oh, man, man! frail and inconstant! yes; for an instant I felt pleasure, and yet Josepha is no more; but the dream was of thee, my beloved, and oh! it was so fair, so lovely! however it is gone, and I am myself again; again am fit for the dead, and I hasten to thee my Josepha! (turning to the grate) I salute ye, cruel bars, which separate my beloved and me: another day has past, and again I mourn beside you! ye are cold: (kissing them) so is Josepha's heart; so too will mine be shortly. (rapidly) Yet while still that heart shall palpitate, while one spark of that fire still lives in it which was kindled by her eyes, still will I mourn beside you, cruel bars; still kneel and mourn beside you! (kneeling, and resting his head against the grate)

The viceroy enters.

Viceroy. That plaintive voice— I cannot be mistaken. Tis he! tis Venoni! my friend!

Venoni. (starting) Benvolio! you within these walls! ah, did I not entreat— I told you, I repeat it now, I'm dead to the world. I exist for no one— for nothing— but grief and the memory of Josepha. Leave me! leave me! (he resumes his despondent attitude)

Vice. Not till I have obtained one last, last interview. Venoni, I claim it in the name of that paternal friendship which I have borne you for so many years, and which even now I feel for you as strong as ever. I claim it in the name of that sacred union, once so near connecting us by the most tender ties: I claim it in the name of her, who while living was alike the darling of both our hearts, and in whose grave the affection of both our hearts alike lies buried— Venoni, I claim it in the name of Josepha.

Venoni. (quitting the grate) Of Josepha? say on you shall be heard.

Vice. Tell me then, cruel friend, what is your present object? why bury yourself in this abode of regret and sorrow, of repentance and despair? what reason, nay, what right have you to deprive society of talents, bestowed on you by Nature to employ for the benefit of mankind? and what excuse can you make for resigning into the hands of strangers that wealth which it is your sacred duty to distribute with your own? heaven has endowed you with talents capable of making your own existence useful; and your ungrateful neglect renders the gift of no avail: heaven has bestowed on you wealth, capable of making the existence of others happy; and your selfish indolence declines an office which the saints covet, and for which even the angels contend!

Venoni. Friend! Benvolio! in pity!

Vice. You are neither weak nor credulous: vulgar prejudices, superstitious terrors, enthusiastic dreams have never subjugated a mind whose innate purity can have left you nothing to fear, and whose genuine piety must have made you feel, that every thing is yours to hope. Why then do I find you in this seclusion? what good is to arise from this servile renunciation of yourself, this forgetfulness of the dignity of human nature, this disgraceful sinking under afflictions which are the common lot of all mankind? tis but too frequently the fate of man to encounter calamity; but to bear it with resignation is always his duty. Now speak, Venoni, and say, what arguments can defend your present conduct.

Venoni. (weakly and despondingly) Benvolio— I am wretched! I have lost every thing; my strength of mind is broken; my heart is the prey of despair.

Vice. Of despair? oh, blush to own it! true, you have met with sorrows; and who then is exempt from them? true, your hopes have been deceived; accident has dissolved your dream of happiness; death has deprived you of the mistress of your choice: but you are a man and a citizen; you have a country which requires your services, and yet, oh shame! you resign yourself to despair, Venoni, where is your fortitude?

Venoni. Fortitude? oh! I have none— none but to sue for death at the hand of heaven: had I possessed less fortitude, my own hand would have given me what I sue for long since!

Vice. And say, that death be the only blessing left yourself to wish for; is it then only for yourself, that you wish for blessing? say, that your heart be dead to pleasure, ought it not still to live for virtue? your prospects of happiness may indeed be closed, but the field of your duties remains still open. Mark me, Venoni; life may become to man but one long scene of misery; yet surely the spirit of benevolence should never perish but with life.

Venoni. Nor shall mine perish even then, Benvolio. In the hands of those virtuous men to whom I shall confide my treasures, they will become the patrimony of the widow and the orphan, of the wanderer in a foreign land, and of him on whom the hand of sickness lies heavy. When my bones shall be whitened by time, still shall my riches feed the fainting beggar. When this heart, itself so heavy, shall be mouldered away into dust, my bounty shall still make light the heavy hearts of my fellow-sufferers! yes; even in his grave, Venoni shall still make others happy!

Vice. And how can you hope that these friars will perform that duty hereafter, which you now through indolence refuse to perform yourself? you, who decline the task of distributing your wealth to advantage, how can you expect to find in strangers the spirit of benevolence more active?— would you have your fortune well administered, at least set yourself an example to your heirs: summon your fortitude, return to the world once more, and——

Venoni. I cannot! tis impossible! I am here!— here I must remain. My understanding impaired— a wretched creature, quite alone in the wide, wide, world— a feeble reed, crushed and broken by the tempest— I required support— I require it still— the superior of this house— the good man regrets my beloved, and mingles his tears with mine. I have found no one but him whose heart was open to my affliction— who would listen to my complaints unwearied— who would talk to me of Josepha. I am here— and Josepha— she is here too! nothing separates us except those bars. I am near her grave— I am near her— I live near her— I will die near her! (leaning against the grate)

Vice. The superior of this house? and are you sure you know his real character? mark me, unfortunate! yet should we be overheard——

Venoni. We are alone— proceed.

Vice. Know you a friar, called in this monastery by the name of Michael?

Venoni. I have seen the man; and now it strikes me that unusual care has been always taken to prevent our being left alone.

Vice. This Michael has written to me— but I know not if I ought— Venoni, should you betray——

Venoni. How, Benvolio? you doubt——

Vice. I doubt the soundness of your head, not the sentiments of your heart— yet it must be risked— Venoni, I came hither in search of father Michael— I heard your voice, and hastened to embrace you once more. Doubtless, I shall not be permitted to see this friar; be that your care. He writes, that what he has to disclose is of extreme importance; that it concerns— but you shall hear his letter— (reading) "I have secrets to divulge of consequence too great to be confided to paper. Suffice it, that your friend Venoni is in danger; totally in the power of his most cruel enemy——"

[At this moment the prior enters; the viceroy hastily conceals the letter in his bosom.]

Prior. (in an humble voice) I heard that your excellence was in the convent, and was unwilling to deprive you of an uninterrupted interview with your friend. But the hour is come, when our rules enjoin us solitude; pardon me then, when my duty compels me to observe——

Vice. I understand you, father; it is time that I should retire: yet surely your rules are not so strict as to prohibit my conversing with Venoni for one half hour more?

Prior. It grieves me to inform your excellence, that I have already in some degree infringed upon the scrupulous observance of our regulations. It may not be.

Venoni. How, father? a single half hour surely——

Prior. Ah, what do you request of me, my son? the viceroy's visit aims at depriving me of my dearest friend; of that friend whom I have selected from all mankind; and shall I not oppose the perseverance of his efforts? I know well the count Benvolio's influence over your mind, and tremble at the power of his persuasions. I cannot, and I ought not to abandon you to the tender anxious insinuations of generous but misjudging friendship; and I must not permit your eyes to dwell too long upon the deceitful pleasures of that world, which you have quitted with so much reason, and to which with such mistaken kindness your friends would force you back.

Vice. Father, this eagerness——

Prior. You have promised to be my brother, to be that which is far dearer, my friend: and shall I renounce a treasure so invaluable at the very moment, which ought to make it mine forever? No, no! Venoni, nor will I fear your exacting from me so great a sacrifice. He whose tears I have dried, whose sorrows I have shared— who has told me a thousand times that I was his only consolation, and that my sympathy shed the only gleam over his days of mourning. No! never will I believe that he will now reward my friendship with caprice, with desertion, with ingratitude so cruel, so cutting, so unlooked for!

Venoni. Oh, good father— I know not how——

Vice. You talk, sir, much of your friendship? I too profess to feel for Venoni no moderate share of that sentiment; and I think, that I prove my friendship best, when I advise him not to renounce a world, to which he owes the service of his talents and the example of his virtues. Yes, sir, yes! I advise Venoni to return into the world— and at least in giving that advice, I am certain that no one will suspect me of having views upon his fortune.

Pri. (to Venoni) You hear this accusation, my son! you hear it, and are silent! you, who are acquainted with my whole heart; you who know well how little I regard your wealth; that wealth, which perhaps I might desire without a crime, since it would only be placed in my hands, in order that it might pass into those of the unfortunate: that wealth which you would aid me yourself to distribute, and which— you turn away your eyes? you are afraid to encounter mine? the blow is then struck. I see— I feel too well that my friend is lost to me!

Venoni. (eagerly) Oh, no, no, no! never shall I forget the share which you have taken in my misfortunes; never shall I forget how much I owe to your consoling attentions, to your sympathy and pity. But yet— I confess— Benvolio's remonstrances— the duties which he has recalled to my contemplation— my country's claims upon my services——

Vice. (embracing him) Courage, my friend! proceed! dare to become a man once more, and restore to your native land that most precious treasure, a virtuous citizen!

Pri. (with assumed gentleness) I have no more to say: since such is your choice, return to the world, my son; I oppose it no longer. Undoubtedly you will there meet with pleasures and indulgences, such as the sad and silent cloister could little hope to offer you. Perhaps you act wisely; perhaps in the tumult of society, surrounded by gay and fascinating objects who will spare no pains to charm and please you, at length you may succeed in forgetting the unfortunate, to whose remembrance you once were prepared to sacrifice every thing.

Venoni. (starting in horror at the idea) I! I forget her! forget Josepha!

Pri. And in fact— why renounce all the delights of life for one who cannot know the sacrifice— who now is nothing more than an unconscious heap of ashes——

Venoni. Josepha!

Pri. No more will you kneel at yonder grate; no more will that tomb——

Venoni. Josepha!

Vice. (indignant at the prior's success) This artifice— this insidious language——

Pri. (pressing his point) Yes, yes! I see how it will be! she, whom heaven scarcely balanced in your heart, soon abandoned, soon forgotten, soon replaced——

Venoni. (almost frantic) Never, never!

Vice. Rash youth! pronounce not——

Pri. You have sworn a thousand times to live near her, to die near her——

Venoni. (in the most violent agitation) I have! I have sworn it! I will keep my vow, and— hark! (the bell strikes nine; at the first sound Venoni starts, and utters a dreadful shriek; the blood seems to curdle in his veins, and he remains in an attitude of horror like one petrified.)

Pri. (triumphant) Ah, listen to that bell! twas at this very hour, that Josepha's eye-lids closed for ever! twas at this very hour, that— (the bell ceases to strike; Venoni recovers animation)

Venoni. Josepha! oh, my Josepha! (he rushes towards the grate, sinks on his knees, and extends his arms through the bars towards the tomb.)

Venoni. (after a short pause starts up, comes forward, and embraces the viceroy in a hurried manner) Farewell! I am grateful for your zeal; but my fate is irrevocable!

Vice. Cruel youth! yet hear——

Venoni. No more, no more! I am dead to the world! yet forget not, that while I lived, I lived to love you. Farewell, Benvolio— farewell for ever!

[Breaks from him, and exit.

(The viceroy remains in an attitude of profound grief; the prior surveys him in silence with a look of malignant joy; at length he advances towards him)

Pri. (in a hypocritical tone) May I without offence represent to your excellence, that night approaches? it must be near the time, when our rules require, that the monastery gates should be closed.

Vice. I read your soul, and your inhuman joy bursts out in spite of your hypocrisy. Exult; but your triumph will be short. I have eyes— they are fixed upon you!— tremble!

[Exit.

Pri. (fiercely) And you who talk so loudly and so high— tremble for yourself! vain man, you little dream to what heights I can extend my vengeance!

(Father Jeronymo enters with a dark lantern.)

(During the following scene, night comes on, and the moon rises)

Jer. Even now I encountered Venoni, his eyes wild, his lips pale, his whole frame trembling with agitation. I almost dread to inquire the issue of this interview. Say, what result——

Pri. Jeronymo, there was one dreadful moment, when I gave up all for lost— Venoni was on the point of escaping from my power.

Jer. What! the viceroy's arguments——

Pri. Spoke but too forcibly to Venoni's heart. He talked to him of his duties; he painted the world as a spacious field for the exercise of virtue, and Venoni no longer looked upon the world with disgust.

Jer. But surely his love— his despair— the shock which his understanding has received—

Pri. Right: tis to them that we are indebted for retaining our captive in his chains. His resolution was shaken; the viceroy already triumphed; but I pronounced Josepha's name, and instantly he forgot all but her. He is ours once more; tomorrow will see him resign his wealth and liberty in my hands; and much time shall not elapse, ere that first sacrifice is followed by a second.

Jer. And does then this count Benvolio inspire you with no apprehensions? As viceroy of Messina his power is great; and how to escape the vigilance of his suspicious eye—

Pri. And by what means then have I veiled from every eye the fate of the wretched Lodovico, who for twenty years has expiated in the gloom of our subterraneous cells the crime of having revealed our convent secrets; and yet who on earth suspects, that he has not long since sought the grave, the victim of an accidental malady? Jeronymo, fear nothing; give me but time, and the success of my design is certain.

Jer. I would fain believe it so— yet forget not, that father Michael—

Pri. His fate is decided. It's true, I as yet accuse him only on suspicions, but these suspicions are enough. I will not live in fear, and tomorrow— some one approaches.

Jer. As well as the moonlight enables me to discern, tis Venoni— perhaps he returns hither, hoping that the viceroy may not be yet departed.

Pri. Let us retire. I have still much to say to you— summon our friends to my cell, that our proceedings may be finally arranged. Afterwards we will rejoin Venoni, and spare no pains to confirm him in that resolution, which secures at once his destruction and my revenge. Silence! he is here!

[Exeunt.

Venoni enters hastily.

Venoni. Benvolio! friend! he is gone! how abruptly did I quit him! how ungratefully have I repaid his kindness! ah, whither is my reason fled! he said— I was in danger! in danger? and what then have I left to fear? what have I still left to lose? my life? oh, I were happy— too, too happy— if the moment of parting with it were even now arrived!

Enter father Michael, with a dark lantern; which he afterwards just opens to observe Venoni, and having ascertained his person, closes it again looking round cautiously.

Mi. (in a low, hurried voice) That voice could be none but his. Venoni! answer! is it thou, Venoni?

Venoni. Who speaks? ha! father Michael?

Mi. (closing the lantern) I sought you— I must speak with you— I must save you!

Venoni. Save me?

Mi. The viceroy has been here: was he admitted?

Venoni. He was— I saw him.

Mi. Mentioned he a letter?

Venoni. He did.

Mi. I was not suffered to see him: they suspect me, and confined me in my cell a prisoner, till he had left the monastery. I am compelled then to address myself to you; but I must be speedy: one moment only is allowed me, while the prior and his confederates are engaged in their secret councils. Venoni, collect your powers of mind; summon up all your strength; this is a moment which demands courage and resolution— your Josepha is lost to you—

Venoni. For ever!

Mi. And know you the man who tore her from your arms? know you the man who— murdered her?

Venoni. Murdered her? almighty powers! what mean you? whom mean you?

Mi. Your rival! your friend! the man who today possesses most influence over your mind, and who tomorrow will become despotic master of your destiny: the tiger whose tongue submissively licks your hand today, and whose talons will tear out your heart tomorrow.

Venoni. Whom, whom?

Mi. The father Coelestino.

Venoni. (in the greatest horror) He? the prior? powers of mercy!— (then with decision) away! it cannot be.

Mi. You doubt me? be convinced then. Some months are past since a tremendous fire broke out in this convent at midnight. The prior was absent; his apartment was in flames; I burst the door, and rescued such articles as appeared to be of most importance; a crucifix of value; his casket; his papers—

Venoni. Go on, go on!

Mi. Among these papers one letter was half open: unintentionally the first words caught my eye, and their import compelled me to read the rest. It was from the abbess of the Ursulines, whose chapel is only separated from ours by a party-wall. It informed me, that a communication exists between the two convents, unknown to all but the prior and his confidants; that the most scandalous abuses—

Venoni. (frantic with impatience) Josepha, Josepha— oh! speak to me of Josepha!

Mi. Other letters leave no doubt, that the prior's motive for secluding her in the Ursuline convent was a licentious passion for your bride. In that convent every art was employed to corrupt her heart, but every art was employed in vain. She endeavoured to escape; she was watched and closely confined. Your return was expected daily— Josepha threatened her tyrants with disclosure of this atrocious secret— the prior and his accomplice stood on the brink of an abyss, and, to prevent it, she was precipitated into an untimely grave.

Venoni. (leaning against a tree) My brain turns around.

Mi. Nay, sink not beneath the blow; think upon Josepha's murder, and hasten to avenge it— think upon the dreadful fate which awaits yourself. I come hither to rescue you, and—

Venoni. Stay, stay! my brain— my ideas— oh, God! oh, God! can there be men so cruel— can there be hearts so hard! he, he who supported my aching head on his bosom— who wept with me— who pitied me— rage! distraction!— but no! (shuddering) this crime is too horrible, nature revolts at it, this crime is impossible!

Mi. Impossible? then read this. (taking out a letter) I have seen the prior show you notes from the abbess, in which she affected to pity your situation, and lament the loss of Josepha— you recollect her writing?

Venoni. Recollect it? oh heaven, too well!— let me look on the letter! (father Michael opens the lantern and throws a light upon the paper, at the same time shading it with his habit to prevent its being observed at the convent) Yes, this is her hand; I should know it among a thousand others.

Mi. Read! read, and be convinced.

Venoni. (reading, while emotion frequently chokes his voice) "We are undone, Coelestino; her parents have written to me; and in a few days we must expect Venoni's return. The incensed Josepha threatens to reveal all that has past; prayers and menaces have been tried in vain; she has determined on our destruction, and nothing can preserve us but her removal from the world. You must decide immediately; answer me but one word, and before three days are elapsed, Josepha and this dangerous secret shall be buried together, and for ever!" (he sinks upon a bank of turf, as if stupified, and sits there in an attitude of motionless despair)

Mi. Josepha's death, which happened within three days after this letter's date, declares but too plainly, what was the villain's answer. You are now master of the whole plot. Tis evident, that your life also is aimed at: you are a rival, whom the prior abhors; and whom it was first necessary to deceive, before he could gratify his vengeance. Your vows once pronounced— your wealth secured— separated from your friends— deprived of all assistance; then it is that the storm of revenge and malice will burst in all its horrors on your devoted head. You will be dead to all the rest of nature, but you will still exist for Coelestino; will exist to feel the whole extent of his barbarity, to experience every refinement of torture and every species of agony; without being really permitted to expire, daily to suffer a thousand and a thousand deaths. You answer not? you move not?— rouse, rouse, Venoni; let us hasten from this dangerous abode: my fate is no less certain than your own, and flight alone can save me. It's true, the gates are locked, but I possess the key to a private door of the garden. We are yet unobserved; rise then and let us hence.

Venoni. (recovering from his stupor, and suddenly starting up) Where is he? where does the monster hide himself? I will revenge her! I will punish her murderers!

Mi. (violently alarmed) What would you do? whither would you go?

Venoni. Whither? whither? to revenge Josepha!

Mi. For mercy's sake, recollect yourself! this way; let us fly.

Venoni. (raving) What? fly? and leave her unavenged? never! I will die, I will die! but I will punish her assassins!

Mi. Silence, silence! these shrieks— we shall be betrayed: you destroy yourself, Venoni! yourself and me!

Venoni. (with frantic screams) Josepha! Josepha!

Mi. (endeavouring to force him away) I must be gone! follow me, or you are lost! hark! holy saints they are at hand! wretched youth, they bring the death warrant of us both! come, come! for heaven's sake come!

Venoni. (without heeding him) The miscreant! the monster! oh, Josepha!

Mi. (in despair releasing him) Remain, then, madman, since thou wilt have it so! remain, and perish!

[Exit hastily.

Venoni. (alone, and wandering about the garden with a distracted air) Where shall I direct— where seek— a cloud obscures my eyes— despair, rage, powers of vengeance! powers of fury! guide me, desert me not; give me strength to— my limbs refuse to bear me: I faint, I die! (he falls upon the ground)

The prior, the fathers Jeronymo, Anastasio, and Nicolo, and other monks enter with torches.

Pri. (speaking without) What clamours make the garden resound? who thus disturbs the hallowed silence which—— how? Venoni! alone! stretched on the earth! he is insensible; yet sure there was some one with him! speak, Jeronymo; heard you not?—

Jer. Two voices certainly seemed to mingle, and the dispute was earnest.

Ana. Whoever was here, cannot have gone far. Let us seek.

Pri. Lose not a moment: be Nicolo your companion.

[Exeunt Anastasio and Nicolo.

Pri. Meanwhile, be it our care to restore Venoni to himself: his fortune is not yet in our possession. (he kneels and supports Venoni in his arms) My son! Venoni! look up, Venoni.

Venoni. (reviving) Who names me? who speaks to me?

Pri. One whom your situation cuts to the very heart. What has produced this new distress? tell me, my son?

Venoni. (whom the prior has assisted to rise, casts round him a wild unconscious look, and unable to support himself reclines his head on the prior's bosom) What has happened? where am I?

Pri. In the arms of that tender friend whose sympathy—

Venoni. (struck by the voice, and recollecting himself, raises his head, fixes his eyes on the prior, and repulses him with a look of extreme horror) Thou? thou? oh, eternal justice!

Pri. (astonished) How is this? you drive me from you; and does then the sight of me inspire you with disgust?

Venoni. (shuddering) Disgust?

Pri. In what have I offended? what is my crime?

Venoni. (exasperated beyond bounds) And still dare you ask? inhuman! still dare you ask— what is your crime? oh, monstrous hypocrisy! oh, guilt beyond belief! she is dead! and still dare you ask— in what have you offended?

Enter father Anastasio and father Nicolo.

Ana. Tis in vain that—

Pri. Silence! (with calm dignity) hear me, Venoni! tis plain that your senses are disordered, and I therefore listen to these insults without resentment: these insults which I have so little deserved from you. But I know well that your injustice proceeds not from your heart; and when this paroxysm of delirium is past—

Venoni. Delirium? no, no! do not hope it! excess of misery— desire of vengeance have restored my reason: I feel but too well, both for myself and you, that my senses are right again, and tremble thou to hear they are so! I see you now in your true colours, in all the horrors of your atrocious guilt! your hour is arrived; your cup is full; and the abyss already yawns beneath your feet, which within an hour shall bury you in its womb for ever! farewell! (going)

Pri. Yet stay, Venoni! you must not— you shall not leave me thus. What means this talk of guilt, of vengeance? declare at once what troubles you! I boldly challenge an immediate explanation.

Venoni. (furious) What? you brave me? ha! read! read, then, monster! (gives him the letter, which he received from father Michael: but immediately afterwards, becoming aware of his imprudence, he endeavours to regain it) merciful heavens, what have I done!

Pri. (after examining the letter turns to the monks, and says in a calm decided tone) Every thing is discovered— we are betrayed.

Jer. How? how?

Ana. What must be done? we are lost!

Jer. But one moment is still ours.

Ni. There is but one chance of escape—

Pri. Silence! (during these speeches he seems to have been collecting his thoughts; he advances to Venoni, and says in a firm decided tone) those words, in which you threatened my destruction, assured your own— (in a voice of thunder) die! die, and be our dangerous secret buried for ever in your grave! (to Jeronymo) unclose the chapel door and raise the secret stone.

Jeronymo enters the chapel.

Pri. Seize him!

Venoni. (who during the above speeches has remained in silent consternation, on being seized by father Anastasio, &c. bursts out into the most passionate exclamations) What, barbarians! do you dare?—

Pri. Bear him to the chapel!

Venoni. (struggling) Inhuman monsters! the vengeance of heaven— my friends— my cries— help— save me!

Pri. Stifle his shrieks! away with him! (the monks surround him— a handkerchief is thrown over his face, and he sinks into their arms exhausted— the scene drops, as they are conveying him towards the chapel, the prior being the last who follows, pointing to him with a look of triumphant vengeance)

End of Act. II.



ACT III.

SCENE I— A dungeon with a concealed door on one side, a tomb on the other, and a gallery above— a grated door in the back.

Lod. (with an iron bar in one hand and lamp in the other, comes feebly from the concealed door) My efforts are unavailing! wretched, wretched Lodovico, the hopes of escape, which thou hast so long indulged, must at length be abandoned forever! in vain has the labour of twenty years forced me a passage from my own cell into this adjoining dungeon: in vain has my persevering vigilance at length succeeded in discovering yonder private door, whose artful concealment during whole years eluded my inquiries— the upper portal— its massive bars— its inflexible locks: increasing age— increasing weakness. Farewell, hope! I will make the attempt no more, (he throws down the iron bar) Oh, faint— faint! my efforts have quite exhausted me— now, even were the means of flight mine, weakness would forbid— I will regain my own cell, sink on my couch of straw, pardon my enemies, and expire! let me see! yes! twas about this spot that I made the opening, and these stones removed—

Pri. (above) For a few moments wait above: you, Jeronymo, precede me with the torch.

Lod. Heavens! tis the prior! twenty years have elapsed since I heard it; but too well do I remember that dreadful voice, which pronounced on me the sentence of separation from the world forever. What business— perhaps, my death— alas, alas! I fear it! wretched as my existence is, frail as is the fibre by which I am attached to life, still the moment is awful, which must sever it for ever; whither shall I turn— how avoid— I dare not regain my prison— this cell too will doubtless be searched— (a light flashes across the gallery) he comes! tis to this very dungeon that his steps are addrest— where then, oh, where shall I drag my fainting limbs— ha! perhaps, that secret passage may be unknown even to the prior— perhaps it may awhile conceal— it must be tried— see, see! he is here! away, away!

[Exit, and closes the door after him.

Enter the prior and Jeronymo, with torches.

Pri. I tell you this dungeon is impenetrable: in vain will our enemies seek its entrance.

Jer. But still the viceroy's suspicions aided by his authority. Besides, is not father Michael fled?

Pri. Father Michael! absurd! and how then, is it in his power to betray us? we reposed in him no confidence; he has never been initiated into our mysteries, and can have no possible reason for suspecting even the existence of this dungeon.

Jer. Yet still I cannot but fear—

Pri. Your fears are groundless— I am aware that Venoni will be inquired after; but how plausible will be the answer? "he has escaped from us in the night, and whither delirium may have led the wanderer, we are ignorant." Say that the viceroy insists that Venoni is still within these walls! we have no objection to his searching through the whole monastery, perfectly secure that his search must be of no avail. Tis already midnight. Place the lamp upon yonder tomb; place too that dagger near it, the only mercy which my hatred can allow him;— then when despair shall reach its height, when he feels that hope is lost to him, and that existence is a curse, then if he has courage let him grasp that weapon, and thank the clemency of Coelestino. Come! all is prepared!

Enter Anastasio and Nicolo, with Venoni, whom they throw upon the floor.

Pri. Object of everlasting hate! object of never to be sated vengeance, lie thou there! live to feel the pangs of dying with every moment of the day, that day whose light thou never shalt behold again. Follow me!

[Exeunt prior, &c.

Lodovico appears at the private door.

Lod. They are gone; their victim remains— oh, let but his escape be effected through my aid, and then how soon this old weak frame ceases to feel, I care not! (he descends)

Venoni. Where am I? have they left me? the mist which obscures my sight allows me to distinguish nothing; the objects which surround me seem all confused; a thousand wild distorted images distract my brain— I must give way.

Lod. Alas, poor youth! on the ground? I'll hasten to pour upon his wounded heart the balm of consolation— yet hold! may they not return! yet a few moments—

Venoni. (rising) The clouds disperse. I am alone— they are gone— doubtless are gone for ever! what? and shall then the barbarian triumph? shall then Josepha die unavenged? she must, she must! then farewell, liberty; farewell hope! despair, despair! ha, what glitters— a dagger? a tomb? doubtless designed for me— tis there that all sorrows terminate! tis there, that I shall dread no more the treachery and crimes of man, his perfidious friendship, his dissembled spite, his infernal thirst for vengeance! ha, and if all this indeed be so— why not this instant seize a blessing within my grasp? why not at once defeat the malice of my jailors? it shall be so, and thus— (going to stab himself, when Lodovico arrests his arm)

Lod. Hold, hold! ungrateful!

Venoni. Ha! a stranger?

Lod. Short-sighted mortal! blush to have attempted that impious act! you despaired of succour; you doubted the goodness of Providence; and at that very moment heaven had commissioned me to comfort and preserve you.

Venoni. What are you? what mean you? speak, oh, speak!

Lod. Like yourself, I am the object of Coelestino's hatred; like yourself was I condemned to descend alive into the tomb. Mark me, young man. I knew well, that between these vaults and those belonging to the adjoining convent there existed various private communications— the faint hope of discovering one of them formed the only amusement of my solitary hours: I sought it— I persevered— youth, I have found it—

Venoni. Have found it? go on, for heaven's sake.

Lod. Have found it here; found it, where its existence is probably unknown even to the prior, since he selected this dungeon for your confinement— observe this private door— (opening it) this passage leads to a closed portal; its fastnings are massy— I endeavoured but in vain to force them; that bar, which I wrenched from my dungeon door—

Venoni. That bar? tis mine! I have it! come father, come! to the portal!

Lod. Alas, my son! the ponderous fastenings— the bolts— the bars will resist!

Venoni. Oh, talk not to me of resistance! what force can oppose the efforts of a lover, a frantic desperate lover! father, there was a maiden— how fair she was, nothing but thought can imagine— how I adored her, nothing but this heart can feel! father, this maiden— they tore her from me, they murdered her— murdered her barbarously— tis for her sake that I wish for liberty! tis to avenge her murder that I go to labour; and can you doubt my success? no, no! that thought will turn my blood into consuming fire, will harden every nerve into iron, will endow every limb, every joint, every muscle with vigour and strength and powers herculean— come, father, come.

Lod. Oh! that I could! but age— but infirmity— go, go, my son, I will remain, and pray for you.

Venoni. What? go, and leave you still in the power of your foe! never, never!

Lod. Dear generous youth, you must! I should but impede your flight; I should but mar your exertions. Away then! effect your own escape— then return, and rescue me, if possible— but should you find me dead, oh! believe, that it will have sweetened the bitter hour to think, that my existence lasted long enough to preserve yours.

Venoni. Thou good old man—

Lod. Yet one word! should you force the portal, and reach the interior of the Ursuline convent in safety, shape your course towards the garden: the wall is low— to scale it is easy and—

Venoni. Enough! and now— (going)

Lod. And when you are free— when smiling, friends surround you— when all for you is liberty, and peace and happiness, do not— oh! do not quite forget, that a poor captive, languishing in his solitary cell—

Venoni. Forget you? never! by that life which you now give me, never; I swear it! once at liberty, my first care shall be to effect your rescue, my second to secure your happiness. Oh! surely if aught in life is sweet it is when the heart overflows with gratitude, and the hand has the power to perform what that grateful heart dictates and desires: oh! surely if there is aught which gives mortals a foretaste of the bliss of angels, it is when affection brings a smile upon the furrowed cheeks of those to whom we are indebted for our existence. Tis to you that I owe that gift; and while I have life, never will I forget that it is to you I owe it. Now then away! one embrace: one blessing: then pray for me, father, pray for me, and farewell!

[Exit with the lamp.

Lod. (alone) Spirits who favour virtue oh! strengthen his arms! aid him! support him! hark he is at the door! I hear him! again, and again! repeat the blow! hark, hark, it breaks, it shivers! and see—

Venoni, appearing above with the lamp.

Venoni. Freedom, freedom, freedom, friend, farewell! I speed to rescue you.

[Exit.

Lod. Fly, fly! you bear with you my blessing! (kneeling) Heaven, I adore and thank you! I have preserved a fellow creature's life.

[The scene closes.

SCENE II— an anti-chamber in the viceroy's palace.

Enter Benedetto, Carlo, Pietro, &c.

Ben. Here, Pietro! Carlo! where are you all? they call for more iced water! the supper-room is not half lighted— and Carlo, Carlo, bless my heart! I had almost forgotten! Carlo, take three of your fellows, and help to bring out the fat countess of Calpi, who has just fainted away in the ball room.

[Exeunt servants.

What heat! what a crowd! nay, for that matter the fat countess of Calpi is a crowd of herself, and though it were the depth of winter, her presence would raise the thermometer to "boiling water." Well! I must say, it's mighty inconsiderate in corpulent people to come abroad in sultry weather; and if I were a senator, I'd make it high treason for persons above a certain weight to squeeze themselves into public places after the first of May.

Enter Teresa.

So, Teresa! gay doings! lord bless their elbows, how the fiddlers are shaking them away in the ball room.

Te. Gay in truth. But good-lack! it only serves to make me melancholy by reminding me, how the dear lady Josepha would have ornamented such an entertainment! I see the marchioness is here: well! how she can find spirits to enter scenes of gayety—

Ben. Nay, nay, Teresa, the viceroy insisted on her coming; but though the scene around her is gay, that her heart is sad is but too evident.

Te. Ah! and well it may be sad— after shutting her daughter up in the convent where she caught that fatal malady—

Ben. Could she foresee that? and why lay all the blame upon the marchioness? surely the marquis is almost as culpable for consenting that—

Te. By no means, Benedetto, by no means; the marquis only did what every sensible man ought to do; he obeyed his wife— but as for the marchioness— oh! I have no patience with her!

Ben. So it appears, Teresa; and shall I tell you why? because the marchioness is a woman, and you are a woman too: now I've always observed that when a female has done wrong, she ever meets with least indulgence from persons of her own sex; and whenever I want to hear the foibles of one woman properly cut up, I never fail to ask another woman what she thinks of them.

Ser. (without) Benedetto, Benedetto!

Ben. Coming, coming! [Exit.

Te. Well, there is one thing that seems to me very strange; Benedetto has certainly an excellent understanding— and yet he isn't always of my opinion— now that appears to me quite unaccountable. (going)

Father Michael rushes in out of breath.

Mi. Heaven be praised! then I am arrived at last.

Te. A friar! your business, father?

Mi. Tis with the viceroy; good daughter, lead me to him this instant.

Te. This instant? oh, mercy on me, you can't see him tonight, if you'd give your eyes.

Mi. I must, I tell you! I must! my business is of such importance, that—

Enter Benedetto.

Ben. Why, Teresa! dawdling here, while the maids—

[Exit Teresa.

Mi. Tis the same! how fortunate!— worthy old man—

Ben. Is it you, father? why, you were out, when his excellence went this evening to—

Mi. I was at home— but the prior's suspicions— I was a prisoner; and— but this is no time for explanation— lead me to your lord! away.

Ben. Impossible, father! all the grandees of Messina— a banquet, a ball— dont you hear the music? but doubtless tomorrow—

Mi. Tomorrow will be too late! alas! perhaps it is too late already! perhaps at this very moment Venoni is no more!

Ben. No more. Venoni? follow me, father, follow me this instant— stay, stay! as I live, here comes his excellence himself.

Enter the Viceroy and Hortensia.

Vice. Nay, dear Hortensia— how now? what would you, father?

Mi. Pardon my intrusion, noble sir, but my business will not brook delay— I am that friar whose letter this morning—

Vice. Father Michael? speak! come you from Venoni?

Mi. He is in danger— perhaps is already no more! oh, speed for his aid! rescue him, if possible; if too late, avenge him! if he still lives, I suspect the place of his confinement, and can guide you thither: if this bloody deed is already accomplished, at least let us punish the crimes of his assassin, the monster Coelestino!

Vice. His assassin!

Hor. Coelestino? stay, brother, stay! will you on the word of an unknown believe that a man whose whole course of life has been so pure, so pious—

Mi. Nay, lady, for heaven's love delay us not; these moments are precious, are dreadful! these moments decide the life or death of a human being— come, come, my lord! let the prior be seized; terror will doubtless compel him to confess my charge! secure, too, the abbess of the Ursulines; she can confirm my story; she well knows that the prior's licentious love for your niece, for the murdered Josepha—

Hor. Murdered? my child?

Vice. Horror crowds on horror! within there! my servants! my guards! away to the monastery; if there denied admittance, we'll force the gates!— Venoni, thou shalt be preserved, or avenged most dreadfully. On, on, good friar! away!

[Exeunt.

Hor. (alone) Can it be? Coelestino— the abbess— he, whom I ever thought so holy— she, in whom I reposed such fatal confidence?— distracting doubts, I must be satisfied;— yes! I'll hasten to the Ursulines; I'll interrogate the abbess myself! I'll question— I'll threaten; and if I find her guilty— oh! then if her heart possesses but one feeling fibre, it will surely writhe with agony, when she hears the groans, when she sees the anguish of a despairing, of a childless mother!

[Exit.

SCENE III— An apartment in the Ursuline convent decorated for a festival— the back part is filled up by a dark-coloured curtain— night.

The prior enters preceded by a friar with a torch, and followed by Veronica.

Ve. Yet hear me, Coelestino!

Pri. Idle remonstrances! what! shall I have plunged into guilt, and reap no fruits from it but the danger? abbess, Josepha must be mine: remember my power, and obey me!

Ve. You have been obeyed; your victim is even now conducting hither; the banquet— the lights— the choral harmony— every thing is prepared, that can seduce her senses; but all these temptations she has already resisted— she will resist them still: then spare me the odious— the unavailing office—

Pri. Perform it well, and it will not be unavailing. For twelve long months cut off from all society— deprived of every joy, of every comfort, even deprived of light— then, when suddenly the radience of a thousand torches blazes upon her wondering eye, when music swells upon her ear and, still more melting still more melodious, when the voice of affection speaks touchingly to her heart; nay, if she then prefers her gloomy cell to liberty and pleasure, Josepha's virtue must be more than human.

Ve. But should it prove so— oh! then at least forbear to persecute the unfortunate! let her swear never to divulge our secrets— let some well imagined tale account for her reported death, and—

Pri. How? and dare you, the creature of my will, whose life depends but upon my breath—

Ve. While you speak, forget not also that my fate involves your own; I too can divulge—

Pri. Speak but such another threatening word, and the whole measure of your offences shall be made public throughout Messina— my mind is resolved; my resolutions are taken: I can dare every thing; but you— weak, trembling, doubting woman— dare you die!

Ve. O! no, no, no! you know but too well, I dare not.

Pri. No more, then, but obey me. Tonight be it your care to fascinate Josepha's senses and inflame her heart. Tomorrow I will once more present myself before her and prove, whether virtue and Venoni can counterbalance at once the allurements of present pleasure, and the apprehension of future pain. You have heard my will; obey it! should Josepha escape, I swear, that my vengeance shall drag you to the scaffold, even though I ascend it with you myself, (to the friar) Lead to the monastery.

[Exeunt.

Ve. I struggle in vain to escape; the snares of guilt are wound too closely round me. Hark! she comes! tis Josepha! I heard the plaintive murmur of that voice, so sweet, so tender, so touching! I dare not meet her yet— oh! Josepha, gladly would I share thy gloomy dungeon, could I but share with it thy uncorrupted heart.

[Exeunt.

A nun enters with a lamp followed by sister Lucia, who conducts Josepha blind-folded.

Jo. Oh! why is this mysterious silence? for what purpose have you taken me from my prison? who are you, and whither have you brought me? have mercy on my agony! see, how this silence terrifies me: see how I kneel at your feet; see how I kiss them and bathe them with my tears. Answer me— in pity answer. Still no reply? still no kind consoling sound? (Lucia motions to leave her) oh! no, no, no! do not leave me! even though you speak not, stay, oh, stay! let me at least be conscious, that there is a human being near me— that I am not the only thing within these mournful walls, which possesses life and feeling! stay, stay, in charity! (the nun breaks from her and exit) they leave me— they are gone! hark! a door closes! I hear their retiring footsteps! alas! alas! even in the noise of that closing door, even in the echo of those departing steps, there was some little comfort: they at least betokened the existence of a human being. I am alone— let me remove the bandage, and examine. Dark! dark! all dark! still all silence, still all gloom! where am I? I dare not advance lest some abyss— oh! light, light! glorious light! shall I then never see thee more? any thing but this dead and hollow silence! any thing but this sepulchral, this dreadful, this heart-oppressing gloom.

Chorus within, very full and sweet.

—"O! love! sweet love!"—

Jo. Hark! voices! I heard them! I am sure I heard them! it was music! melody! enchantment— hark! hark! again.

CHORUS.

"Love rules the court, the camp, the grove. For love is heaven, and heaven is love."

During this chorus, the curtain rolls up, and discovers a banquet splendidly illuminated; large folding doors are in the centre; chandeliers descend, and the stage becomes as light as possible— Veronica and nuns are in the front.

Jos. See! see! all bright! all brilliant; a dream— a fairy vision— the blaze overpowers me, my eyes are dazzled; my brain grows dizzy: I cannot support the rapture— (sinks against a pillar)

Ve. Josepha!

Jos. (starting) Surely that voice— the abbess, what can mean—

Ve. How? not speak to me, my child? not look upon your mother?

Jos. Mother? child? oh! it is long since I heard those dear, dear names— my heart— my feelings— (throwing herself into her arms) oh! if I am your child, then mother, mother! be to me a mother indeed!

Ve. And do I not prove myself one, my Josepha, when now, in spite of all your past perverseness I again clasp you to my bosom, I again put it in your own choice to live in liberty, in society, in delight? look round you, my daughter! see how every countenance smiles to welcome you; see, how every heart springs towards you; see, how—

Jos. (starting away from her, exclaims with energy) Ha! now I understand it all! the mystery is cleared! the web is unravelled! yes, yes, the meaning bursts at once upon me, all in the broad blaze of its daring villany, in all the hypocrisy of its deep-laid odious art!

Ve. What art? what villany? when kindly I woo you to—

Jos. Speak not! proceed not! let not the unholy words pass through your lips, as you value your own soul! I guess your meaning; oh! then pronounce it not; great as are your crimes let me save you from committing one so monstrous as this! the lessons of vice from any lips appear disgusting; but when a woman gives them breath— tis horrible! tis dreadful! tis unnatural!

Ve. (aside) Oh! if I dared— no, no! it cannot be.

Jos. Ah! you melt? oh! then behold me kneeling before you; see my anguish, my fears, my hopes. I have none but in you! remember your sex, your habit, your former affection for me. You loved me once! even now you called me your child, often have you prest me to your heart with all a mother's tenderness— oh! then by that tender name I charge you, I implore you, tempt me not to vice; rather aid me to persevere in virtue. Let me depart; restore me to my parents; I will never divulge your dreadful secret. It's true I once threatned you; I would fain have terrified you into penitence, but you know my heart, all merciful; you know, that I would not willingly hurt even a worm!— she weeps! she pities me! blessings on you, eternal blessings! oh, let me hasten— (going, Veronica starts in terror: the nuns opposes her progress)

Ve. Hold! detain her! Josepha, that I suffer— that I feel for you— it were fruitless to deny; but alas! unfortunate, your fate is decided; your fate and mine! the prior— the unrelenting prior— oh, so guilty as I am, I dare not look on death. Yield, then, Josepha, yield! all hope is lost to you—

Jose. Nay, not so, lady! strong as are my fetters, heaven may one day break them; but robbed of innocence, then, indeed, not heaven itself could save me. When rains beat heavy, the rose for awhile may droop its head oppressed; but the clouds will disperse, and the sun will burst forth, and the reviving flower will raise its blushing cup again; but all the flames of the sun and all the zephyrs of the south can never restore its fragrance and its health to the once-gather'd lily.

Ve. Alas, alas! to protect you is beyond my power! you will be plunged once more alive into the grave— will be deprived of every comfort—

Jose. No, lady, no! even in the depth of your subterraneous dungeon, one comfort still is mine, and never will forsake me: tis the consciousness that my sufferings are transitory, but that my reward will be eternal; tis the consciousness of an hereafter! tis this which supports me during all my daily sorrows; tis this which irradiates all my nightly dreams. Then this poor wretched globe with all its crimes and all its follies rolls away from before me: then all seems fair, and pure, and glorious: cherubs shed the roseate lustre of their smiles upon my stony couch, and guardian saints encourage me to suffer with patience, to hope, and to adore!— such are my dreams: now, lady, paint if you dare, the visions which you behold in your own.

Ve. She tortures my heart; her reproaches fire my brain— I can endure them no longer— remove her! away!

Jose. (kneeling) Oh! drive me not from you! pity me! protect me! save me!—

Ve. I cannot! I dare not! take her from my sight, and— and for ever!

Jose. (rising) For ever? no, cruel woman; do not hope it! listen to these sighs; look upon these tears! in your gayest happiest moments, such sighs shall scare away delight; when you lift to your lips the cup of pleasure, you shall find the draught embittered by such tears; and when that hour arrives which you dread so justly, a form like mine shall stand beside your pillow and a voice like mine shall shriek in your ear— "Welcome, murderess! welcome, to that grave, to which you sent me!"

Ve. Insupportable! away with her! she kills me!

Jose. Oh! let me stay yet a few moments more! let me gaze but a little longer on the lovely, friendly, blessed light! let me still hear a human voice, even though it threaten me; let me still look upon a human face, even though it be the face of an enemy; (the nuns endeavour to force her away) mercy! mercy! help me— aid me!

Venoni rushes in by a side door.

Venoni. Who shrieks for help— for mercy! I— I will give them!

(Veronica and nuns utter a cry of surprise)

Ve. Ah! a stranger?

Jose. (bursting from the nuns with a violent effort) Tis he! tis he himself! save me, Venoni! oh! save me, save me! (she rushes to throw herself into his arms, and sinks fainting at his feet.)

Ve. Venoni, betrayed, undone! Lucia! (she whispers Lucia.)

Venoni. She knows me! look up, look up, unfortunate! I will protect you! I will preserve you, and— Josepha! tis Josepha! speak to me, Josepha! oh! speak to your Venoni!

Ve. But one moment is still ours— (to Lucia) fly! hasten! (Lucia goes off by the door through which Venoni enters.)

Venoni. The monsters! the barbarians! oh! my beloved, how have the wretches made you suffer.

Jose. Suffer! oh say but that you love me still, all, all will be forgotten.

Venoni. Do I love thee? oh, heaven! thou, my soul! my life! best half of my existence! but come, let us quit this hated place— let us away, and— (to Veronica) nay, lady, shrink not at my approach: how you may answer to the viceroy, be that your care; but dread no reproaches from me! I shall respect that sacred habit, though you have felt for it so little reverence; I shall still remember your sex, though you seem yourself to have forgotten it. Give me the means to quit the convent— furnish me with the portal key—

Ve. (confused) My lord— the keys— they shall be produced— I have sent for them— even now you saw a sister leave the chamber— she returns— I hear her— speak!

Lucia returns.

Ve. Have you found them?

Lu. I have.

Venoni. And where are they?

The prior rushes in followed by monks.

Pri. Here! art thou found again, my fugitive? —seize him.

Jose. Venoni! oh, Venoni!

Pri. Tear them asunder.

Jose. No, no! I will never leave him! while I have life, thus thus will I cling to him; if I must die, it shall be at his feet. (they are forced asunder) oh! cruel, cruel men! (she sinks into the arms of the nuns— Veronica is in the greatest agitation)

Pri. Away with him! (he precedes; the monks, bearing Venoni, follow him) Venoni, your death-hour has struck!

Father Michael rushes in followed by the Viceroy, &c. and grasps the prior's arm.

Mi. Tyrant, no; twas for thyself it sounded.

The monks release Venoni, and the nuns Josepha; the lovers fall into each other's arms— at the same time the folding-doors are burst open, and the marquis, Hortensia, &c. enter.

Hor. (speaking without) Where is she? where is the abbess?

Jose. My mother's voice? here, here! my mother, behold your Josepha at your feet.

Hor. Powers of mercy! she lives, she lives! my Josepha! my joy my treasure! oh, can you forget—

Jose. Every thing, every thing— except that I am still dear to you.

Vice. Officers, you know your prisoners! remove them, their sight is painful, (the prior is conducted away by the guards; Veronica is leading off when Josepha addresses her)

Jose. Lady— you felt for me— you pitied me; I too can pity and feel for you— if I have influence, you shall find mercy.

Ve. Josepha!— angel, your prayers— oh! pray for me: pray for me!

[Exit with guards.

Venoni. My joy— my amazement— but oh! let me fly to rescue— follow me, my friends— there is a poor old man— a captive.——

Vice. Be calm, dear youth; Lodovico is in safety: in guiding us to your dungeon, this worthy friar discovered and released him.

Venoni. My friend, my preserver! how can I reward——

Vice. If my power— if my whole fortune can recompense——

Mi. I have preserved innocence, I have detected vice, I have served the cause of humanity: I find a sufficient reward in the feelings of my own heart. But, my good lords, let us quit this scene of horror: suffer me, my son, to unite your hand with Josepha's at the altar; then retiring to some more virtuous fraternity——

Vice. What, father? after such experience of a convent's interior will you again——

Mi. Ah! forbear, my lord, nor brand a whole profession with disgrace, because some few of its professors have been faulty— tis not the habit but the heart; tis not the name he bears but the principles he has imbibed, which makes man the blessing or reproach of human nature. Virtue and vice reside equally in courts and convents; and a heart may beat as purely and as nobly beneath the monk's scapulary, as beneath the ermine of the judge, or the breast-plate of the warrior.

Venoni. The good friar says right, my friend; then let us scorn to bow beneath the force of vulgar prejudice, and fold to our hearts as brethren in one large embrace men of all ranks, all faiths, and all professions. The monk and the soldier, the protestant and the papist, the mendicant and the prince; let us believe them all alike to be virtuous till we know them to be criminal; and engrave on our hearts, as the first and noblest rule of mortal duty and of human justice, those blessed words.

THE END