SCENE IV.—_On the Piazza.

_Sp._ Insulted! by the living Lord! He laid his hand upon his sword. ‘_Fort_,’ did he say? a German brute, With neither heart nor brains to shoot.

_Di._ What does he mean? he’s wrong, I had done nothing. ’Twas a mistake—more his, I am sure, than mine. He is quite wrong—I feel it. Come, let us go.

_Sp._ Go up to him!—you must, that’s flat. Be threatened by a beast like that!

_Di._ He’s violent: what can I do against him? I neither wish to be killed nor to kill: What’s more, I never yet have touched a sword, Nor fired, but twice, a pistol in my life.

_Sp._ Oh, never mind, ’twon’t come to fighting— Only some verbal small requiting; Or give your card—we’ll do’t by writing. He’ll not stick to it. Soldiers too Are cowards, just like me or you. What! not a single word to throw at This snarling dog of a d——d Croat?

_Di._ My heavens! why should I care? he does not hurt me. If he is wrong, it is the worst for him. I certainly did nothing: I shall go.

_Sp._ Did nothing! I should think not; no, Nor ever will, I dare be sworn! But, O my friend, well-bred, well-born— You to behave so in these quarrels Makes me half doubtful of your morals! ...It were all one, You had been some shopkeeper’s son, Whose childhood ne’er was shown aught better Than bills of creditor and debtor.

_Di._ By heaven, it falls from off me like the rain From the oil-coat. I seem in spirit to see How he and I at some great day shall meet Before some awful judgment-seat of truth; And I could deem that I behold him there Come praying for the pardon I give now, Did I not think these matters too, too small For any record on the leaves of time. O thou great Watcher of this noisy world, What are they in Thy sight? or what in his Who finds some end of action in his life? What e’en in his whose sole permitted course Is to pursue his peaceful byway walk, And live his brief life purely in Thy sight, And righteously towards his brother-men?

_Sp._ And whether, so you’re just and fair, Other folks are so, you don’t care; You who profess more love than others For your poor sinful human brothers.

_Di._ For grosser evils their gross remedies The laws afford us; let us be content; For finer wounds the law would, if it could, Find medicine too; it cannot, let us bear; For sufferance is the badge of all men’s tribes.

_Sp._ Because we can’t do all we would, Does it follow, to do nothing’s good? No way to help the law’s rough sense By equities of self-defence? Well, for yourself it may be nice To serve vulgarity and vice: Must sisters, too, and wives and mothers, Fare like their patient sons and brothers?

_Di._ He that loves sister, mother, more than me——

_Sp._ But the injustice—the gross wrong! To whom on earth does it belong If not to you, to whom ’twas done, Who saw it plain as any sun, To make the base and foul offender Confess, and satisfaction render? At least before the termination of it Prove your own lofty reprobation of it. Though gentleness, I know, was born in you, Surely you have a little scorn in you?

_Di._ Heaven! to pollute one’s fingers to pick up The fallen coin of honour from the dirt— Pure silver though it be, let it rather lie! To take up any offence, where’t may be said That temper, vanity—I know not what— Had led me on! To have so much as e’en half felt of one That ever one was angered for oneself! Beyond suspicion Cæsar’s wife should be, Beyond suspicion this bright honour shall. Did he say scorn? I have some scorn, thank God.

_Sp._ Certainly. Only if it’s so, Let us leave Italy, and go Post haste, to attend—you’re ripe and rank for’t— The great peace-meeting up at Frankfort. Joy to the Croat! Take our lives, Sweet friends, and please respect our wives; Joy to the Croat! Some fine day, He’ll see the error of his way, No doubt, and will repent and pray. At any rate he’ll open his eyes, If not before, at the Last Assize. Not, if I rightly understood you, That even then you’d punish, would you? Nay, let the hapless soul go free— Mere murder, crime, or robbery, In whate’er station, age, or sex, Your sacred spirit scarce can vex: _De minimis non curat lex_. To the Peace Congress! ring the bell! Horses to Frankfort and to ——!

_Di._ I am not quite in union with myself On this strange matter. I must needs confess Instinct turns instinct out, and thought Wheels round on thought. To bleed for others’ wrongs In vindication of a cause, to draw The sword of the Lord and Gideon—oh, that seems The flower and top of life! But fight because Some poor misconstruing trifler haps to say I lie, when I do not lie, Why should I? Call you this a cause? I can’t. Oh, he is wrong, no doubt; he misbehaves— But is it worth so much as speaking loud? And things so merely personal to myself Of all earth’s things do least affect myself.

_Sp._ Sweet eloquence! at next May Meeting How it would tell in the repeating! I recognise, and kiss the rod— The methodistic ‘voice of God;’ I catch contrite that angel whine, That snuffle human, yet divine.

_Di._ It may be I am somewhat of a poltroon; I never fought at school; whether it be Some native poorness in my spirit’s blood, Or that the holy doctrine of our faith In too exclusive fervency possessed My heart with feelings, with ideas my brain.

_Sp._ Yes; you would argue that it goes Against the Bible, I suppose; But our revered religion—yes, Our common faith—seems, I confess, On these points to propose to address The people more than you or me— At best the vulgar bourgeoisie. The sacred writers don’t keep count, But still the Sermon on the Mount Must have been spoken, by what’s stated, To hearers by the thousands rated. I cuff some fellow; mild and meek He should turn round the other cheek. For him it may be right and good; We are not all of gentle blood Really, or as such understood.

_Di._ There are two kindreds upon earth, I know— The oppressors and the oppressed. But as for me, If I must choose to inflict wrong, or accept, May my last end, and life too, be with these. Yes; whatsoe’er the reason, want of blood, Lymphatic humours, or my childhood’s faith, So is the thing, and be it well or ill, I have no choice. I am a man of peace, And the old Adam of the gentleman Dares seldom in my bosom stir against The mild plebeian Christian seated there.

_Sp._ Forgive me, if I name my doubt, Whether you know ‘_fort_’ means ‘_get out_.’