Or, Belmont on the Embankment.
A Morality (adapted from the "Merchant of Venice") for Men in Municipal Authority.
["The music on the Embankment during the pressman's dinner-hour is a much more important matter than it seems to be. It would be a most beneficial institution for all indoor labourers; for it is not the long hours of labour—though they are bad enough—so much as its monotony that makes it so wearisome."—Mr. James Payn in "Our Note Book."]
Lorenzo . . A Journeyman Printer.
Jessica . . His "Young Woman."
Scene—The Thames Embankment Garden.
Lorenzo. Sweetheart, let's in; they may expect our coming.
And yet no matter:—why should we go in?
The Toffs at last, have had compassion on us,
Within the house, or office, mewed too long,
And bring our music forth into the air.
[They take a seat.
How bright the sunshine gleams on this Embankment!
Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music
Creep in our ears: soft green and Summer sunlight
Become the touches of sweet harmony.
Sit, Jessica: look, how this green town-garden
Is thickly crowded with the young and old:
There's not the smallest child which thou behold'st
But by his movements shows his young heart sings,
As though poor kids were young eye'd cherubim:
Such love of music lives in simple souls;
But whilst grim pedants and fanatics sour
Have power to stop, they will not let us hear it!
[Musicians tune up.
Hullo! The Intermezzo. Like a hymn
With sweeter touches charming to the ear,
The soul's drawn home by music.
[Music.
Jessica. I'm always soothed like when I
hear nice music.
Lorenzo. The reason is your spirits are responsive.
For do but note a wild and wanton mob
Of rough young rascals, like unbroken colts,
Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and blaring loud,
Which shows the hot condition of their blood;
If they, perchance, but hear a brass-band sound,
Or harp and fiddle duet touch their ears,
Or even Punch's pan-pipe, or shrill "squeaker,"
You shall perceive them make a mutual stand,
Their wandering eyes turned to an earnest gaze,
By the sweet power of music: therefore poets
Tell us old Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods,
Since naught so blockish, hard, insensible,
But music for the time doth change his nature.
The man who would keep music to himself,
Grudging the mob all concord of sweet sounds,
Is fit for Bedlam, not the County Council!
The motions of his spirit are dull as night,
And his affections cold as Arctic bergs.
Let no such man be trusted!—Mark the music!
(Left marking it attentively.)