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diff --git a/4554-0.txt b/4554-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b27e4c6 --- /dev/null +++ b/4554-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,4060 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Lovers’ Vows, by Mrs. Inchbald + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at +www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Lovers’ Vows + +Author: Mrs. Inchbald + +Release Date: February 9, 2002 [eBook #4554] +[Most recently updated: October 6, 2021] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Kelly Hurt + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVERS’ VOWS *** + +[Illustration] + + + + +Lovers’ Vows + +A Play in Five Acts + +From the German of Kotzebue + +by Mrs. Inchbald + +Contents + +PREFACE. + +THE PROLOGUE. + +LOVERS’ VOWS. + +ACT I +Scene I. A high road, a town at a distance—A small inn on one side of the road—A cottage on the other. + +ACT II +Scene I. A room in the Cottage. +Scene II. An apartment in the Castle. + +ACT III +Scene I. An open Field. +Scene II. A room in the Castle. + +ACT IV +Scene I. A Prison in one of the Towers of the Castle. +Scene II. A Room in the Castle. + +ACT V +Scene I. Inside of the Cottage. +Scene II. A Room in the Castle. + +Epilogue. + + + + +Dramatis Personæ + +Men + +BARON WILDENHAIM _Mr. Murray._ +COUNT CASSEL _Mr. Knight._ +ANHALT _Mr. H. Johnston._ +FREDERICK _Mr. Pope._ +VERDUN _the_ BUTLER _Mr. Munden._ +LANDLORD _Mr. Thompson_ +COTTAGER _Mr. Davenport._ +FARMER _Mr. Rees._ +COUNTRYMAN _Mr. Dyke._ +Huntsmen, Servants, &c. + +Women + +AGATHA FIRBURG _Mrs. Johnson._ +AMELIA WILDENHAIM _Mrs. H. Johnston._ +COTTAGER’S WIFE _Mrs. Davenport._ +COUNTRY GIRL _Miss Leserve._ + +SCENE, Germany—Time of representation one day. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +It would appear like affectation to offer an apology for any scenes or +passages omitted or added, in this play, different from the original: +its reception has given me confidence to suppose what I have done is +right; for Kotzebue’s “Child of Love” in Germany, was never more +attractive than “Lovers’ Vows” has been in England. + +I could trouble my reader with many pages to disclose the motives which +induced me to alter, with the exception of a few common-place sentences +only, the characters of Count Cassel, Amelia, and Verdun the Butler—I +could explain why the part of the Count, as in the original, would +inevitably have condemned the whole Play,—I could inform my reader why +I have pourtrayed the Baron in many particulars different from the +German author, and carefully prepared the audience for the grand effect +of the last scene in the fourth act, by totally changing his conduct +towards his son as a robber—why I gave sentences of a humourous kind to +the parts of the two Cottagers—why I was compelled, on many occasions, +to compress the matter of a speech of three or four pages into one of +three or four lines—and why, in no one instance, I would suffer my +respect for Kotzebue to interfere with my profound respect for the +judgment of a British audience. But I flatter myself such a vindication +is not requisite to the enlightened reader, who, I trust, on comparing +this drama with the original, will at once see all my motives—and the +dull admirer of mere verbal translation, it would be vain to endeavour +to inspire with taste by instruction. + +Wholly unacquainted with the German language, a literal translation of +the “Child of Love” was given to me by the manager of Covent Garden +Theatre to be fitted, as my opinion should direct, for his stage. This +translation, tedious and vapid as most literal translations are, had +the peculiar disadvantage of having been put into our language by a +German—of course it came to me in broken English. It was no slight +misfortune to have an example of bad grammar, false metaphors and +similes, with all the usual errors of feminine diction, placed before a +female writer. But if, disdaining the construction of sentences,—the +precise decorum of the cold grammarian,—she has caught the spirit of +her author,—if, in every altered scene,—still adhering to the nice +propriety of his meaning, and still keeping in view his great +catastrophe,—she has agitated her audience with all the various +passions he depicted, the rigid criticism of the closet will be but a +slender abatement of the pleasure resulting from the sanction of an +applauding theatre. + +It has not been one of the least gratifications I have received from +the success of this play, that the original German, from which it is +taken, was printed in the year 1791; and yet, that during all the +period which has intervened, no person of talents or literary knowledge +(though there are in this country many of that description, who profess +to search for German dramas) has thought it worth employment to make a +translation of the work. I can only account for such an apparent +neglect of Kotzebue’s “Child of Love,” by the consideration of its +original unfitness for an English stage, and the difficulty of making +it otherwise—a difficulty which once appeared so formidable, that I +seriously thought I must have declined it even after I had proceeded +some length in the undertaking. + +Independently of objections to the character of the Count, the +dangerous insignificance of the Butler, in the original, embarrassed me +much. I found, if he was retained in the _Dramatis Personæ_, something +more must be supplied than the author had assigned him: I suggested the +verses I have introduced; but not being blessed with the Butler’s happy +art of rhyming, I am indebted for them, except the seventh and eleventh +stanzas in the first of his poetic stories, to the author of the +prologue. + +The part of Amelia has been a very particular object of my solicitude +and alteration: the same situations which the author gave her remain, +but almost all the dialogue of the character I have changed: the +forward and unequivocal manner in which she announces her affection to +her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an English +audience: the passion of love, represented on the stage, is certain to +be insipid or disgusting, unless it creates smiles or tears: Amelia’s +love, by Kotzebue, is indelicately blunt, and yet void of mirth or +sadness: I have endeavoured to attach the attention and sympathy of the +audience by whimsical insinuations, rather than coarse abruptness—the +same woman, I conceive, whom the author drew, with the self-same +sentiments, but with manners adapted to the English rather than the +German taste; and if the favour in which this character is held by the +audience, together with every sentence and incident which I have +presumed to introduce in the play, may be offered as the criterion of +my skill, I am sufficiently rewarded for the task I have performed. + +In stating the foregoing circumstances relating to this production, I +hope not to be suspected of arrogating to my own exertions only, the +popularity which has attended “The Child of Love,” under the title of +“Lovers’ Vows,”—the exertions of every performer engaged in the play +deservedly claim a share in its success; and I must sincerely thank +them for the high importance of their aid. + + + + +PROLOGUE. + +WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ. + +_Spoken by Mr. MURRAY._ + + +Poets have oft’ declared, in doleful strain, +That o’er dramatic tracks they beat in vain, +Hopeless that novelty will spring to sight; +For life and nature are exhausted quite. +Though plaints like these have rung from age to age, +Too kind are writers to desert the stage; +And if they, fruitless, search for unknown prey, +At least they dress _old game_ a _novel way_; +But such lamentings should be heard no more, +For modern taste turns Nature out of door; +Who ne’er again her former sway will boast, +Till, to complete her works, _she starts a ghost_. + If such the mode, what can we hope to-night, +Who rashly dare approach without a sprite? +No dreadful cavern, no midnight scream, +No rosin flames, nor e’en one flitting gleam. +Nought of the charms so potent to invite +The monstrous charms of terrible delight. +Our present theme the German Muse supplies, +But rather aims to soften than surprise. +Yet, with her woes she strives some smiles to blend, +Intent as well to cheer as to amend: +On her own native soil she knows the art +To charm the fancy, and to touch the heart. +If, then, she mirth and pathos can express, +Though less engaging in an English dress, +Let her from British hearts no peril fear, +But, as a STRANGER*, find a welcome here. + +* Hamlet. + + + + +LOVERS’ VOWS. + + + + +ACT I. + +SCENE I. + + +_A high road, a town at a distance—A small inn on one side of the +road—A cottage on the other._ + + +_The_ LANDLORD _of the inn leads_ AGATHA _by the hand out of his +house._ + + +LANDLORD. +No, no! no room for you any longer—It is the fair to-day in the next +village; as great a fair as any in the German dominions. The country +people with their wives and children take up every corner we have. + +AGATHA. +You will turn a poor sick woman out of doors who has spent her last +farthing in your house. + +LANDLORD. +For that very reason; because she _has_ spent her last farthing. + +AGATHA. +I can work. + +LANDLORD. +You can hardly move your hands. + +AGATHA. +My strength will come again. + +LANDLORD. +Then _you_ may come again. + +AGATHA. +What am I to do? Where shall I go? + +LANDLORD. +It is fine weather—you may go any where. + +AGATHA. +Who will give me a morsel of bread to satisfy my hunger? + +LANDLORD. +Sick people eat but little. + +AGATHA. +Hard, unfeeling man, have pity. + +LANDLORD. +When times are hard, pity is too expensive for a poor man. Ask alms of +the different people that go by. + +AGATHA. +Beg! I would rather starve. + +LANDLORD. +You may beg and starve too. What a fine lady you are! Many an honest +woman has been obliged to beg. Why should not you? [Agatha _sits down +upon a large stone under a tree._] For instance, here comes somebody; +and I will teach you how to begin. [_A Countryman, with working tools, +crosses the road._] Good day, neighbour Nicholas. + +COUNTRYMAN +Good day. [_Stops._] + +LANDLORD. +Won’t you give a trifle to this poor woman? [_Countryman takes no +notice, but walks off._] That would not do—the poor man has nothing +himself but what he gets by hard labour. Here comes a rich farmer; +perhaps he will give you something. + +_Enter_ FARMER. + + +LANDLORD. +Good morning to you, Sir. Under yon tree sits a poor woman in distress, +who is in need of your charity. + +FARMER. +Is she not ashamed of herself? Why don’t she work? + +LANDLORD. +She has had a fever.—If you would but pay for one dinner— + +FARMER. +The harvest has been indifferent, and my cattle and sheep have suffered +distemper. [_Exit._ + +LANDLORD. +My fat, smiling face was not made for begging: you’ll have more luck +with your thin, sour one—so, I’ll leave you to yourself. [_Exit._ + +[Agatha _rises and comes forward._] + + +AGATHA. +Oh Providence! thou hast till this hour protected me, and hast given me +fortitude not to despair. Receive my humble thanks, and restore me to +health, for the sake of my poor son, the innocent cause of my +sufferings, and yet my only comfort. [_kneeling_] Oh, grant that I may +see him once more! See him improved in strength of mind and body; and +that by thy gracious mercy he may never be visited with afflictions +great as mine. [_After a pause_] Protect his father too, merciful +Providence, and pardon his crime of perjury to me! Here, in the face of +heaven (supposing my end approaching, and that I can but a few days +longer struggle with want and sorrow), here, I solemnly forgive my +seducer for all the ills, the accumulated evils which his allurements, +his deceit, and cruelty, have for twenty years past drawn upon me. + +_Enter a_ COUNTRY GIRL _with a basket._ + + +AGATHA. +[_near fainting_]. My dear child, if you could spare me a trifle— + +GIRL. +I have not a farthing in the world—But I am going to market to sell my +eggs, and as I come back I’ll give you three-pence—And I’ll be back as +soon as ever I can. [_Exit._ + +AGATHA. +There was a time when I was as happy as this country girl, and as +willing to assist the poor in distress. [_Retires to the tree and sits +down._] + +_Enter_ FREDERICK—_He is dressed in a German soldier’s uniform, has a +knapsack on his shoulders, appears in high spirits, and stops at the +door of the inn._ + + +FREDERICK. +Halt! Stand at ease! It is a very hot day—A draught of good wine will +not be amiss. But first let me consult my purse. [_Takes out a couple +of pieces of money, which he turns about in his hand._] This will do +for a breakfast—the other remains for my dinner; and in the evening I +shall be home. [_Calls out_] Ha! Halloo! Landlord! [_Takes notice of_ +Agatha, _who is leaning against the tree._] Who is that? A poor sick +woman! She don’t beg; but her appearance makes me think she is in want. +Must one always wait to give till one is asked? Shall I go without my +breakfast now, or lose my dinner? The first I think is best. Ay, I +don’t want a breakfast, for dinner time will soon be here. To do good +satisfies both hunger and thirst. [_Going towards her with the money in +his hand._] Take this, good woman. + +[_She stretches her hand for the gift, looks steadfastly at him, and +cries out with astonishment and joy._] + + +AGATHA. +Frederick! + +FREDERICK. +Mother! [_With astonishment and grief._] Mother! For God’s sake what is +this! How is this! And why do I find my mother thus? Speak! + +AGATHA. +I cannot speak, dear son! [_Rising and embracing him._] My dear +Frederick! The joy is too great—I was not prepared— + +FREDERICK. +Dear mother, compose yourself: [_leans her head against his breast_] +now, then, be comforted. How she trembles! She is fainting. + +AGATHA. +I am so weak, and my head so giddy—I had nothing to eat all yesterday. + +FREDERICK. +Good heavens! Here is my little money, take it all! Oh mother! mother! +[_Runs to the inn_]. Landlord! Landlord! [_knocking violently at the +door._] + +LANDLORD. +What is the matter? + +FREDERICK. +A bottle of wine—quick, quick! + +LANDLORD. +[_surprised_]. A bottle of wine! For who? + +FREDERICK. +For me. Why do you ask? Why don’t you make haste? + +LANDLORD. +Well, well, Mr. soldier: but can you pay for it? + +FREDERICK. +Here is money—make haste, or I’ll break every window in your house. + +LANDLORD. +Patience! Patience! [_goes off._ + +FREDERICK. +[_to Agatha_]. You were hungry yesterday when I sat down to a +comfortable dinner. You were hungry when I partook of a good supper. +Oh! Why is so much bitter mixed with the joy of my return? + +AGATHA. +Be patient, my dear Frederick. Since I see you, I am well. But I _have +been_ very ill: so ill, that I despaired of ever beholding you again. + +FREDERICK. +Ill, and I was not with you? I will, now, never leave you more. Look, +mother, how tall and strong I am grown. These arms can now afford you +support. They can, and shall, procure you subsistence. + +[Landlord _coming out of the house with a small pitcher._] + + +LANDLORD. +Here is wine—a most delicious nectar. [_Aside._] It is only Rhenish; +but it will pass for the best old Hock. + +FREDERICK. +[_impatiently snatching the pitcher_]. Give it me. + +LANDLORD. +No, no—the money first. One shilling and two-pence, if you please. + +[Frederick _gives him money._] + + +FREDERICK. +This is all I have.—Here, here, mother. + +[_While she drinks_ Landlord _counts the money._] + + +LANDLORD. +Three halfpence too short! However, one must be charitable. [_Exit_ +Landlord. + +AGATHA. +I thank you, my dear Frederick—Wine revives me—Wine from the hand of my +son gives me almost a new life. + +FREDERICK. +Don’t speak too much, mother.—Take your time. + +AGATHA. +Tell me, dear child, how you have passed the five years since you left +me. + +FREDERICK. +Both good and bad, mother. To day plenty—to-morrow not so much—And +sometimes nothing at all. + +AGATHA. +You have not written to me this long while. + +FREDERICK. +Dear mother, consider the great distance I was from you!—And then, in +the time of war, how often letters miscarry.—Besides—— + +AGATHA. +No matter now I see you. But have you obtained your discharge? + +FREDERICK. +Oh, no, mother—I have leave of absence only for two months; and that +for a particular reason. But I will not quit you so soon, now I find +you are in want of my assistance. + +AGATHA. +No, no, Frederick; your visit will make me so well, that I shall in a +very short time recover strength to work again; and you must return to +your regiment when your furlough is expired. But you told me leave of +absence was granted you for a particular reason.—What reason? + +FREDERICK. +When I left you five years ago, you gave me every thing you could +afford, and all you thought would be necessary for me. But one trifle +you forgot, which was, the certificate of my birth from the +church-book.—You know in this country there is nothing to be done +without it. At the time of parting from you, I little thought it could +be of that consequence to me which I have since found it would have +been. Once I became tired of a soldier’s life, and in the hope I should +obtain my discharge, offered myself to a master to learn a profession; +but his question was, “Where is your certificate from the church-book +of the parish in which you were born?” It vexed me that I had not it to +produce, for my comrades laughed at my disappointment. My captain +behaved kinder, for he gave me leave to come home to fetch it—and you +see, mother, here I am. + +[_During his speech_ Agatha _is confused and agitated._ + + +AGATHA. +So, you are come for the purpose of fetching your certificate from the +church-book. + +FREDERICK. +Yes, mother. + +AGATHA. +Oh! oh! + +FREDERICK. +What is the matter? [_She bursts into tears._] For heaven’s sake, +mother, tell me what’s the matter? + +AGATHA. +You have no certificate. + +FREDERICK. +No! + +AGATHA. +No.—The laws of Germany excluded you from being registered at your +birth—for—you are a natural son! + +FREDERICK. +[_starts—after a pause_]. So!—And who is my father? + +AGATHA. +Oh Frederick, your wild looks are daggers to my heart. Another time. + +FREDERICK. +[_endeavouring to conceal his emotion_]. No, no—I am still your son—and +you are still my mother. Only tell me, who is my father? + +AGATHA. +When we parted five years ago, you were too young to be intrusted with +a secret of so much importance.—But the time is come when I can, in +confidence, open my heart, and unload that burthen with which it has +been long oppressed. And yet, to reveal my errors to my child, and sue +for his mild judgment on my conduct—— + +FREDERICK. +You have nothing to sue for; only explain this mystery. + +AGATHA. +I will, I will. But—my tongue is locked with remorse and shame. You +must not look at me. + +FREDERICK. +Not look at you! Cursed be that son who could find his mother guilty, +although the world should call her so. + +AGATHA. +Then listen to me, and take notice of that village, [_pointing_] of +that castle, and of that church. In that village I was born—in that +church I was baptized. My parents were poor, but reputable farmers.—The +lady of that castle and estate requested them to let me live with her, +and she would provide for me through life. They resigned me; and at the +age of fourteen I went to my patroness. She took pleasure to instruct +me in all kinds of female literature and accomplishments, and three +happy years had passed under protection, when her only son, who was an +officer in the Saxon service, obtained permission to come home. I had +never seen him before—he was a handsome young man—in my eyes a prodigy; +for he talked of love, and promised me marriage. He was the first man +who had ever spoken to me on such a subject.—His flattery made me vain, +and his repeated vows—Don’t look at me, dear Frederick!—I can say no +more. [Frederick _with his eyes cast down, takes her hand, and puts it +to his heart._] Oh! oh! my son! I was intoxicated by the fervent +caresses of a young, inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover +from the delirium till it was too late. + +FREDERICK. +[_after a pause_]. Go on.—Let me know more of my father. + +AGATHA. +When the time drew near that I could no longer conceal my guilt and +shame, my seducer prevailed upon me not to expose him to the resentment +of his mother. He renewed his former promises of marriage at her +death;—on which relying, I gave him my word to be secret—and I have to +this hour buried his name deep in my heart. + +FREDERICK. +Proceed, proceed! give me full information—I will have courage to hear +it all. [_Greatly agitated._] + +AGATHA. +His leave of absence expired, he returned to his regiment, depending on +my promise, and well assured of my esteem. As soon as my situation +became known, I was questioned, and received many severe reproaches: +but I refused to confess who was my undoer; and for that obstinacy was +turned from the castle.—I went to my parents; but their door was shut +against me. My mother, indeed, wept as she bade me quit her sight for +ever; but my father wished increased affliction might befall me. + +FREDERICK. +[_weeping_]. Be quick with your narrative, or you’ll break my heart. + +AGATHA. +I now sought protection from the old clergyman of the parish. He +received me with compassion. On my knees I begged forgiveness for the +scandal I had caused to his parishioners; promised amendment; and he +said he did not doubt me. Through his recommendation I went to town; +and hid in humble lodgings, procured the means of subsistence by +teaching to the neighbouring children what I had learnt under the +tuition of my benefactress.—To instruct you, my Frederick, was my care +and delight; and in return for your filial love I would not thwart your +wishes when they led to a soldier’s life: but I saw you go from me with +an aching heart. Soon after, my health declined, I was compelled to +give up my employment, and, by degrees, became the object you now see +me. But, let me add, before I close my calamitous story, that—when I +left the good old clergyman, taking along with me his kind advice and +his blessing, I left him with a firm determination to fulfil the vow I +had made of repentance and amendment. I _have_ fulfilled it—and now, +Frederick, you may look at me again. [_He embraces her._] + +FREDERICK. +But my father all this time? [_mournfully_] I apprehend he died. + +AGATHA. +No—he married. + +FREDERICK. +Married! + +AGATHA. +A woman of virtue—of noble birth and immense fortune. Yet, [_weeps_] I +had written to him many times; had described your infant innocence and +wants; had glanced obliquely at former promises— + +FREDERICK. +[_rapidly_]. No answer to these letters? + +AGATHA. +Not a word.—But in time of war, you know, letters miscarry. + +FREDERICK. +Nor did he ever return to this estate? + +AGATHA. +No—since the death of his mother this castle has only been inhabited by +servants—for he settled as far off as Alsace, upon the estate of his +wife. + +FREDERICK. +I will carry you in my arms to Alsace. No—why should I ever know my +father, if he is a villain! My heart is satisfied with a mother.—No—I +will not go to him. I will not disturb his peace—I leave that task to +his conscience. What say you, mother, can’t we do without him? +[_Struggling between tears and his pride._] We don’t want him. I will +write directly to my captain. Let the consequence be what it will, +leave you again I cannot. Should I be able to get my discharge, I will +work all day at the plough, and all the night with my pen. It will do, +mother, it will do! Heaven’s goodness will assist me—it will prosper +the endeavours of a dutiful son for the sake of a helpless mother. + +AGATHA. +[_presses him to her breast_]. Where could be found such another son? + +FREDERICK. +But tell me my father’s name, that I may know how to shun him. + +AGATHA. +Baron Wildenhaim. + +FREDERICK. +Baron Wildenhaim! I shall never forget it.—Oh! you are near fainting. +Your eyes are cast down. What’s the matter? Speak, mother! + +AGATHA. +Nothing particular.—Only fatigued with talking. I wish to take a little +rest. + +FREDERICK. +I did not consider that we have been all this time in the open road. +[_Goes to the Inn, and knocks at the door._] Here, Landlord! + +LANDLORD _re-enters._ + + +LANDLORD. +Well, what is the matter now? + +FREDERICK. +Make haste, and get a bed ready for this good woman. + +LANDLORD. +[_with a sneer_]. A bed for this good woman! ha, ha ha! She slept last +night in that pent-house; so she may to-night. [_Exit, shutting the +door._ + +FREDERICK. +You are an infamous—[_goes back to his mother_] Oh! my poor +mother—[_runs to the Cottage at a little distance, and knocks_]. Ha! +halloo! Who is there? + +_Enter_ COTTAGER. + + +COTTAGER. +Good day, young soldier.—What is it you want? + +FREDERICK. +Good friend, look at that poor woman. She is perishing in the public +road! It is my mother.—Will you give her a small corner in your hut? I +beg for mercy’s sake—Heaven will reward you. + +COTTAGER. +Can’t you speak quietly? I understand you very well. [_Calls at the +door of the hut._] Wife, shake up our bed—here’s a poor sick woman +wants it. [_Enter_ WIFE]. Why could not you say all this in fewer +words? Why such a long preamble? Why for mercy’s sake, and heaven’s +reward? Why talk about reward for such trifles as these? Come, let us +lead her in; and welcome she shall be to a bed, as good as I can give +her; and our homely fare. + +FREDERICK. +Ten thousand thanks, and blessings on you! + +WIFE. +Thanks and blessings! here’s a piece of work indeed about nothing! Good +sick lady, lean on my shoulder. [_To_ Frederick] Thanks and reward +indeed! Do you think husband and I have lived to these years, and don’t +know our duty? Lean on my shoulder. [_Exeunt into the Cottage._ + + + + +ACT II. + +SCENE I. + +_A room in the Cottage._ + + +AGATHA, COTTAGER, _his_ WIFE, _and_ FREDERICK _discovered_—AGATHA +_reclined upon a wooden bench,_ FREDERICK _leaning over her._ + + +FREDERICK. +Good people have you nothing to give her? Nothing that’s nourishing. + +WIFE. +Run, husband, run, and fetch a bottle of wine from the landlord of the +inn. + +FREDERICK. +No, no—his wine is as bad as his heart: she has drank some of it, which +I am afraid has turned to poison. + +COTTAGER. +Suppose, wife, you look for a new-laid egg? + +WIFE. +Or a drop of brandy, husband—that mostly cures me. + +FREDERICK. +Do you hear, mother—will you, mother? [Agatha _makes a sign with her +hand as if she could not take any thing._] She will not. Is there no +doctor in this neighbourhood? + +WIFE. +At the end of the village there lives a horse-doctor. I have never +heard of any other. + +FREDERICK. +What shall I do? She is dying. My mother is dying.—Pray for her, good +people! + +AGATHA. +Make yourself easy, dear Frederick, I am well, only weak—Some wholesome +nourishment— + +FREDERICK. +Yes, mother, directly—directly. [_Aside_] Oh where shall I—no money—not +a farthing left. + +WIFE. +Oh, dear me! Had you not paid the rent yesterday, husband— + +COTTAGER. +I then, should know what to do. But as I hope for mercy, I have not a +penny in my house. + +FREDERICK. +Then I must—[_Apart, coming forward_]—Yes, I will go, and beg.—But +should I be refused—I will then—I leave my mother in your care, good +people—Do all you can for her, I beseech you! I shall soon be with you +again. [_Goes off in haste and confusion._] + +COTTAGER. +If he should go to our parson, I am sure he would give him something. + +[Agatha _having revived by degrees during the scene, rises._] + + +AGATHA. +Is that good old man still living, who was minister here some time ago? + +WIFE. +No—It pleased Providence to take that worthy man to heaven two years +ago.—We have lost in him both a friend and a father. We shall never get +such another. + +COTTAGER. +Wife, wife, our present rector is likewise a very good man. + +WIFE. +Yes! But he is so very young. + +COTTAGER. +Our late parson was once young too. + +WIFE. +[_to_ Agatha.] This young man being tutor in our Baron’s family, he was +very much beloved by them all; and so the Baron gave him this living in +consequence. + +COTTAGER. +And well he deserved it, for his pious instructions to our young lady: +who is, in consequence, good, and friendly to every body. + +AGATHA. +What young lady do you mean? + +COTTAGER. +Our Baron’s daughter. + +AGATHA. +Is she here? + +WIFE. +Dear me! Don’t you know that? I thought every body had known that. It +is almost five weeks since the Baron and all his family arrived at the +castle. + +AGATHA. +Baron Wildenhaim? + +WIFE. +Yes, Baron Wildenhaim. + +AGATHA. +And his lady? + +COTTAGER. +His lady died in France many miles from hence, and her death, I +suppose, was the cause of his coming to this estate—For the Baron has +not been here till within these five weeks ever since he was married. +We regretted his absence much, and his arrival has caused great joy. + +WIFE. +[_addressing her discourse to_ Agatha.] By all accounts the Baroness +was very haughty; and very whimsical. + +COTTAGER. +Wife, wife, never speak ill of the dead. Say what you please against +the living, but not a word against the dead. + +WIFE. +And yet, husband, I believe the dead care the least what is said +against them—And so, if you please, I’ll tell my story. The late +Baroness was, they say, haughty and proud; and they do say, the Baron +was not so happy as he might have been; but he, bless him, our good +Baron is still the same as when a boy. Soon after Madam had closed her +eyes, he left France, and came to Waldenhaim, his native country. + +COTTAGER. +Many times has he joined in our village dances. Afterwards, when he +became an officer, he was rather wild, as most young men are. + +WIFE. +Yes, I remember when he fell in love with poor Agatha, Friburg’s +daughter: what a piece of work that was—It did not do him much credit. +That was a wicked thing. + +COTTAGER. +Have done—no more of this—It is not well to stir up old grievances. + +WIFE. +Why, you said I might speak ill of the living. ’Tis very hard indeed, +if one must not speak ill of one’s neighbours, dead, nor alive. + +COTTAGER. +Who knows whether he was the father of Agatha’s child? She never said +he was. + +WIFE. +Nobody but him—that I am sure—I would lay a wager—no, no husband—you +must not take his part—it was very wicked! Who knows what is now become +of that poor creature? She has not been heard of this many a year. May +be she is starving for hunger. Her father might have lived longer too, +if that misfortune had not happened. + +[Agatha _faints._] + + +COTTAGER. +See here! Help! She is fainting—take hold! + +WIFE. +Oh, poor woman! + +COTTAGER. +Let us take her into the next room. + +WIFE. +Oh poor woman!—I am afraid she will not live. Come, chear up, chear +up.—You are with those who feel for you. [_They lead her off._] + + + + +SCENE II. + +_An apartment in the Castle._ + + +_A table spread for breakfast—Several servants in livery disposing the +equipage_—BARON WILDENHAIM _enters, attended by a_ GENTLEMAN _in +waiting._ + + +BARON. +Has not Count Cassel left his chamber yet? + +GENTLEMAN. +No, my lord, he has but now rung for his valet. + +BARON. +The whole castle smells of his perfumery. Go, call my daughter hither. +[_Exit_ Gentleman.] And am I after all to have an ape for a son-in-law? +No, I shall not be in a hurry—I love my daughter too well. We must be +better acquainted before I give her to him. I shall not sacrifice my +Amelia to the will of others, as I myself was sacrificed. The poor girl +might, in thoughtlessness, say yes, and afterwards be miserable. What a +pity she is not a boy! The name of Wildenhaim will die with me. My fine +estates, my good peasants, all will fall into the hands of strangers. +Oh! why was not my Amelia a boy? + +_Enter_ AMELIA—[_She kisses the_ Baron’s _hand_.] + + +AMELIA. +Good morning, dear my lord. + +BARON. +Good morning, Amelia. Have you slept well? + +AMELIA. +Oh! yes, papa. I always sleep well. + +BARON. +Not a little restless last night? + +AMELIA. +No. + +BARON. +Amelia, you know you have a father who loves you, and I believe you +know you have a suitor who is come to ask permission to love you. Tell +me candidly how you like Count Cassel? + +AMELIA. +Very well. + +BARON. +Do not you blush when I talk of him? + +AMELIA. +No. + +BARON. +No—I am sorry for that. [_aside_] Have you dreamt of him? + +AMELIA. +No. + +BARON. +Have you not dreamt at all to-night? + +AMELIA. +Oh yes—I have dreamt of our chaplain, Mr. Anhalt. + +BARON. +Ah ha! As if he stood before you and the Count to ask for the ring. + +AMELIA. +No: not that—I dreamt we were all still in France, and he, my tutor, +just going to take his leave of us for ever—I ’woke with the fright, +and found my eyes full of tears. + +BARON. +Psha! I want to know if you can love the Count. You saw him at the last +ball we were at in France: when he capered round you; when he danced +minuets; when he——. But I cannot say what his conversation was. + +AMELIA. +Nor I either—I do not remember a syllable of it. + +BARON. +No? Then I do not think you like him. + +AMELIA. +I believe not. + +BARON. +But I think it proper to acquaint you he is rich, and of great +consequence: rich and of consequence; do you hear? + +AMELIA. +Yes, dear papa. But my tutor has always told me that birth and fortune +are inconsiderable things, and cannot give happiness. + +BARON. +There he is right—But if it happens that birth and fortune are joined +with sense and virtue—— + +AMELIA. +But is it so with Count Cassel? + +BARON. +Hem! Hem! [_Aside._] I will ask you a few questions on this subject; +but be sure to answer me honestly—Speak truth. + +AMELIA. +I never told an untruth in my life. + +BARON. +Nor ever _conceal_ the truth from me, I command you. + +AMELIA. +[_Earnestly._] Indeed, my lord, I never will. + +BARON. +I take you at your word—And now reply to me truly—Do you like to hear +the Count spoken of? + +AMELIA. +Good, or bad? + +BARON. +Good. Good. + +AMELIA. +Oh yes; I like to hear good of every body. + +BARON. +But do not you feel a little fluttered when he is talked of? + +AMELIA. +No. [_shaking her head._] + +BARON. +Are not you a little embarrassed? + +AMELIA. +No. + +BARON. +Don’t you wish sometimes to speak to him, and have not the courage to +begin? + +AMELIA. +No. + +BARON. +Do not you wish to take his part when his companions laugh at him? + +AMELIA. +No—I love to laugh at him myself. + +BARON. +Provoking! [_Aside._] Are not you afraid of him when he comes near you? + +AMELIA. +No, not at all.—Oh yes—once. [_recollecting herself._] + +BARON. +Ah! Now it comes! + +AMELIA. +Once at a ball he trod on my foot; and I was so afraid he should tread +on me again. + +BARON. +You put me out of patience. Hear, Amelia! [_stops short, and speaks +softer._] To see you happy is my wish. But matrimony, without concord, +is like a duetto badly performed; for that reason, nature, the great +composer of all harmony, has ordained, that, when bodies are allied, +hearts should be in perfect unison. However, I will send Mr. Anhalt to +you—— + +AMELIA. +[_much pleased_]. Do, papa. + +BARON. +——He shall explain to you my sentiments. [_Rings._] A clergyman can do +this better than——[_Enter servant._] Go directly to Mr. Anhalt, tell +him that I shall be glad to see him for a quarter of an hour if he is +not engaged. [_Exit servant._ + +AMELIA. +[_calls after him_]. Wish him a good morning from me. + +BARON. +[_looking at his watch_]. The Count is a tedious time dressing.—Have +you breakfasted, Amelia? + +AMELIA. +No, papa. [_they sit down to breakfast._] + +BARON. +How is the weather? Have you walked this morning? + +AMELIA. +Oh, yes—I was in the garden at five o’clock; it is very fine. + +BARON. +Then I’ll go out shooting. I do not know in what other way to amuse my +guest. + +_Enter Count_ CASSEL. + + +COUNT. +Ah, my dear Colonel! Miss Wildenhaim, I kiss your hand. + +BARON. +Good morning! Good morning! though it is late in the day, Count. In the +country we should rise earlier. + +[Amelia _offers the_ Count _a Cup of tea_.] + + +COUNT. +Is it Hebe herself, or Venus, or—— + +AMELIA. +Ha, ha, ha! Who can help laughing at his nonsense? + +BARON. +[_rather angry_]. Neither Venus, not Hebe; but Amelia Wildenhaim, if +you please. + +COUNT. +[_Sitting down to breakfast_]. You are beautiful, Miss Wildenhaim.—Upon +my honour, I think so. I have travelled, and seen much of the world, +and yet I can positively admire you. + +AMELIA. +I am sorry I have not seen the world. + +COUNT. +Wherefore? + +AMELIA. +Because I might then, perhaps, admire you. + +COUNT. +True;—for I am an epitome of the world. In my travels I learnt delicacy +in Italy—hauteur, in Spain—in France, enterprize—in Russia, prudence—in +England, sincerity—in Scotland, frugality—and in the wilds of America, +I learnt love. + +AMELIA. +Is there any country where love is taught? + +COUNT. +In all barbarous countries. But the whole system is exploded in places +that are civilized. + +AMELIA. +And what is substituted in its stead? + +COUNT. +Intrigue. + +AMELIA. +What a poor, uncomfortable substitute! + +COUNT. +There are other things—Song, dance, the opera, and war. + +[_Since the entrance of the_ Count _the_ Baron _has removed to a table +at a little distance._ + + +BARON. +What are you talking of there? + +COUNT. +Of war, Colonel. + +BARON. +[_rising_]. Ay, we like to talk on what we don’t understand. + +COUNT. +[_rising_]. Therefore, to a lady, I always speak of politics; and to +her father, on love. + +BARON. +I believe, Count, notwithstanding your sneer, I am still as much a +proficient in that art as yourself. + +COUNT. +I do not doubt it, my dear Colonel, for you are a soldier: and since +the days of Alexander, whoever conquers men is certain to overcome +women. + +BARON. +An achievement to animate a poltroon. + +COUNT. +And, I verily believe, gains more recruits than the king’s pay. + +BARON. +Now we are on the subject of arms, should you like to go out a shooting +with me for an hour before dinner? + +COUNT. +Bravo, Colonel! A charming thought! This will give me an opportunity to +use my elegant gun: the but is inlaid with mother-of-pearl. You cannot +find better work, or better taste.—Even my coat of arms is engraved. + +BARON. +But can you shoot? + +COUNT. +That I have never tried—except, with my eyes, at a fine woman. + +BARON. +I am not particular what game I pursue.—I have an old gun; it does not +look fine; But I can always bring down my bird. + +_Enter_ SERVANT. + + +SERVANT. +Mr. Anhalt begs leave—— + +BARON. +Tell him to come in.—I shall be ready in a moment. [_Exit_ Servant. + +COUNT. +Who is Mr. Anhalt? + +AMELIA. +Oh, a very good man. [_With warmth._] + +COUNT. +“A good man.” In Italy, that means a religious man; in France, it means +a cheerful man; in Spain, it means a wise man; and in England, it means +a rich man.—Which good of all these is Mr. Anhalt? + +AMELIA. +A good man in every country, except England. + +COUNT. +And give me the English good man, before that of any other nation. + +BARON. +And of what nation would you prefer your good woman to be, Count? + +COUNT. +Of Germany. [_bowing to_ Amelia.] + +AMELIA. +In compliment to me? + +COUNT. +In justice to my own judgment. + +BARON. +Certainly. For have we not an instance of one German woman, who +possesses every virtue that ornaments the whole sex; whether as a woman +of illustrious rank, or in the more exalted character of a wife, and +mother? + +_Enter Mr._ ANHALT. + + +MR. ANHALT. +I come by your command, Baron—— + +BARON. +Quick, Count.—Get your elegant gun.—I pass your apartments, and will +soon call for you. + +COUNT. +I fly.—Beautiful Amelia, it is a sacrifice I make to your father, that +I leave for a few hours his amiable daughter. [_Exit._ + +BARON. +My dear Amelia, I think it scarcely necessary to speak to Mr. Anhalt, +or that he should speak to you, on the subject of the Count; but as he +is here, leave us alone. + +AMELIA. +[_as she retires_]. Good morning, Mr. Anhalt.—I hope you are very well. +[_Exit._ + +BARON. +I’ll tell you in a few words why I sent for you. Count Cassel is here, +and wishes to marry my daughter. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_much concerned_]. Really! + +BARON. +He is—he—in a word I don’t like him. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_with emotion_]. And Miss Wildenhaim —— + +BARON. +I shall not command, neither persuade her to the marriage—I know too +well the fatal influence of parents on such a subject. Objections to be +sure, if they could be removed—But when you find a man’s head without +brains, and his bosom without a heart, these are important articles to +supply. Young as you are, Anhalt, I know no one so able to restore, or +to bestow those blessings on his fellow-creatures, as you. [Anhalt +_bows._] The Count wants a little of my daughter’s simplicity and +sensibility.—Take him under your care while he is here, and make him +something like yourself.—You have succeeded to my wish in the education +of my daughter.—Form the Count after your own manner.—I shall then have +what I have sighed for all my life—a son. + +MR. ANHALT. +With your permission, Baron, I will ask one question. What remains to +interest you in favour of a man, whose head and heart are good for +nothing? + +BARON. +Birth and fortune. Yet, if I thought my daughter absolutely disliked +him, or that she loved another, I would not thwart a first +affection;—no, for the world, I would not. [_sighing._] But that her +affections are already bestowed, is not probable. + +MR. ANHALT. +Are you of opinion that she will never fall in love? + +BARON. +Oh! no. I am of opinion that no woman ever arrived at the age of twenty +without that misfortune.—But this is another subject.—Go to +Amelia—explain to her the duties of a wife and of a mother.—If she +comprehends them, as she ought, then ask her if she thinks she could +fulfil those duties, as the wife of Count Cassel. + +MR. ANHALT. +I will.—But—I—Miss Wildenhaim—[_confused._ I—I shall—I—I shall obey +your commands. + +BARON. +Do so. [_gives a deep sigh._] Ah! so far this weight is removed; but +there lies still a heavier next my heart.—You understand me.—How is it, +Mr. Anhalt? Have you not yet been able to make any discoveries on that +unfortunate subject? + +MR. ANHALT. +I have taken infinite pains; but in vain. No such person is to be +found. + +BARON. +Believe me, this burthen presses on my thoughts so much, that many +nights I go without sleep. A man is sometimes tempted to commit such +depravity when young.—Oh, Anhalt! had I, in my youth, had you for a +tutor;—but I had no instructor but my passions; no governor but my own +will. [_Exit._ + +MR. ANHALT. +This commission of the Baron’s in respect to his daughter, I am—[_looks +about_]—If I shou’d meet her now, I cannot—I must recover myself first, +and then prepare.—A walk in the fields, and a fervent prayer—After +these, I trust, I shall return, as a man whose views are solely placed +on a future world; all hopes in this, with fortitude resigned. [_Exit._ + + + + +ACT III. + +SCENE I. + +_An open Field._ + + +FREDERICK _alone, with a few pieces of money which he turns about in +his hands._ + + +FREDERICK. +To return with this trifle for which I have stooped to beg! return to +see my mother dying! I would rather fly to the world’s end. [_Looking +at the money._] What can I buy with this? It is hardly enough to pay +for the nails that will be wanted for her coffin. My great anxiety will +drive me to distraction. However, let the consequence of our affliction +be what it may, all will fall upon my father’s head; and may he pant +for Heaven’s forgiveness, as my poor mother —— [_At a distance is heard +the firing of a gun, then the cry of Hallo, Hallo—Gamekeepers and +Sportsmen run across the stage—he looks about._] Here they come—a +nobleman, I suppose, or a man of fortune. Yes, yes—and I will once more +beg for my mother.—May Heaven send relief! + +_Enter the_ BARON _followed slowly by the_ COUNT. _The_ BARON _stops._ + + +BARON. +Quick, quick, Count! Aye, aye, that was a blunder indeed. Don’t you see +the dogs? There they run—they have lost the scent. [_Exit_ Baron +_looking after the dogs._ + +COUNT. +So much the better, Colonel, for I must take a little breath. [_He +leans on his gun_—Frederick _goes up to him with great modesty._] + +FREDERICK. +Gentleman, I beg you will bestow from your superfluous wants something +to relieve the pain, and nourish the weak frame, of an expiring woman. + +_The_ BARON _re-enters._ + + +COUNT. +What police is here! that a nobleman’s amusements should be interrupted +by the attack of vagrants. + +FREDERICK. +[_to the Baron_]. Have pity, noble Sir, and relieve the distress of an +unfortunate son, who supplicates for his dying mother. + +BARON. +[_taking out his purse_]. I think, young soldier, it would be better if +you were with your regiment on duty, instead of begging. + +FREDERICK. +I would with all my heart: but at this present moment my sorrows are +too great.—[Baron _gives something._] I entreat your pardon. What you +have been so good as to give me is not enough. + +BARON. +[_surprised_]. Not enough! + +FREDERICK. +No, it is not enough. + +COUNT. +The most singular beggar I ever met in all my travels. + +FREDERICK. +If you have a charitable heart, give me one dollar. + +BARON. +This is the first time I was ever dictated by a beggar what to give +him. + +FREDERICK. +With one dollar you will save a distracted man. + +BARON. +I don’t choose to give any more. Count, go on. + +[_Exit_ Count—_as the_ Baron _follows_, Frederick _seizes him by the +breast and draws his sword._] + + +FREDERICK. +Your purse, or your life. + +BARON. +[_calling_]. Here! here! seize and secure him. + +[_Some of the Gamekeepers run on, lay hold of_ Frederick, _and disarm +him._] + + +FREDERICK. +What have I done! + +BARON. +Take him to the castle, and confine him in one of the towers. I shall +follow you immediately. + +FREDERICK. +One favour I have to beg, one favour only.—I know that I am guilty, and +am ready to receive the punishment my crime deserves. But I have a +mother, who is expiring for want—pity her, if you cannot pity me—bestow +on her relief. If you will send to yonder hut, you will find that I do +not impose on you a falsehood. For her it was I drew my sword—for her I +am ready to die. + +BARON. +Take him away, and imprison him where I told you. + +FREDERICK. +[_as he is forced off by the keepers_]. Woe to that man to whom I owe +my birth! [_Exit._ + +BARON. +[_calls another Keeper_]. Here, Frank, run directly to yonder hamlet, +inquire in the first, second, and third cottage for a poor sick +woman—and if you really find such a person, give her this purse. [_Exit +Gamekeeper._] + +BARON. +A most extraordinary event!—and what a well-looking youth! something in +his countenance and address which struck me inconceivably!—If it is +true that he begged for his mother—But if he did——for the attempt upon +my life, he must die. Vice is never half so dangerous, as when it +assumes the garb of morality. [_Exit._] + + + + +SCENE II. + +_A room in the Castle._ + + +AMELIA. +[_alone._] Why am I so uneasy; so peevish; who has offended me? I did +not mean to come into this room. In the garden I intended to go +[_going, turns back_]. No, I will not—yes, I will—just go, and look if +my auriculas are still in blossom; and if the apple tree is grown which +Mr. Anhalt planted.—I feel very low-spirited—something must be the +matter.—Why do I cry?—Am I not well? + +_Enter Mr._ ANHALT. + + +Ah! good morning, my dear Sir—Mr. Anhalt, I meant to say—I beg pardon. + +MR. ANHALT. +Never mind, Miss Wildenhaim—I don’t dislike to hear you call me as you +did. + +AMELIA. +In earnest? + +MR. ANHALT. +Really. You have been crying. May I know the reason? The loss of your +mother, still?— + +AMELIA. +No—I have left off crying for her. + +MR. ANHALT. +I beg pardon if I have come at an improper hour; but I wait upon you by +the commands of your father. + +AMELIA. +You are welcome at all hours. My father has more than once told me that +he who forms my mind I should always consider as my greatest +benefactor. [_looking down_] And my heart tells me the same. + +MR. ANHALT. +I think myself amply rewarded by the good opinion you have of me. + +AMELIA. +When I remember what trouble I have sometimes given you, I cannot be +too grateful. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_to himself_] Oh! Heavens!—[_to_ Amelia]. I—I come from your father +with a commission.—If you please, we will sit down. [_He places chairs, +and they sit._] Count Cassel is arrived. + +AMELIA. +Yes, I know. + +MR. ANHALT. +And do you know for what reason? + +AMELIA. +He wishes to marry me. + +MR. ANHALT. +Does he? [_hastily_] But believe me, the Baron will not persuade +you—No, I am sure he will not. + +AMELIA. +I know that. + +MR. ANHALT. +He wishes that I should ascertain whether you have an inclination —— + +AMELIA. +For the Count, or for matrimony do you mean? + +MR. ANHALT. +For matrimony. + +AMELIA. +All things that I don’t know, and don’t understand, are quite +indifferent to me. + +MR. ANHALT. +For that very reason I am sent to you to explain the good and the bad +of which matrimony is composed. + +AMELIA. +Then I beg first to be acquainted with the good. + +MR. ANHALT. +When two sympathetic hearts meet in the marriage state, matrimony may +be called a happy life. When such a wedded pair find thorns in their +path, each will be eager, for the sake of the other, to tear them from +the root. Where they have to mount hills, or wind a labyrinth, the most +experienced will lead the way, and be a guide to his companion. +Patience and love will accompany them in their journey, while +melancholy and discord they leave far behind.—Hand in hand they pass on +from morning till evening, through their summer’s day, till the night +of age draws on, and the sleep of death overtakes the one. The other, +weeping and mourning, yet looks forward to the bright region where he +shall meet his still surviving partner, among trees and flowers which +themselves have planted, in fields of eternal verdure. + +AMELIA. +You may tell my father—I’ll marry. [_Rises._] + +MR. ANHALT. +[_rising_]. This picture is pleasing; but I must beg you not to forget +that there is another on the same subject.—When convenience, and fair +appearance joined to folly and ill-humour, forge the fetters of +matrimony, they gall with their weight the married pair. Discontented +with each other—at variance in opinions—their mutual aversion increases +with the years they live together. They contend most, where they should +most unite; torment, where they should most soothe. In this rugged way, +choaked with the weeds of suspicion, jealousy, anger, and hatred, they +take their daily journey, till one of these _also_ sleep in death. The +other then lifts up his dejected head, and calls out in acclamations of +joy—Oh, liberty! dear liberty! + +AMELIA. +I will not marry. + +MR. ANHALT. +You mean to say, you will not fall in love. + +AMELIA. +Oh no! [_ashamed_] I am in love. + +MR. ANHALT. +Are in love! [_starting_] And with the Count? + +AMELIA. +I wish I was. + +MR. ANHALT. +Why so? + +AMELIA. +Because _he_ would, perhaps, love me again. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_warmly_]. Who is there that would not? + +AMELIA. +Would you? + +MR. ANHALT. +I—I—me—I—I am out of the question. + +AMELIA. +No; you are the very person to whom I have put the question. + +MR. ANHALT. +What do you mean? + +AMELIA. +I am glad you don’t understand me. I was afraid I had spoken too plain. +[_in confusion_]. + +MR. ANHALT. +Understand you!—As to that—I am not dull. + +AMELIA. +I know you are not—And as you have for a long time instructed me, why +should not I now begin to teach you? + +MR. ANHALT. +Teach me what? + +AMELIA. +Whatever I know, and you don’t. + +MR. ANHALT. +There are some things I had rather never know. + +AMELIA. +So you may remember I said when you began to teach me mathematics. I +said I had rather not know it—But now I have learnt it gives me a great +deal of pleasure—and [_hesitating_] perhaps, who can tell, but that I +might teach something as pleasant to you, as resolving a problem is to +me. + +MR. ANHALT. +Woman herself is a problem. + +AMELIA. +And I’ll teach you to make her out. + +MR. ANHALT. +_You_ teach? + +AMELIA. +Why not? none but a woman can teach the science of herself: and though +I own I am very young, a young woman may be as agreeable for a tutoress +as an old one.—I am sure I always learnt faster from you than from the +old clergyman who taught me before you came. + +MR. ANHALT. +This is nothing to the subject. + +AMELIA. +What is the subject? + +MR. ANHALT. +—— Love. + +AMELIA. +[_going up to him_]. Come, then, teach it me—teach it me as you taught +me geography, languages, and other important things. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_turning from her_] Pshaw! + +AMELIA. +Ah! you won’t—You know you have already taught me that, and you won’t +begin again. + +MR. ANHALT. +You misconstrue—you misconceive every thing I say or do. The subject I +came to you upon was marriage. + +AMELIA. +A very proper subject from the man who has taught me love, and I accept +the proposal [_curtsying_]. + +MR. ANHALT. +Again you misconceive and confound me. + +AMELIA. +Ay, I see how it is—You have no inclination to experience with me “the +good part of matrimony:” I am not the female with whom you would like +to go “hand in hand up hills, and through labyrinths”—with whom you +would like to “root up thorns; and with whom you would delight to plant +lilies and roses.” No, you had rather call out, “O liberty, dear +liberty.” + +MR. ANHALT. +Why do you force from me, what it is villanous to own?—I love you more +than life—Oh, Amelia! had we lived in those golden times, which the +poet’s picture, no one but you——But as the world is changed, your birth +and fortune make our union impossible—To preserve the character, and +more the feelings of an honest man, I would not marry you without the +consent of your father—And could I, dare I propose it to him. + +AMELIA. +He has commanded me never to conceal or disguise the truth. I will +propose it to him. The subject of the Count will force me to speak +plainly, and this will be the most proper time, while he can compare +the merit of you both. + +MR. ANHALT. +I conjure you not to think of exposing yourself and me to his +resentment. + +AMELIA. +It is my father’s will that I should marry—It is my father’s wish to +see me happy—If then you love me as you say, I will marry; and will be +happy—but only with you.—I will tell him this.—At first he will start; +then grow angry; then be in a passion—In his passion he will call me +“undutiful:” but he will soon recollect himself, and resume his usual +smiles, saying “Well, well, if he love you, and you love him, in the +name of heaven, let it be.” Then I shall hug him round the neck, kiss +his hands, run away from him, and fly to you; it will soon be known +that I am your bride, the whole village will come to wish me joy, and +heaven’s blessing will follow. + +_Enter Verdun, the_ BUTLER. + + +AMELIA. +[_discontented_]. Ah! is it you? + +BUTLER. +Without vanity, I have taken the liberty to enter this apartment the +moment the good news reached my ears. + +AMELIA. +What news? + +BUTLER. +Pardon an old servant, your father’s old butler, gracious lady, who has +had the honour to carry the baron in his arms—and afterwards with +humble submission to receive many a box o’ the ear from you—if he +thinks it his duty to make his congratulations with due reverence on +this happy day, and to join with the muses in harmonious tunes on the +lyre. + +AMELIA. +Oh! my good butler, I am not in a humour to listen to the muses, and +your lyre. + +BUTLER. +There has never been a birth-day, nor wedding-day, nor christening-day, +celebrated in your family, in which I have not joined with the muses in +full chorus.—In forty-six years, three hundred and ninety-seven +congratulations on different occasions have dropped from my pen. +To-day, the three hundred and ninety-eighth is coming forth;—for heaven +has protected our noble master, who has been in great danger. + +AMELIA. +Danger! My father in danger! What do you mean? + +BUTLER. +One of the gamekeepers has returned to inform the whole castle of a +base and knavish trick, of which the world will talk, and my poetry +hand down to posterity. + +AMELIA. +What, what is all this? + +BUTLER. +The baron, my lord and master, in company with the strange Count, had +not been gone a mile beyond the lawn, when one of them —— + +AMELIA. +What happened? Speak for heaven’s sake. + +BUTLER. +My verse shall tell you. + +AMELIA. +No, no; tell us in prose. + +MR. ANHALT. +Yes, in prose. + +BUTLER. +Ah, you have neither of you ever been in love, or you would prefer +poetry to prose. But excuse [_pulls out a paper_] the haste in which it +was written. I heard the news in the fields—always have paper and a +pencil about me, and composed the whole forty lines crossing the +meadows and the park in my way home. [_reads._] + +Oh Muse, ascend the forked mount. + And lofty strains prepare, +About a Baron and a Count, + Who went to hunt the hare. + +The hare she ran with utmost speed, + And sad, and anxious looks, +Because the furious hounds indeed, + Were near to her, gadzooks. + +At length, the Count and Baron bold + Their footsteps homeward bended; +For why, because, as you were told, + The hunting it was ended. + +Before them strait a youth appears, + Who made a piteous pother, +And told a tale with many tears, + About his dying mother. + +The youth was in severe distress, + And seem’d as he had spent all, +He look’d a soldier by his dress; + For that was regimental. + +The Baron’s heart was full of ruth, + While from his eye fell brine o! +And soon he gave the mournful youth + A little ready rino. + +He gave a shilling as I live, + Which, sure, was mighty well; +But to some people if you give + An inch—they’ll take an ell. + +The youth then drew his martial knife, + And seiz’d the Baron’s collar, +He swore he’d have the Baron’s life, + Or else another dollar. + +Then did the Baron in a fume, + Soon raise a mighty din, +Whereon came butler, huntsman, groom, + And eke the whipper-in. + +Maugre this young man’s warlike coat, + They bore him off to prison; +And held so strongly by his throat, + They almost stopt his whizzen. + +Soon may a neckcloth, call’d a rope, + Of robbing cure this elf; +If so I’ll write, without a trope, + His dying speech myself. + +And had the Baron chanc’d to die, + Oh! grief to all the nation, +I must have made an elegy, + And not this fine narration. + + +MORAL. + + +Henceforth let those who all have spent, + And would by begging live, +Take warning here, and be content, + With what folks chuse to give. + + +AMELIA. +Your muse, Mr. Butler, is in a very inventive humour this morning. + +MR. ANHALT. +And your tale too improbable, even for fiction. + +BUTLER. +Improbable! It’s a real fact. + +AMELIA. +What, a robber in our grounds, at noon-day? Very likely indeed! + +BUTLER. +I don’t say it was likely—I only say it is true. + +MR. ANHALT. +No, no, Mr. Verdun, we find no fault with your poetry; but don’t +attempt to impose it upon us for truth. + +AMELIA. +Poets are allowed to speak falsehood, and we forgive yours. + +BUTLER. +I won’t be forgiven, for I speak truth—And here the robber comes, in +custody, to prove my words. [_Goes off, repeating_] “I’ll write his +dying speech myself.” + +AMELIA. +Look! as I live, so he does—They come nearer; he’s a young man, and has +something interesting in his figure. An honest countenance, with grief +and sorrow in his face. No, he is no robber—I pity him! Oh! look how +the keepers drag him unmercifully into the tower—Now they lock it—Oh! +how that poor, unfortunate man must feel! + +MR. ANHALT. +[_aside_]. Hardly worse than I do. + +_Enter the_ BARON. + + +AMELIA. +[_runs up to him_]. A thousand congratulations, my dear papa. + +BARON. +For Heaven’s sake spare me your congratulations. The old Butler, in +coming up stairs, has already overwhelmed me with them. + +MR. ANHALT. +Then, it is true, my Lord? I could hardly believe the old man. + +AMELIA. +And the young prisoner, with all his honest looks, is a robber? + +BARON. +He is; but I verily believe for the first and last time. A most +extraordinary event, Mr. Anhalt This young man begged; then drew his +sword upon me; but he trembled so, when he seized me by the breast, a +child might have overpowered him. I almost wish he had made his +escape—this adventure may cost him his life, and I might have preserved +it with one dollar: but, now, to save him would set a bad example. + +AMELIA. +Oh no! my lord, have pity on him! Plead for him, Mr. Anhalt! + +BARON. +Amelia, have you had any conversation with Mr. Anhalt? + +AMELIA. +Yes, my Lord. + +BARON. +Respecting matrimony? + +AMELIA. +Yes; and I have told him —— + +MR. ANHALT. +[_very hastily_]. According to your commands, Baron —— + +AMELIA. +But he has conjured me —— + +MR. ANHALT. +I have endeavoured, my Lord, to find out —— + +AMELIA. +Yet, I am sure, dear papa, your affection for me —— + +MR. ANHALT. +You wish to say something to me in your closet, my Lord? + +BARON. +What the devil is all this conversation? You will not let one another +speak—I don’t understand either of you. + +AMELIA. +Dear father, have you not promised you will not thwart my affections +when I marry, but suffer me to follow their dictates. + +BARON. +Certainly. + +AMELIA. +Do you hear, Mr. Anhalt? + +MR. ANHALT. +I beg pardon—I have a person who is waiting for me—I am obliged to +retire. [_Exit in confusion._ + +BARON. +[_calls after him_]. I shall expect you in my closet. I am going there +immediately. [_Retiring towards the opposite door._] + +AMELIA. +Pray, my Lord, stop a few minutes longer; I have something of great +importance to say to you. + +BARON. +Something of importance! to plead for the young man, I suppose! But +that’s a subject I must not listen to. [_Exit._ + +AMELIA. +I wish to plead for two young men—For one, that he may be let out of +prison: for the other, that he may be made a prisoner for life. [_Looks +out._] The tower is still locked. How dismal it must be to be shut up +in such a place; and perhaps—[_Calls_] Butler! Butler! Come this way. I +wish to speak to you. This young soldier has risked his life for his +mother, and that accounts for the interest I take in his misfortunes. + +_Enter the_ BUTLER. + + +Pray, have you carried anything to the prisoner to eat? + +BUTLER. +Yes. + +AMELIA. +What was it? + +BUTLER. +Some fine black bread; and water as clear as crystal. + +AMELIA. +Are you not ashamed! Even my father pities him. Go directly down to the +kitchen, and desire the cook to give you something good and +comfortable; and then go into the cellar for a bottle of wine. + +BUTLER. +Good and comfortable indeed! + +AMELIA. +And carry both to the tower. + +BUTLER. +I am willing at any time, dear Lady, to obey your orders; but, on this +occasion, the prisoner’s food must remain bread and water—It is the +Baron’s particular command. + +AMELIA. +Ah! My father was in the height of passion when he gave it. + +BUTLER. +Whatsoever his passion might be, it is the duty of a true, and honest +dependent to obey his Lord’s mandates. I will not suffer a servant in +this house, nor will I, myself, give the young man any thing except +bread and water—But I’ll tell you what I’ll do—I’ll read my verses to +him. + +AMELIA. +Give me the key of the cellar—I’ll go myself. + +BUTLER. +[_gives the key_]. And there’s my verses—[_taking them from his +pocket_] Carry them with you, they may comfort him as much as the wine. +[_She throws them down._ [_Exit_ Amelia. + +BUTLER. +[_in amazement_]. Not take them! Refuse to take them—[_he lifts them +from the floor with the utmost respect_]— + +“I must have made an elegy, +And not this fine narration.” [_Exit._ + + + + +ACT IV. + +SCENE I. + +_A Prison in one of the Towers of the Castle._ FREDERICK [_alone_]. + + +FREDERICK. +How a few moments destroy the happiness of man! When I, this morning, +set out from my inn, and saw the sun rise, I sung with joy.—Flattered +with the hope of seeing my mother, I formed a scheme how I would with +joy surprize her. But, farewell all pleasant prospects—I return to my +native country, and the first object I behold, is my dying parent; my +first lodging, a prison; and my next walk will perhaps be—oh, merciful +providence! have I deserved all this? + +_Enter_ AMELIA _with a small basket covered with a napkin.—She speaks +to someone without._ + + +AMELIA. +Wait there, Francis, I shall soon be back. + +FREDERICK. +[_hearing the door open, and turning around_]. Who’s there? + +AMELIA. +You must be hungry and thirsty, I fear. + +FREDERICK. +Oh, no! neither. + +AMELIA. +Here is a bottle of wine, and something to eat. [_Places the basket on +the table._] I have often heard my father say, that wine is quite a +cordial to the heart. + +FREDERICK. +A thousand thanks, dear stranger. Ah! could I prevail on you to have it +sent to my mother, who is on her death-bed, under the roof of an honest +peasant, called Hubert! Take it hence, my kind benefactress, and save +my mother. + +AMELIA. +But first assure me that you did not intend to murder my father. + +FREDERICK. +Your father! heaven forbid.—I meant but to preserve her life, who gave +me mine.—Murder your father! No, no—I hope not. + +AMELIA. +And I thought not—Or, if you had murdered any one, you had better have +killed the Count; nobody would have missed him. + +FREDERICK. +Who, may I enquire, were those gentlemen, whom I hoped to frighten into +charity? + +AMELIA. +Ay, if you only intended to frighten them, the Count was the very +person for your purpose. But you caught hold of the other +gentleman.—And could you hope to intimidate Baron Wildenhaim? + +FREDERICK. +Baron Wildenhaim!—Almighty powers! + +AMELIA. +What’s the matter? + +FREDERICK. +The man to whose breast I held my sword——[_trembling_]. + +AMELIA. +Was Baron Wildenhaim—the owner of this estate—my father! + +FREDERICK. +[_with the greatest emotion_]. _My_ father! + +AMELIA. +Good heaven, how he looks! I am afraid he’s mad. Here! Francis, +Francis. [_Exit, calling._ + +FREDERICK. +[_all agitation_]. My _father_! Eternal judge! tho do’st slumber! The +man, against whom I drew my sword this day was my father! One moment +longer, and provoked, I might have been the murderer of my father! my +hair stands on end! my eyes are clouded! I cannot see any thing before +me. [_Sinks down on chair_]. If Providence had ordained that I should +give the fatal blow, who, would have been most in fault?—I dare not +pronounce—[_after a pause_] That benevolent young female who left me +just now, is, then, my sister—and I suppose that fop, who accompanied +my father—— + +_Enter_ MR. ANHALT. + + +Welcome, Sir! By your dress you are of the church, and consequently a +messenger of comfort. You are most welcome, Sir. + +MR. ANHALT. +I wish to bring comfort and avoid upbraidings: for your own conscience +will reproach you more than the voice of a preacher. From the +sensibility of your countenance, together with a language, and address +superior to the vulgar, it appears, young man, you have had an +education, which should have preserved you from a state like this. + +FREDERICK. +My education I owe to my mother. Filial love, in return, has plunged me +into the state you see. A civil magistrate will condemn according to +the law—A priest, in judgment, is not to consider the act itself, but +the impulse which led to the act. + +MR. ANHALT. +I shall judge with all the lenity my religion dictates: and you are the +prisoner of a nobleman, who compassionates you for the affection which +you bear towards your mother; for he has sent to the village where you +directed him, and has found the account you gave relating to her +true.—With this impression in your favour, it is my advice, that you +endeavour to see and supplicate the Baron for your release from prison, +and all the peril of his justice. + +FREDERICK. +[_starting_]. I—I see the Baron! I!—I supplicate for my +deliverance.—Will you favour me with his name?—Is it not Baron—— + +MR. ANHALT. +Baron Wildenhaim. + +FREDERICK. +Baron Wildenhaim! He lived formerly in Alsace. + +MR. ANHALT. +The same.—About a year after the death of his wife, he left Alsace; and +arrived here a few weeks ago to take possession of his paternal estate. + +FREDERICK. +So! his wife is dead;—and that generous young lady who came to my +prison just now is his daughter? + +MR. ANHALT. +Miss Wildenhaim, his daughter. + +FREDERICK. +And that young gentleman, I saw with him this morning, is his son? + +MR. ANHALT. +He has no son. + +FREDERICK. +[_hastily_]. Oh, yes, he has—[_recollecting himself_]—I mean him that +was out shooting to-day. + +MR. ANHALT. +He is not his son. + +FREDERICK. +[_to himself_]. Thank Heaven! + +MR. ANHALT. +He is only a visitor. + +FREDERICK. +I thank you for this information; and if you will undertake to procure +me a private interview with Baron Wildenhaim—— + +MR. ANHALT. +Why private? However, I will venture to take you for a short time from +this place, and introduce you; depending on your innocence, or your +repentance—on his conviction in your favour, or his mercy towards your +guilt. Follow me. [_Exit._ + +FREDERICK. +[_following_]. I have beheld an affectionate parent in deep +adversity.—Why should I tremble thus?—Why doubt my fortitude, in the +presence of an unnatural parent in prosperity? [_Exit._ + + + + +SCENE II. + +_A Room in the Castle._ + + +_Enter_ BARON WILDENHAIM _and_ AMELIA. + + +BARON. +I hope you will judge more favourably of Count Cassel’s understanding +since the private interview you have had with him. Confess to me the +exact effect of the long conference between you. + +AMELIA. +To make me hate him. + +BARON. +What has he done? + +AMELIA. +Oh! told me of such barbarous deeds he has committed. + +BARON. +What deeds? + +AMELIA. +Made vows of love to so many women, that, on his marriage with me, a +hundred female hearts will at least be broken. + +BARON. +Psha! do you believe him? + +AMELIA. +Suppose I do not; is it to his honour that I believe he tells a +falsehood? + +BARON. +He is mistaken merely. + +AMELIA. +Indeed, my Lord, in one respect I am sure he speaks truth. For our old +Butler told my waiting-maid of a poor young creature who has been +deceived, undone; and she, and her whole family, involved in shame and +sorrow by his perfidy. + +BARON. +Are you sure the Butler said this? + +AMELIA. +See him and ask him. He knows the whole story, indeed he does; the +names of the persons, and every circumstance. + +BARON. +Desire he may be sent to me. + +AMELIA. +[_goes to the door and calls_]. Order old Verdun to come to the Baron +directly. + +BARON. +I know tale-bearers are apt to be erroneous. I’ll hear from himself, +the account you speak of. + +AMELIA. +I believe it is in verse. + +BARON. +[_angry_]. In verse! + +AMELIA. +But, then, indeed it’s true. + +_Enter_ BUTLER. + + +AMELIA. +Verdun, pray have not you some true poetry? + +BUTLER. +All my poetry is true—and so far, better than some people’s prose. + +BARON. +But I want prose on this occasion, and command you to give me nothing +else. [Butler _bows_.] Have you heard of an engagement which Count +Cassel is under to any other woman than my daughter? + +BUTLER. +I am to tell your honour in prose? + +BARON. +Certainly. [Butler _appears uneasy and loath to speak._] Amelia, he +does not like to divulge what he knows in presence of a third +person—leave the room. [_Exit_ Amelia. + +BUTLER. +No, no—that did not cause my reluctance to speak. + +BARON. +What then? + +BUTLER. +Your not allowing me to speak in verse—for here is the poetic poem. +[_Holding up a paper_.] + +BARON. +How dare you presume to contend with my will? Tell in plain language +all you know on the subject I have named. + +BUTLER. +Well, then, my Lord, if you must have the account in quiet prose, thus +it was—Phœbus, one morning, rose in the East, and having handed in the +long-expected day, he called up his brother Hymen—— + +BARON. +Have done with your rhapsody. + +BUTLER. +Ay; I knew you’d like it best in verse—— + +There lived a lady in this land, + Whose charms the heart made tingle; +At church she had not given her hand, + And therefore still was single. + + +BARON. +Keep to prose. + +BUTLER. +I will, my Lord; but I have repeated it so often in verse, I scarce +know how.—Count Cassel, influenced by the designs of Cupid in his very +worst humour, + +“Count Cassel wooed this maid so rare, + And in her eye found grace; +And if his purpose was not fair,” + + +BARON. +No verse. + +BUTLER. + + + “It probably was base.” + + +I beg pardon, my Lord; but the verse will intrude in spite of my +efforts to forget it. ’Tis as difficult for me at times to forget, as +’tis for other men at times to remember. But in plain truth, my Lord, +the Count was treacherous, cruel, forsworn. + +BARON. +I am astonished! + +BUTLER. +And would be more so if you would listen to the whole poem. [_Most +earnestly_.] Pray, my Lord, listen to it. + +BARON. +You know the family? All the parties? + +BUTLER. +I will bring the father of the damsel to prove the veracity of my muse. +His name is Baden—poor old man! + +“The sire consents to bless the pair, + And names the nuptial day, +When, lo! the bridegroom was not there, + Because he was away.” + + +BARON. +But tell me—Had the father his daughter’s innocence to deplore? + +BUTLER. +Ah! my Lord, ah! and you _must_ hear that part in rhyme. Loss of +innocence never sounds well except in verse. + +“For ah! the very night before, + No prudent guard upon her, +The Count he gave her oaths a score, + And took in change her honour. + + +MORAL. + + +Then you, who now lead single lives, + From this sad tale beware; +And do not act as you were wives, + Before you really are.” + + +_Enter_ COUNT CASSEL. + + +BARON. +[_to the_ Butler]. Leave the room instantly. + +COUNT. +Yes, good Mr. family poet, leave the room, and take your doggerels with +you. + +BUTLER. +Don’t affront my poem, your honour; for I am indebted to you for the +plot. + +“The Count he gave her oaths a score +And took in change her honour.” + + +[_Exit_ Butler. + + +BARON. +Count, you see me agitated. + +COUNT. +What can be the cause? + +BARON. +I’ll not keep you in doubt a moment. You are accused, young man, of +being engaged to another woman while you offer marriage to my child. + +COUNT. +To only _one_ other woman? + +BARON. +What do you mean? + +COUNT. +My meaning is, that when a man is young and rich, has travelled, and is +no personal object of disapprobation, to have made vows but to one +woman, is an absolute slight upon the rest of the sex. + +BARON. +Without evasion, Sir, do you know the name of Baden? Was there ever a +promise of marriage made by you to his daughter? Answer me plainly: or +must I take a journey to inquire of the father? + +COUNT. +No—he can tell you no more than, I dare say, you already know; and +which I shall not contradict. + +BARON. +Amazing insensibility! And can you hold your head erect while you +acknowledge perfidy? + +COUNT. +My dear baron,—if every man, who deserves to have a charge such as this +brought against him, was not permitted to look up—it is a doubt whom we +might not meet crawling on all fours. [_he accidently taps the Baron’s +shoulder._] + +BARON. +[_starts—recollects himself—then in a faultering voice_]. +Yet—nevertheless—the act is so atrocious— + +COUNT. +But nothing new. + +BARON. +[_faintly_]. Yes—I hope—I hope it is new. + +COUNT. +What, did you never meet with such a thing before? + +BARON. +[_agitated_]. If I have—I pronounced the man who so offended—a villain. + +COUNT. +You are singularly scrupulous. I question if the man thought himself +so. + +BARON. +Yes he did. + +COUNT. +How do you know? + +BARON. +[_hesitating_]. I have heard him say so. + +COUNT. +But he ate, drank, and slept, I suppose? + +BARON. +[_confused_]. Perhaps he did. + +COUNT. +And was merry with his friends; and his friends as fond of him as ever? + +BARON. +Perhaps [_confused_]—perhaps they were. + +COUNT. +And perhaps he now and then took upon him to lecture young men for +their gallantries? + +BARON. +Perhaps he did. + +COUNT. +Why, then, after all, Baron, your villain is a mighty good, prudent, +honest fellow; and I have no objection to your giving me that name. + +BARON. +But do you not think of some atonement to the unfortunate girl? + +COUNT. +Did _your_ villain atone? + +BARON. +No: when his reason was matured, he wished to make some recompense; but +his endeavours were too late. + +COUNT. +I will follow his example, and wait till my reason is matured, before I +think myself competent to determine what to do. + +BARON. +And till that time I defer your marriage with my daughter. + +COUNT. +Would you delay her happiness so long? Why, my dear Baron, considering +the fashionable life I lead, it may be ten years before my judgment +arrives to its necessary standard. + +BARON. +I have the head-ach, Count—These tidings have discomposed, disordered +me—I beg your absence for a few minutes. + +COUNT. +I obey—And let me assure you, my Lord, that, although, from the extreme +delicacy of your honour, you have ever through life shuddered at +seduction; yet, there are constitutions, and there are circumstances, +in which it can be palliated. + +BARON. +Never [_violently_]. + +COUNT. +Not in a grave, serious, reflecting man such as _you_, I grant. But in +a gay, lively, inconsiderate, flimsy, frivolous coxcomb, such as +myself, it is excusable: for me to keep my word to a woman, would be +deceit: ’tis not expected of me. It is in my character to break oaths +in love; as it is in your nature, my Lord, never to have spoken any +thing but wisdom and truth. [_Exit_ + +BARON. +Could I have thought a creature so insignificant as that, had power to +excite sensations such as I feel at present! I am, indeed, worse than +he is, as much as the crimes of a man exceed those of an idiot. + +_Enter_ AMELIA. + + +AMELIA. +I heard the Count leave you, my Lord, and so I am come to enquire—— + +BARON. +[_sitting down, and trying to compose himself_]. You are not to marry +count Cassel—And now, mention his name to me no more. + +AMELIA. +I won’t—indeed I won’t—for I hate his name.—But thank you, my dear +father, for this good news [_draws a chair, and sits on the opposite +side of the table on which he leans.—And after a pause_] And who am I +to marry? + +BARON. +[_his head on his hand_]. I can’t tell. + +[Amelia _appears to have something on her mind which she wishes to +disclose_.] + + +AMELIA. +I never liked the Count. + +BARON. +No more did I. + +AMELIA. +[_after a pause_]. I think love comes just as it pleases, without being +asked. + +BARON. +It does so [_in deep thought_]. + +AMELIA. +[_after another pause_]. And there are instances where, perhaps, the +object of love makes the passion meritorious. + +BARON. +To be sure there are. + +AMELIA. +For example; my affection for Mr. Anhalt as my tutor. + +BARON. +Right. + +AMELIA. +[_after another pause_]. I should like to marry. [_sighing_.] + +BARON. +So you shall [_a pause_]. It is proper for every body to marry. + +AMELIA. +Why, then, does not Mr. Anhalt marry? + +BARON. +You must ask him that question yourself. + +AMELIA. +I have. + +BARON. +And what did he say? + +AMELIA. +Will you give me leave to tell you what he said? + +BARON. +Certainly. + +AMELIA. +And you won’t be angry? + +BARON. +Undoubtedly not. + +AMELIA. +Why, then—you know you commanded me never to disguise or conceal the +truth. + +BARON. +I did so. + +AMELIA. +Why, then he said—— + +BARON. +What did he say? + +AMELIA. +He said—he would not marry me without your consent for the world. + +BARON. +[_starting from his chair_]. And pray, how came this the subject of +your conversation? + +AMELIA. +[_rising_]. _I_ brought it up. + +BARON. +And what did you say? + +AMELIA. +I said that birth and fortune were such old-fashioned things to me, I +cared nothing about either: and that I had once heard my father +declare, he should consult my happiness in marrying me, beyond any +other consideration. + +BARON. +I will once more repeat to you my sentiments. It is the custom in this +country for the children of nobility to marry only with their equals; +but as my daughter’s content is more dear to me than an ancient custom, +I would bestow you on the first man I thought calculated to make you +happy: by this I do not mean to say that I should not be severely nice +in the character of the man to whom I gave you; and Mr. Anhalt, from +his obligations to me, and his high sense of honour, thinks too nobly— + +AMELIA. +Would it not be noble to make the daughter of his benefactor happy? + +BARON. +But when that daughter is a child, and thinks like a child—— + +AMELIA. +No, indeed, papa, I begin to think very like a woman. Ask _him_ if I +don’t. + +BARON. +Ask him! You feel gratitude for the instructions you have received from +him, and fancy it love. + +AMELIA. +Are there two gratitudes? + +BARON. +What do you mean? + +AMELIA. +Because I feel gratitude to you; but that is very unlike the gratitude +I feel towards him. + +BARON. +Indeed! + +AMELIA. +Yes; and then he feels another gratitude towards me. What’s that? + +BARON. +Has he told you so? + +AMELIA. +Yes. + +BARON. +That was not right of him. + +AMELIA. +Oh! if you did but know how I surprized him! + +BARON. +Surprized him? + +AMELIA. +He came to me by your command, to examine my heart respecting Count +Cassel. I told him that I would never marry the Count. + +BARON. +But him? + +AMELIA. +Yes, him. + +BARON. +Very fine indeed! And what was his answer? + +AMELIA. +He talked of my rank in life; of my aunts and cousins; of my +grandfather, and great-grandfather; of his duty to you; and endeavoured +to persuade me to think no more of him. + +BARON. +He acted honestly. + +AMELIA. +But not politely. + +BARON. +No matter. + +AMELIA. +Dear father! I shall never be able to love another—Never be happy with +any one else. [_Throwing herself on her knees_.] + +BARON. +Rise, I command you. + +[_As she rises, enter_ ANHALT.] + + +MR. ANHALT. +My Lord, forgive me! I have ventured, on the privilege of my office, as +a minister of holy charity, to bring the poor soldier, whom your +justice has arrested, into the adjoining room; and I presume to entreat +you will admit him to your presence, and hear his apology, or his +supplication. + +BARON. +Anhalt, you have done wrong. I pity the unhappy boy; but you know I +cannot, must not forgive him. + +MR. ANHALT. +I beseech you then, my Lord, to tell him so yourself. From your lips he +may receive his doom with resignation. + +AMELIA. +Oh father! See him and take pity on him; his sorrows have made him +frantic. + +BARON. +Leave the room, Amelia. [_on her attempting to speak, he raises his +voice_.] Instantly.—[_Exit_ Amelia. + +MR. ANHALT. +He asked for a private audience: perhaps he has some confession to make +that may relieve his mind, and may be requisite for you to hear. + +BARON. +Well, bring him in, and do you wait in the adjoining room, till our +conference is over. I must then, Sir, have a conference with you. + +MR. ANHALT. +I shall obey your commands. [_He goes to door, and re-enters with_ +Frederick. Anhalt _then retires at the same door_.] + +BARON. +[_haughtily to_ Frederick]. I know, young man, you plead your mother’s +wants in excuse for an act of desperation: but powerful as this plea +might be in palliation of a fault, it cannot extenuate a crime like +yours. + +FREDERICK. +I have a plea for my conduct even more powerful than a mother’s wants. + +BARON. +What’s that? + +FREDERICK. +My father’s cruelty. + +BARON. +You have a father then? + +FREDERICK. +I have, and a rich one—Nay, one that’s reputed virtuous, and +honourable. A great man, possessing estates and patronage in abundance; +much esteemed at court, and beloved by his tenants; kind, benevolent, +honest, generous— + +BARON. +And with all those great qualities, abandons you? + +FREDERICK. +He does, with all the qualities I mention. + +BARON. +Your father may do right; a dissipated, desperate youth, whom kindness +cannot draw from vicious habits, severity may. + +FREDERICK. +You are mistaken—My father does not discard me for my vices—He does not +know me—has never seen me—He abandoned me, even before I was born. + +BARON. +What do you say? + +FREDERICK. +The tears of my mother are all that I inherit from my father. Never has +he protected or supported me—never protected her. + +BARON. +Why don’t you apply to his relations? + +FREDERICK. +They disown me, too—I am, they say, related to no one—All the world +disclaim me, except my mother—and there again, I have to thank my +father. + +BARON. +How so? + +FREDERICK. +Because I am an illegitimate son.—My seduced mother has brought me up +in patient misery. Industry enabled her to give me an education; but +the days of my youth commenced with hardship, sorrow, and danger.—My +companions lived happy around me, and had a pleasing prospect in their +view, while bread and water only were my food, and no hopes joined to +sweeten it. But my father felt not that! + +BARON. +[_to himself_]. He touches my heart. + +FREDERICK. +After five years’ absence from my mother, I returned this very day, and +found her dying in the streets for want—Not even a hut to shelter her, +or a pallet of straw—But my father, he feels not that! He lives in a +palace, sleeps on the softest down, enjoys all the luxuries of the +great; and when he dies, a funeral sermon will praise his great +benevolence, his Christian charities. + +BARON. +[_greatly agitated_]. What is your father’s name? + +FREDERICK. +—He took advantage of an innocent young woman, gained her affection by +flattery and false promises; gave life to an unfortunate being, who was +on the point of murdering his father. + +BARON. +[_shuddering_]. Who is he? + +FREDERICK. +Baron Wildenhaim. + +[_The_ Baron’s _emotion expresses the sense of amazement, guilt, shame, +and horror_.] + + +FREDERICK. +In this house did you rob my mother of her honour; and in this house I +am a sacrifice for the crime. I am your prisoner—I will not be free—I +am a robber—I give myself up.—You _shall_ deliver me into the hands of +justice—You shall accompany me to the spot of public execution. You +shall hear in vain the chaplain’s consolation and injunctions. You +shall find how I, in despair, will, to the last moment, call for +retribution on my father. + +BARON. +Stop! Be pacified— + +FREDERICK. +—And when you turn your head from my extended corse, you will behold my +weeping mother—Need I paint how her eyes will greet you? + +BARON. +Desist—barbarian, savage, stop! + +_Enter_ Anhalt _alarmed._ + + +MR. ANHALT. +What do I hear? What is this? Young man, I hope you have not made a +second attempt. + +FREDERICK. +Yes; I have done what it was your place to do. I have made a sinner +tremble [_points to the_ Baron _and exit_.] + +MR. ANHALT. +What can this mean?—I do not comprehend— + +BARON. +He is my son!—He is my son!—Go, Anhalt,—advise me—help me—Go to the +poor woman, his mother—He can show you the way—make haste—speed to +protect her— + +MR. ANHALT. +But what am I to—— + +BARON. +Go.—Your heart will tell you how to act. [_Exit_ Anhalt.] [Baron +_distractedly_.] Who am I? What am I? Mad—raving—no—I have a son—A son! +The bravest—I will—I must—oh! [_with tenderness_.] Why have I not +embraced him yet? [_increasing his voice_.] why not pressed him to my +heart? Ah! see—[_looking after him_]—He flies from the castle—Who’s +there? Where are my attendants? [_Enter two servants_]. Follow +him—bring the prisoner back.—But observe my command—treat him with +respect—treat him as my son—and your master. [_Exit_. + + + + +ACT V. + +SCENE I. + +_Inside of the Cottage (as in Act II)._ + + +AGATHA, COTTAGER, _and his_ WIFE _discovered_. + + +AGATHA. +Pray look and see if he is coming. + +COTTAGER. +It is of no use. I have been in the road; have looked up and down; but +neither see nor hear any thing of him. + +WIFE. +Have a little patience. + +AGATHA. +I wish you would step out once more—I think he cannot be far off. + +COTTAGER. +I will; I will go. [_Exit_. + +WIFE. +If your son knew what heaven had sent you, he would be here very soon. + +AGATHA. +I feel so anxious—— + +WIFE. +But why? I should think a purse of gold, such as you have received, +would make any body easy. + +AGATHA. +Where can he be so long? He has been gone four hours. Some ill must +have befallen him. + +WIFE. +It is still broad day-light—don’t think of any danger.—This evening we +must all be merry. I’ll prepare the supper. What a good gentleman our +Baron must be! I am sorry I ever spoke a word against him. + +AGATHA. +How did he know I was here? + +WIFE. +Heaven only can tell. The servant that brought the money was very +secret. + +AGATHA. +[_to herself_]. I am astonished! I wonder! Oh! surely he has been +informed—Why else should he have sent so much money? + +_Re-enter_ Cottager. + + +AGATHA. +Well!—not yet! + +COTTAGER. +I might look till I am blind for him—but I saw our new Rector coming +along the road; he calls in sometimes. May be, he will this evening. + +WIFE. +He is a very good gentleman; pays great attention to his parishioners; +and where he can assist the poor, he is always ready. + +_Enter Mr._ ANHALT. + + +MR. ANHALT. +Good evening, friends. + +BOTH. +Thank you, reverend Sir. + +[_They both run to fetch him a chair_]. + + +MR. ANHALT. +I thank you, good people—I see you have a stranger here. + +COTTAGER. +Yes, your Reverence; it is a poor sick woman, whom I took in doors. + +MR. ANHALT. +You will be rewarded for it. [_to_ Agatha.] May I beg leave to ask your +name? + +AGATHA. +Ah! If we were alone—— + +MR. ANHALT. +Good neighbours, will you leave us alone for a few minutes? I have +something to say to this poor woman. + +COTTAGER. +Wife, do you hear? Come along with me. [_Exeunt_ Cottager _and his_ +Wife.] + +MR. ANHALT. +Now—— + +AGATHA. +Before I tell you who I am, what I am, and what I was——I must beg to +ask—Are you of this country? + +MR. ANHALT. +No—I was born in Alsace. + +AGATHA. +Did you know the late rector personally, whom you have succeeded? + +MR. ANHALT. +No. + +AGATHA. +Then you are not acquainted with my narrative? + +MR. ANHALT. +Should I find you to be the person whom I have long been in search of, +your history is not altogether unknown to me. + +AGATHA. +“That you have been in search of!” Who gave you such a commission? + +MR. ANHALT. +A man, who, if it so prove, is much concerned for your misfortunes. + +AGATHA. +How? Oh, Sir! tell me quickly—Whom do you think to find in me? + +MR. ANHALT. +Agatha Friburg. + +AGATHA. +Yes, I am that unfortunate woman; and the man who pretends to take +concern in my misfortunes is——Baron Wildenhaim——he who betrayed me, +abandoned me and my child, and killed my parents.—He would now repair +our sufferings with this purse of gold. [_Takes out the purse_.] +Whatever may be your errand, Sir, whether to humble, or to protect me, +it is alike indifferent. I therefore request you to take this money to +him who sent it. Tell him, my honour has never been saleable. Tell him, +destitute as I am, even indigence will not tempt me to accept charity +from my seducer. He despised my heart—I despise his gold.—He has +trampled on me—I trample on his representative. [_Throws the purse on +the ground_.] + +MR. ANHALT. +Be patient—I give you my word, that when the Baron sent this present to +an unfortunate woman, for whom her son had supplicated, he did not know +that woman was Agatha. + +AGATHA. +My son? what of my son? + +MR. ANHALT. +Do not be alarmed—The Baron met with an affectionate son, who begged +for his sick mother, and it affected him. + +AGATHA. +Begged of the Baron! of his father! + +MR. ANHALT. +Yes; but they did not know each other; and the mother received the +present on the son’s account. + +AGATHA. +Did not know each other? Where is my son? + +MR. ANHALT. +At the Castle. + +AGATHA. +And still unknown? + +MR. ANHALT. +Now he is known—an explanation has taken place;—and I am sent here by +the Baron, not to a stranger, but to Agatha Friburg—not with gold! his +commission was—“do what your heart directs you.” + +AGATHA. +How is my Frederick? How did the Baron receive him? + +MR. ANHALT. +I left him just in the moment the discovery was made. By this time your +son is, perhaps, in the arms of his father. + +AGATHA. +Oh! is it possible that a man, who has been twenty years deaf to the +voice of nature, should change so suddenly? + +MR. ANHALT. +I do not mean to justify the Baron, but—he has loved you—and fear of +his noble kindred alone caused his breach of faith to you. + +AGATHA. +But to desert me wholly and wed another— + +MR. ANHALT. +War called him away—Wounded in the field, he was taken to the adjacent +seat of a nobleman, whose only daughter, by anxious attention to his +recovery, won his gratitude; and, influenced by the will of his worldly +friends, he married. But no sooner was I received into the family, and +admitted to his confidence, than he related to me your story; and at +times would exclaim in anguish—“The proud imperious Baroness avenges +the wrongs of my deserted Agatha.” Again, when he presented me this +living, and I left France to take possession of it, his last words +before we parted, were—“The moment you arrive at Wildenhaim, make all +enquiries to find out my poor Agatha.” Every letter from him contained +“Still, still, no tidings of my Agatha.” And fate ordained it should be +so, till this fortunate day. + +AGATHA. +What you have said has made my heart overflow—where will this end? + +MR. ANHALT. +I know not yet the Baron’s intentions: but your sufferings demand +immediate remedy: and one way only is left—Come with me to the castle. +Do not start—you shall be concealed in my apartments till you are +called for. + +AGATHA. +I go to the Baron’s?—No. + +MR. ANHALT. +Go for the sake of your son—reflect, that his fortunes may depend upon +your presence. + +AGATHA. +And he is the only branch on which my hope still blossoms: the rest are +withered.—I will forget my wrongs as a woman, if the Baron will atone +to the mother—he shall have the woman’s pardon, if he will merit the +mother’s thanks—[_after a struggle_]—I _will_ go to the castle—for the +sake of my Frederick, go even to his father. But where are my good host +and hostess, that I may take leave, and thank them for their kindness? + +MR. ANHALT. +[taking up the purse which Agatha had thrown down]. Here, good friend! +Good woman! + +_Enter the_ COTTAGER _and his_ WIFE. + + +WIFE. +Yes, yes, here I am. + +MR. ANHALT. +Good people, I will take your guest with me. You have acted an honest +part, and therefore receive this reward for your trouble. [_He offers +the purse to the_ Cottager, _who puts it by, and turns away_]. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_to the_ Wife]. Do _you_ take it. + +WIFE. +I always obey my pastor. [_taking it_]. + +AGATHA. +Good bye. [_shaking hands with the Cottagers_.] For your hospitality to +me, may ye enjoy continued happiness. + +COTTAGER. +Fare you well—fare you well. + +WIFE. +If you find friends and get health, we won’t trouble you to call on us +again: but if you should fall sick or be in poverty, we shall take it +very unkind if we don’t see you. + +[_Exeunt_ Agatha _and_ Anhalt _on one side_, Cottager _and his_ Wife on +the other]. + + + + +SCENE II. + +_A Room in the Castle._ + + +BARON _sitting upon a sopha_.—FREDERICK _standing near him, with one +hand pressed between his—the_ Baron _rises_. + + +BARON. +Been in battle too!—I am glad to hear it. You have known hard services, +but now they are over, and joy and happiness will succeed.—The reproach +of your birth shall be removed, for I will acknowledge you my son, and +heir to my estate. + +FREDERICK. +And my mother—— + +BARON. +She shall live in peace and affluence. Do you think I would leave your +mother unprovided, unprotected? No! About a mile from this castle I +have an estate called Weldendorf—there she shall live, and call her own +whatever it produces. There she shall reign, and be sole mistress of +the little paradise. There her past sufferings shall be changed to +peace and tranquility. On a summer’s morning, we, my son, will ride to +visit her; pass a day, a week with her; and in this social intercourse +time will glide pleasantly. + +FREDERICK. +And, pray, my Lord—under what name is my mother to live then? + +BARON. +[_confused_]. How? + +FREDERICK. +In what capacity?—As your domestic—or as—— + +BARON. +That we will settle afterwards. + +FREDERICK. +Will you allow me, Sir, to leave the room a little while, that you may +have leisure to consider _now_? + +BARON. +I do not know how to explain myself in respect to your mother more than +I have done already. + +FREDERICK. +My fate, whatever it may be, shall never part me from her. This is my +firm resolution, upon which I call Heaven to witness! My Lord, it must +be Frederick of Wildenhaim, and Agatha of Wildenhaim—or Agatha Friburg, +and Frederick Friburg. [_Exit_. + +BARON. +Young man! Frederick!—[_calling after him_.] Hasty indeed! would make +conditions with his father. No, no, that must not be. I just now +thought how well I had arranged my plans—had relieved my heart of every +burden, when, a second time, he throws a mountain upon it. Stop, friend +conscience, why do you take his part?—For twenty years thus you have +used me, and been my torture. + +_Enter Mr_. ANHALT. + + +Ah! Anhalt, I am glad you are come. My conscience and myself are at +variance. + +MR. ANHALT. +Your conscience is in the right. + +BARON. +You don’t know yet what the quarrel is. + +MR. ANHALT. +Conscience is always right—because it never speaks unless it _is_ so. + +BARON. +Ay, a man of your order can more easily attend to its whispers, than an +old warrior. The sound of cannon has made him hard of hearing.—I have +found my son again, Mr. Anhalt, a fine, brave young man—I mean to make +him my heir—Am I in the right? + +MR. ANHALT. +Perfectly. + +BARON. +And his mother shall live in happiness—My estate, Weldendorf, shall be +hers—I’ll give it to her, and she shall make it her residence. Don’t I +do right? + +MR. ANHALT. +No. + +BARON. +[_surprized_]. No? And what else should I do? + +MR. ANHALT. +[_forcibly_]. Marry her. + +BARON. +[_starting_]. I marry her! + +MR. ANHALT. +Baron Wildenhaim is a man who will not act inconsistently.—As this is +my opinion, I expect your reasons, if you do not. + +BARON. +Would you have me marry a beggar? + +MR. ANHALT. +[_after a pause_]. Is that your only objection? + +BARON. +[_confused_]. I have more—many more. + +MR. ANHALT. +May I beg to know them likewise? + +BARON. +My birth! + +MR. ANHALT. +Go on. + +BARON. +My relations would despise me. + +MR. ANHALT. +Go on. + +BARON. +[_in anger_]. ’Sdeath! are not these reasons enough?—I know no other. + +MR. ANHALT. +Now, then, it is my turn to state mine for the advice I have given you. +But first, I must presume to ask a few questions.—Did Agatha, through +artful insinuation, gain your affection? or did she give you cause to +suppose her inconstant? + +BARON. +Neither—but for me, she was always virtuous and good. + +MR. ANHALT. +Did it cost you trouble and earnest entreaty to make her otherwise? + +BARON. +[_angrily_]. Yes. + +MR. ANHALT. +You pledged your honour? + +BARON. +[_confused_]. Yes. + +MR. ANHALT. +Called God to witness? + +BARON. +[_more confused_]. Yes. + +MR. ANHALT. +The witness you called at that time was the Being who sees you now. +What you gave in pledge was your honour, which you must redeem. +Therefore thank Heaven that it is in your _power_ to redeem it. By +marrying Agatha the ransom’s made: and she brings a dower greater than +any princess can bestow—peace to your conscience. If you then esteem +the value of this portion, you will not hesitate a moment to +exclaim,—Friends, wish me joy, I will marry Agatha. + +[_Baron, in great agitation, walks backwards and forwards, then takes_ +Anhalt _by the hand_.] + + +BARON. +“Friend, wish me joy—I will _marry_ Agatha.” + +MR. ANHALT. +I do wish you joy. + +BARON. +Where is she? + +MR. ANHALT. +In the castle—in my apartments here—I conducted her through the garden, +to avoid curiosity. + +BARON. +Well, then, this is the wedding-day. This very evening you shall give +us your blessing. + +MR. ANHALT. +Not so soon, not so private. The whole village was witness of Agatha’s +shame—the whole village must be witness of Agatha’s re-established +honour. Do you consent to this? + +BARON. +I do. + +MR. ANHALT. +Now the quarrel is decided. Now is your conscience quiet? + +BARON. +As quiet as an infant’s. I only wish the first interview was over. + +MR. ANHALT. +Compose yourself. Agatha’s heart is to be your judge. + +_Enter_ AMELIA. + + +BARON. +Amelia, you have a brother. + +AMELIA. +I have just heard so, my Lord; and rejoice to find the news confirmed +by you. + +BARON. +I know, my dear Amelia, I can repay you for the loss of Count Cassel; +but what return can I make to you for the loss of half your fortune? + +AMELIA. +My brother’s love will be ample recompense. + +BARON. +I will reward you better. Mr. Anhalt, the battle I have just fought, I +owe to myself: the victory I gained, I owe to you. A man of your +principles, at once a teacher and an example of virtue, exalts his rank +in life to a level with the noblest family—and I shall be proud to +receive you as my son. + +MR. ANHALT. +[_falling on his knees, and taking the_ Baron’s _hand_]. My Lord, you +overwhelm me with confusion, as well as with joy. + +BARON. +My obligations to you are infinite—Amelia shall pay the debt. [_Gives +her to him_.] + +AMELIA. +Oh, my dear father! [_embracing the_ Baron] what blessings have you +bestowed on me in one day. [_to_ Anhalt.] I will be your scholar still, +and use more diligence than ever to please my _master_. + +MR. ANHALT. +His present happiness admits of no addition. + +BARON. +Nor does mine—And yet there is another task to perform that will +require more fortitude, more courage, than this has done! A trial +that!—[_bursts into tears_]—I cannot prevent them—Let me—let me—A few +minutes will bring me to myself—Where is Agatha? + +MR. ANHALT. +I will go, and fetch her. [_Exit Anhalt at an upper entrance_.] + +BARON. +Stop! Let me first recover a little. [_Walks up and down, sighing +bitterly—looks at the door through which_ Anhalt _left the room_.] That +door she will come from—That was once the dressing-room of my +mother—From that door I have seen her come many times—have been +delighted with her lovely smiles—How shall I now behold her altered +looks! Frederick must be my mediator.—Where is he? Where is my son?—Now +I am ready—my heart is prepared to receive her—Haste! haste! Bring her +in. + +[_He looks stedfastly at the door_—Anhalt _leads on_ Agatha—_The_ Baron +_runs and clasps her in his arms—Supported by him, she sinks on a chair +which_ Amelia _places in the middle of the stage—The_ Baron _kneels by +her side, holding her hand_.] + + +BARON. +Agatha, Agatha, do you know this voice? + +AGATHA. +Wildenhaim. + +BARON. +Can you forgive me? + +AGATHA. +I forgive you. [_embracing him_]. + +FREDERICK. +[_as he enters_]. I hear the voice of my mother!—Ha! mother! father! + +[Frederick _throws himself on his knees by the other side of his +mother—She clasps him in her arms_.—Amelia _is placed on the side of +her father attentively viewing_ Agatha—Anhalt _stands on the side of_ +Frederick _with his hands gratefully raised to Heaven_.]——_The curtain +slowly drops_. + + +END. + + + + +EPILOGUE. + +WRITTEN BY THOMAS PALMER, ESQ. +OF THE TEMPLE. + +SPOKEN BY MR. MUNDEN. + + +Our drama now ended, I’ll take up your time +Just a moment or two in defence of my _rhime_— +* “Tho’ I hope that among you are _some_ who _admir’d_ +“What I’ve hitherto said, dare I hope none are tir’d? +“But whether ye have, or have not heard enough, +“Or whether nice critics will think it all stuff; +“To myself _rhime_ has ever appear’d, I must own, +“In its nature a sort of _philosopher’s stone_; +“And if Chymists wou’d use it, they’d not make a pother, +“And puzzle their brains to find out any other.” +Indeed ’tis most strange and surprising to me +That all folks in _rhiming_ their int’rest can’t see; +For I’m sure if its use were quite common with men, +The world would roll on just as pleasant again. +“’Tis said, that while ORPHEUS was striking his lyre, +“Trees and brutes danc’d along to the sound of the wire; +“That AMPHION to walls soon converted the glebes, +“And they rose, as he sung, to a city call’d Thebes; +“I suppose _they_ were _Butlers_ (like me) of that time, +“And the tale shows our sires knew the wonders of _rhime_.” +From time immemorial, your lovers, we find, +When their mistresses’ hearts have been proud and unkind, +Have resorted to _rhime_; and indeed it appears +That a _rhime_ would do more than a bucket of tears. +Of love, from experience, I speak—odds my life! +I shall never forget how I courted my wife: +She had offers in plenty; but always stood neuter, +Till I, with my pen, started forth as a suitor; +Yet I made no mean present of _ribband_ or _bonnet_, +_My_ present was caught from the stars—’twas a _sonnet_. +“And now you know this, sure ’tis needless to say, +“That prose was neglected, and _rhime_ won the day— +“But its potent effects you as well may discover +“In the _husband_ and _wife_, as in _mistress_ and _lover_; +“There are some of ye here, who, like me, I conjecture. +“Have been lull’d into sleep by a good _curtain lecture_. +“But that’s a mere trifle; you’ll ne’er come to blows, +“If you’ll only avoid that dull enemy, _prose_. +“Adopt, then, my plan, and the very next time, +“That in words you fall out, let them fall into _rhime_; +“Thus your sharpest disputes will conclude very soon, +“And from jangling to jingling you’ll chime into _tune_. +“If my wife were to call me a _drunken old sot_, +“I shou’d merely just ask her, what Butler is not? +“And bid her take care that she don’t go to pot. +“So our squabbles continue a very short season, +“If she yields to my _rhime_—I allow she has reason.” +Independent of this I conceive _rhime_ has weight +In the higher employments of church and of state, +And would in my mind such advantages draw, +’Tis a pity that _rhime_ is not sanctioned by law; +“For ’twould _really_ be serving us all, to impose +“A capital fine on a man who spoke prose.” +Mark the pleader who clacks, in his client’s behalf, +His technical stuff for three hours and a half; +Or the fellow who tells you a long stupid story, +And over and over the same lays before ye; +Or the member who raves till the whole house are dosing +What d’ye say of such men? Why you say they are prosing. +So, of course, then, if _prose_ is so tedious a _crime_, +It of consequence follows, there’s _virtue_ in _rhime_. +The best piece of prose that I’ve heard a long while, +Is what gallant Nelson has sent from THE NILE. +And had he but told us the story in _rhime_, +What a thing ’twou’d be; but, perhaps, he’d no time. +So, I’ll do it myself—Oh! ’tis glorious news! +Nine _sail_ of the line! Just a ship for each Muse. +As I live, there’s an end of the French and their navy— +Sir John Warren has sent the Brest fleet to Old Davy. +’Tis in the Gazette, and that, every one knows, +Is sure to be truth, tho’ ’tis written in prose. + +* The lines between inverted commas are not spoken. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOVERS’ VOWS *** + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part +of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +concept and trademark. 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