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?