'vvv:/ A'/ iHinuU X'aoii ufeah l'diicr.kllo THE German C&eatre, Translated by BENJAMIN THOMPSON, Esq. IN SIX VOLUMES. VOL. III. Containing lovers' vows, deaf and dumb, indian exiles, false delicacy. fourth edition. fconnon: PRINTED FOR VERNOR, HOOD, AND SHARPE, POULTRY ; LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWNE, PATER- NOSTER ROW J J. BOOKER, BOND STREET J AND T. KEYS, COLEMAN-STREET. 18H. T. Hood and Co. i'rinters, St. John's Square, London. v-3 LOVERS' VOWS; OR, THE NATURAL SON. A DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS. FROM KOTZEBUE. . in, DRAMATIS PERSONAL MEN. Baron Wiloenhain, a Colonel out of Service. Count von der Mulde. Pastor of the Parish in which the Baron's Estate Um* CHRISTIAN, the Baron's Butler. Frederick, a young Soldier. Landlord. Farmer. Labourer. Jew. Gamekeeper. Cottager. WOMEN. Amelia, the Baron's Daughter. WlLHELMIN \. Cottager's Wife. Country Girl. Servants and Gamclitepen, LOVERS' VOWS; OR, THE NATURAL SON. ACT THE FIRST, Scene, a Road near a Town. The last Tiouses of a small village are visible. Enter Landlord from a Public House, drawing Wilhelmina after him. Land. There's no longer any room for you, I tell you. We have a wake to-day in our village, and all the country people, as they pass, will come into my house with their wives and children ; so I must have every corner at liberty* Wil. Can you thrust a poor sick woman out of doors ? Land. I don't thrust you. Wil. Your cruelty will break my heart. Land. It will not come to that. Wil. I have spent my last penny with you. Land. That is the very reason why I send you away. Where can you procure any more ? Wil. I can work. Land. Why, you can scarcely move your hand* 4. LOVERS , VOWSA ACT 1. Wil. My strength will return. Land. When that is the case, you may return too. Wil Where shall I remain in the mean time ? Land. It is fine weather. You may remain any where. Wil. Who will clothe me, when this my only wretched garment is drenched with dew and rain ? Land. He who clothes the lilies of the field. Wil. Who will bestow on me a morsel of bread to allay my hunger ? Land. He who feeds the fowls of the air. Wil. Cruel man ! you know I have not tasted any thing since yesterday morning. Land. Sick people eat little : it is not wholesome to overload their stomachs. Wil. I will pay honestly for every thing I have. Land. By what means ? These are hard times. Wil My fete is hard too. Land. I'll tell you what. This is the high-road, and it is much frequented. Ask some compassionate soul to bestow a trifle on you. Wil I beg ! No ; rather will I starve. Land. Mercy on us ! What a fine lady ! Many an honest mother's child has begged before now, let me tell you. Try, try. Custom makes every thing easy. — (Wilhelmina has seated herself upon a stone under a tree.) — For instance, here conies somebody. I'll teach you how to begin. Enter a Labourer tuith his tools Good day to you ! Lab. Good day. Land. Neighbour Nicholas, will you bestow a trifle on this poor woman?— ( — Labourer passes and exit.) — That was not of much use, for the poor devil is himself obliged to work for his daily bread. But yonder I see our fat farmer, who puts three hellers act i. LOVERS' VOWS. into the poor-box every sunday. Who knows but h* may be charitably inclined on a week-day tot) ? Enter a fat Farmer, walking very leisurely. Good morning to you, Sir ; good morning to you 1 There's a poor sick woman sitting under yon tree. Will you please to bestow a trifle on her ? Far. Is she not ashamed of herself ? She is still young and can work. Land, She has had a fever. Far, Ay, one must work hard now-a-days, one must toil from morn to night, for money is scarce. Land. Pay for her breakfast, will you, Sir ? She is hungry. Far. — (As he passes.)— We have had a bad har- vest this year, and the distemper has killed my best cattle. [Exit* Land. The miser ! That fellow is always brooding over his dollars. By the way, now, that I am talking of brooding, I remember my old hen ought to hatch her eggs to-day : I must look after her directly. [Exit into the house, ( Wilhelmina is left alone. Her dress betrays extreme poverty. Her countenance bears the marks of sickness and anxiety^yet the remains qf former beauty are still visible.) Wil. Oh, God ! thou know'st I never was thus unfeeling, while I still possessed any thing. Oh, thou, whose guardian power has hitherto protected me from dark despair, accept my thanks. Oh, that I could but work again ! This fever has completely deprived me of my strength. Alas ! if my Frederick knew that his mother was fallen a victim to penury — Is he still alive ? Or does some heap of earth al- ready cover him ? Thou author of my sufferings, I will not curse thee, God grant thee prosperity and LOVERS' VOWS. ACT I. peace, if such blessings ever be bestowed upon the seducer of innocence. Should chance conduct thee hither ; shouldst thou, amidst these rags, and in this woe-worn form, recognize thy former blooming Wil- helmina, what, what would be thy sensations ! Alas ! I am hungry. Oh, that I had but a morsel of bread! Well, I will endeavour to be patient. I shall surely not be allowed to starve on the highway. Enter a Country Girl, carrying eggs and milk to market. She is jjassing nimbly on, and sees Wil- helmina. Girl. God bless you, good woman ! Wu. I thank you sincerely. Dearest girl, can you bestow a piece of bread on a poor woman ? Girl. — {Stopping with a look of compassion.) — Bread ! No ; I can't, indeed, for I have none. Are you hungry ? Wil. Alas! yes. Girl. Good Heavens ! I have eat all my bread for breakfast, and I have no money. I am going to the town ; and when I have sold my milk and eggs, I'll bring you a dreyer. But — you will still be hungry till I return. Will you drink some of my milk ? Wil. Yes, my good child. Girl. There, then ! Take as much as you like. — {Holds the pail to her lips tvith great kindness.) — Won't you have a little more ?— Drink I drink ! — You are very welcome. Wil. Heaven reward you for your charity ! You have preserved me. Girl. I am glad to hear it — {Nods kindly to her.) • — Good day !— God bless you. [Exit singing. Wil. — {Looking after her.) — Such formerly was I — as happy, as contented, as susceptible of good impressions. ACT I. LOVERS' VOWS. 7 Enter a Gamekeeper, with a gun, and a brace of pointers. Wil. I wish you good diversion, honest man. Gam. — {As he passes.) — Damnation ! the first thing I meet on my road is an old woman ! I would as soon have seen a magpie, or the devil. I'm sure to have bad sport to-day — Perhaps not a shot. Go to hell, you old harridan ! [Exit. Wil. That man conceals the hardness of his heart behind the veil of superstition. Here comes some one else — A Jew ! If I could beg, 1 would implore his aid ; for Christians bear but the name of Chris- tians, and scarcely ever recollect the doctrines they profess to follow. Enter a Jew, who, as he passes, espies Wilhelmina, stops, and surveys her for a moment. Wil. Heaven bless you ! Jew. I thank you, poor woman. You look ill. Wil. I have had a fever. Jew. — (Hastily puts his hand into his pocket, draws out a small purse, and gives her some money.) — There ! I can spare no more, for I have but little myself. [Exit. Wil. — {Calling after him with great emotion.) — A thousand thanks!— A thousand thanks! Was 1 wrong in my conjecture ? The heart and the creed have no concern with each other. Enter Frederick with his knapsack on his back. He walks cheerfully on, and is humming a tune ; but at at the sight of the sign over the door of the public house, stops. Fre. H — m ! I'll quench my thirst here, I think* LOVERS' VOWS, This hot weather makes me feel quite parched. But let me consult my pocket in the first place.—* (Draws out a little money, and counts it.) — I think I have as much as will pay for my breakfast and dinner! and at night, please God, I shall have reached home. Holla! landlord!— (Espies Wilhel- mina.) — But what do I see yonder ? A poor sick woman, who appears to be quite exhausted. She does not beg, but her countenance claims assis- tance. Should we never be charitable till we are asked, and reminded that we ought to be so? Shame on It! No. I must wait till noon before I drink. If I do a good action, I shall not feel either hungry or thirsty. There !— (Goes towards her in order to give her the money, tvhich he already held in his hand to pay for his liquor.) Wil. — (Surveying him minutely, utters a loud shriek.) — Frederick ! Fre. — (Starts, gazes intently on her; casts away his money, knapsack, hat, stick, in short, every thing which encumbers him, and rushes into her arms.) — Mother ! — (Both are speechless, Frederick first re- covers^) — Mother ! For God's sake. Do I find you in this wretched state ? Mother ! What means this ? Speak ! Wil. — (Trembling.) — I cannot — speak — dear son — dear Frederick. The bliss — the transport — Fre. Compose yourself, dear, good mother ! — (She rests her head on his breast.) — Compose your- self. How you tremble ! You are fainting. Wil. I am so weak — I feel so ill — my head is so giddy. All yesterday I had nothing to eat. Fre.- -(Springing up with looks of horror, and, hiding his face with both his hands.) — Almighty God ! — ( Runs to his knapsack, tears it open, and draws out a piece of bread.) — Here is some bread ! — (Col- lects the money, which he had thrown away, and adds to it what he has in his pocket.) — Here is my little ACT I. LOVERS* VOWS. 9 stock of money. I'll sell my coat — my el oak— my arms. Oh, mother, mother ! — Holla, there ! Land- lord ! — ('Knocks violently at the door of the public house.) Land. — (Looking out of a window.)— What now ? Fre. A bottle of wine ! Directly ! Directly ! Land. A bottle of wine ! Fre. Yes, I tell you. Land. For whom, pray ? Fre. For me ! — Zounds ! — Be quick. Land. Well. — But, Mr. Soldier, can you pay for it? Fre. Here is the money. Make haste, or I'll break every window in your house. Land. Patience! Patience! [Shuts the window. Fre. — ( To his mother.) — Fasted all day ! And I had plenty ! Last night I had meat and wine to supper, while my mother was fasting. Oh, God ! Oh, God ! How is all my joy embittered ! Wil. Peace, my dear Frederick. I see you again — I am well again. I have been very ill— and had no hopes of ever beholding you once more on earth. Fre. Ill ! And I was not with you ! Now I'll never leave you again. See ! I am grown tall an— (Sobbing.)— Why am I thus oppressed? Enter Pastor. (Approaches him with a friendly air, and wiping away a tear.) — Oh, good morning, my dear Sir. Reverend Sir, I should say. Excuse me, if custom makes me lometimes say dear Sir. x 2 LOVERS' VOWS. act in. Pastor. Continue to say so, I beg, Miss Amelia. I feel a gratification in hearing that term applied to me by you. Amelia. Do you indeed ? Pastor. Most certainly I do. Eut am I mistaken, or have you really been weeping ? Amelia. Oh, I have only been shedding a few tears. Pastor. Is not that weeping ? May I enquire what caused those tears ? Amelia. I don't know. Pastor. The recollection of her Ladyship, your mother, perhaps ? Amelia. I could say yes, but Paster. Oh, I understand you. It is a little fe- male secret. I do not wish to pry into it. Forgive me, Miss Amelia, if I appear at an unseasonable hour, but it is by his Lordship's desire. Amelia. You are always welcome. Pastor. Indeed ! am 1 really ? Oh, Amelia ! Amelia. My father says that we are more indebted to those who form our hearts and minds, than to those who give us mere existence. . My father says this— (casting domi her eyes) — and my heart says so too. Pastor. What a sweet recompencc is this moment for my eight years of attention. Amelia. I was; wild and giddy. I have, no doubt, often caused you much uneasiness. It is but fair that I should reel a regard for you on that account. Pastor. — (Aside.) — Oh heavens !— (Aloud, and stammering.) — I — I am — deputed by his Lordship — your father — to explain — Will you be seated ? Amelia. — (Brings him a chair immediately.) — Don't let me prevent you, but I had rather stand. Pastor. — (Pushes the chair atvay.)— The Count von der Mulde is arrived here. Amelia. Yes. Pastor. Do you know for what purpose ? LOVERS' VOWS. 4S Amelia. Yes ; he wants to marry me. Pastor. He does ! — {Somewhat eagerly.) — But be- lieve me, Miss Amelia, your father will not compel you to marry him against your inclination. Amelia. 1 know he will not. Pastor. But he wishes — he wants to ascertain the extent of your inclination ; and has appointed me to converse with you on the subject. Amelia. On the subject of my inclination towards the Count ? Pastor. Yes — No — towards matrimony itself. Amelia. What I do not understand must be indif- ferent to me, and 1 am totally ignorant of matrimony. Pastor. For that very reason am I come hither, Miss Amelia. Your father has directed me to point out to you the pleasant and unpleasant side of the married state. Amelia. Let me hear the unpleasant first, then, my dear Sir. I like to reserve the best to conclude with. Pastor. The unpleasant! Oh, Miss Amelia, when two affectionate congenial hearts are united to each other, matrimony has no unpleasant side. Hand -in- hand the happy couple pass through life. When they find thorns scattered on their path, they care- fully and cheerfully remove them. When they ar- rive at a stream, the stronger bears the weaker through it. When they are obliged to climb a mountain, the stronger supports the weaker on his arm. Patience and affection are their attendants. What would be to one impossible, is to the two united a mere trifle ; and when they have reached the goal, the weaker wipes the sweat from the fore- head of the stronger. Joy or care takes up its abode with both at the same time. The one never shelters sorrow, while happiness is the guest of the other. Smiles play upon the countenances, or tears tremble ki the eyes, of both at the same time. But their 44 LOVERS* VOWS. act in. joys are more lively than the joys of a solitary indi- vidual, and their sorrows milder ; for participation enhances bliss, and softens care. Thus may their life be compared to a fine summer's day — fine, even though a storm pass over ; for the storm refreshes nature, and adds fresh lustre to the unclouded sun. Thus they stand arm in arm on the evening of their days, beneath the blossomed trees which they them- selves have planted and reared, waiting the approach of night. Then — yes — then, indeed — one of them lies down to sleep —and that is the happy one ; for the other wanders to and fro, weeping and lament- ing that he cannot yet sleep. This is in such a case the only unpleasant side of matrimony. Amelia. I'll marry. Pastor. Right, Miss Amelia ! The picture is al- luring ; but forget not that two affectionate beings sat for it. When rank and equipages, or when ca- price and levity, have induced a couple to unite themselves for life, matrimony has no pleasant side. While free, their steps were light and airy ; but now, the victims of their own folly, they drag along their chains. Disgust lowers upon each brow. Pictures of lost happiness appear before their eyes, painted by the imagination, and more alluring in proportion to the impossibility of attaining them. Sweet en- chanting ideas for ever haunt them, which had this union not taken place, would, perhaps, never have been realized ; but the certainty of which is estab- lished, were they not confined by their detested fetters. Thus they become the victims of despair, wiien, in another situation, the failure of anticipated happiness would but have roused their patience. Thus they accustom themselves to consider each other as the hateful cause of every misfortune which they undergo. Asperity is mingled with their conversa- tion—coldness with their caresses. By no one are they so easily offended as by each other. W T hafc act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 45 would excite satisfaction, if it happened to a stran- ger, is, when it happens to either of this wretched pair, a matter of indifference to the other. Thus do the}' drag on a miserable life, with averted coun- tenances, and with downcast heads, until the night approaches, and the one lies down to rest. Then does the other joyfully raise the head, and, in a tone of triumph, exclaim, " Liberty! Liberty r' This is, in such a case, the only pleasant side of matrimony. Amelia. I won't marry. Pastor. That means, in other words, that you will not love any one. Amelia. But — yes — I will marry — for I will love — I do love some one. Pastor. — (Extremely surprised and alarmed.)*— The Count von der Mulde, then ? Amelia. Oh ! no, no ! Don't mention that silly vain fool. — (Putting out both her hands towards him U-ith the most familiar confidence.) — I love you. Pastor. Miss Amelia ! For heaven's sake Amelia. I will marry you. Pastor. Me! Amelia. Yes, you. P'istor. Amelia, you forget Amelia. What do I forget ? Pastor. That you are of noble extraction. Amelia. What hindrance is that ? Pastor. Oh, Heavens ! No. It cannot be. Amelia. Don't you feel a regard for me ? Pastor. I love you as much as my own life. Amelia. Well, then marry me. Pastor. Amelia, have compassion on me. I am a minister of religion, which bestows on me much strength— yet still — still am I but a man. Amelia. You yourself have depicted the married state in the most lovely colours. I, therefore, am not the girl with whom you could wander hand-in- 46 LOVERS' VOWS. ACT III. hand through this life — with whom you could share your joys and sorrows ? Pastor. None but you would I chuse, Amelia, were I allowed that choice. Did we but live in those golden days of equality, which enraptured poets dwell upon, none but you would I chuse. But, as the world now is, such a connection is beyond my reach. You must marry a nobleman. Amelia Wil- denhain was born to be the consort of a titled man. Whether I could make her happy will never be asked. Oh, Heavens ! I am saying too much. Amelia. Never will be asked! Yes; I shall ask that question. Have you not often told me that the heart alone can make a person noble ? — {Lays her hand upon his heart.) — Oh! I shall marry a noble man. Pastor. Miss Amelia, call, I beseech you, your reason to your aid. A hundred arguments may be advanced in opposition to such an union. But — just at this moment — Heaven knows, not one occurs to me. Amelia. Because there are none. Pastor. There are, indeed. But my heart is so full — My heart consents— and that it must not, shall not do. Imagine to yourself how your relatives will sneer at you. They will decline all intercourse with you ; be ashamed of their plebeian kinsman ; invite the whole family, except yourself, on birth days ; shrug their shoulders when your name is mentioned ; whisper your story in each other's ears ; forbid their children to play with yours, or to be on familiar terms with them ; drive past you in chariots embla- zoned with the arms of Wildenhain, and followed by footmen in laced liveries ; while you humbly drive to chujch in a plain carriage, with a servant in a grey frock behind it. They will scarcely seem to remember you when they meet you ; or should they act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 47 demean themselves so far as to enter into conversa- tion, they will endeavour, by every mortifying hint, to remind you that you are the parson's wife. Amelia. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Will not that be to remind me that I am happy ? Pastor. Can you laugh on such an occasion ? Amelia. Yes, I can indeed. You must forgive it ; for you have been my tutor seven years, and never supported your doctrines and instructions with any arguments so feeble as those you have just ad- vanced. Pastor. I am sorry you think so — truly sorry, for Amelia. I am very glad, for Pastor. — [Extremely embarrassed.) — For Amelia. For you must marry me. Pastor. Never! Amelia. You know me. You know I am not an ill-tempered being ; and when in your society, I al- ways become better and better. I will take a great deal of pains to make you happy, or — No, I shall make you happy without taking any pains to effect it. We will live together so comfortably, so very comfortably — until one of us lies down to sleep, and then the other will weep — But that is far, far distant. — Come ! Consent, or I shall conclude you don't feel any regard for me. Pastor. Oh ! it is a glorious sensation to be a man of honour ; but I feel, on this occasion, how difficult it is to acquire that sensation. Amelia, if you knew what tortures you inflict upon me — No — I cannot — I cannot,—! should sink to the earth as if struck by lightning, were I to attempt to meet the Baron with such a proposition. Amelia. I'll do that myself. Pastor. For Heaven's sake, forbear. To his kind- ness and liberality am I indebted for my present comfortable circumstances. To his friendship and LOVERS' VOWS. act in. goodness am I indebted for the happiest moments of my life. And shall I be such an ingrate as to mislead his only child ? Oh, God! thou seest the purity of ray intentions. Assist me in this trial with thy heavenly support. Amelia. My father wishes me to marry. My fa- ther wishes to see me happy. Well ! I will marry, and be happy — But with no other than you. This will I say to my father ; and do you know what will be his answer ? At the first moment he will, per- haps, hesitate, and say, " Amelia, are you mad ?" But then he will recollect himself, and add, with a smile, " Well, well ! If you wish it, God bless you both !" Then I'll kiss his hand, run out, and fall upon your neck. The villagers will soon learn that I am to be married to you. All the peasants and their wives will come to wish me joy ; will implore Heaven's blessing on us ; and, oh, surely, surely, Heaven will bless us. I was ignorant before what it could be that lay so heavy on my heart ; but I have now discovered it, for the burden is removed. — (Seizing his hand.) Pastor. — (Withdrawing it.) — Amelia, you almost drive me to distraction. You have robbed me of my peace of mind. Amelia. Oh, no, no. How provoking ! I hear somebody coming up stairs, and I had still a thou- sand things to say. Enter Christian. (Peevishly.) —Is it you, Christian ? Chris. Yes, Miss Amelia. Christian Lebrocht Goldman Hasten' d hither unto you Soon as he the tidings knew. Amelia.— (Co?ifuscd.) — What tidings ? act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 4& Chris. Tidings which we all enjo}\ Pastor. — {Alarmed.) — You have been listening to our conversation, then ? Chris. Not I, most reverend Sir. Listeners hear no good of themselves. An old faithful servant, Miss Amelia, who has often carried her ladyship your mother in his arms, and afterwards has often had the honour of receiving a box on the ear from her ladyship's fair hand, wishes, on this happy occasion, to wait on you with his congratulation. Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! Amelia. My dear Christian, I am not just now in- clined to listen to your lyre. And what can you have to sing about to-day more than usual ? Chris. Oh, my dearest, sweetest young lady, it is impossible that I can be silent to-day. Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! Grant me more than usual fire. Hither, hither, hither come, Trumpet, fife, and kettle drum ! Join me in the lofty song, Which shall boldly run along Like a torrent Amelia. It does run along like a torrent indeed, my dear Christian. Pray, try to proceed in humble prose. Chris. Impossible, Miss Amelia ! There has never been a birth, a christening, or a wedding, since I have had the honour to serve this noble family, and the noble family of my late lady, which old Chris- tian's ready and obedient Muse has not celebrate^. In the space of forty-six years, three hundred and ninety-seven congratulations have flowed from my pen. To-day I shall finish my three hundred and VOL. III. f 50 LOVERS' VOWS. ninety-eighth. Who knows how soon a happy mar- riage may give occasion for my three hundred and ninety-ninth ? Nine months after which my four hundredth may perhaps be wanted. Amelia. To-day is Friday. That is the only re- markable circumstance with which I am acquainted. Chris. Friday! Very true, Miss Amelia. But it is a day marked by Heaven as a day of joy ; for our noble Lord the Baron has escaped a most imminent danger. Amelia. Danger ! my father ! What do you mean ? Chris. Unto you I will unfold What the gamekeepers have told. Amelia. — (Impatiently, and with great anxiety.) — Quick then ! What is the matter ? Chris. The Baron and the Count (good lack !) Were wand'ring on th' unbeaten track, And both attentively did watch For any thing that they could catch. Three turnip-closes they had past, When they espied a hare at last. Amelia. Oh ! for Heaven's sake proceed in prose, Chris. Well, Ma'am, as you insist upon it, I will, if I can. The Baron killed his hare, and a very fine one it is. I have just had the honour of seeing it. His Lordship has wounded it most terribly in the left fore foot. Amelia. — (Impatiently.) — Go on, go on. What happened to my father ? Chris. A second hare had just been found, and the dogs were behaving extremely well, among which it is no injustice to mention Ponto ; for a stauncher dog never went into a field. W r ell ! their Lordships, the Baron and Count, were suddenly act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 51 accosted by a soldier, who implored their charity. One of the gamekeepers was a witness to the whole transaction at a distance. He saw his Lordship the Baron, actuated by his charitable nature, draw a piece of money from his pocket, and give it to the afore-mentioned soldier. Well! now, what think you ? The ungrateful, audacious villain suddenly drew his bayonet, rushed like a mad dog at my mas- ter, and if the gamekeepers had not instantly sprung forward, I, poor old man ! should have been under the necessity of composing an elegy and an epitaph. Amelia. — (Affrighted.) — Heavens ! Pastor. A robber — by broad day-light ! That is singular indeed. Chris. I shall write a ballad in Burger's style on the occasion. Pastor. Is not the man secured ? Chris. To be sure he is. His Lordship gave or- ders that, till further investigation could be made, he was to be confined in the tower. The game- keeper, who brought the intelligence, says, the whole party will soon be here. — ( Walks to the tvin- doiv.) — I verily believe— the sun dazzles my eyes a little — I verily believe they are coming yonder. Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! [Exit* (Ame]ia and the Pastor -walk to the xiindovo.) Amelia. I never saw a robber in my life. He must have a dreadful countenance. Pastor. Did you never see the female parricide in Lavater's Fragments ? Amelia. Horrible ! A female parricide ! Is there on this earth a creature so depraved ? But look ! The young man comes nearer. What an interest- ing, what a noble look he has ! That melancholy, too, which overspreads his countenance ! No, no ; 52 LOVERS' VOWS. act hi. that cannot be a robber's countenance. I pity the poor man. Look! Oh Heavens! The gamekeepers are leading him to the tower. Hard-hearted men ! Now they lock the door : now he is left in the hor- rid prison. What are the unfortunate young man's sensations ! Pastor. — {Aside.) — Hardly more distressing than mine. Enter Baron. Amelia. —{Meeting kim.) — l congratulate you on your escape, most sincerely, my dear father. Baron. Let me have no more congratulations, I beseech you; for old Christian poured out such a volley of them in lyrics and alexandrines, as I came up stairs, that he almost stunned me. Pastor. His account is true, then ? The story seemed incredible. Amelia. Is that young man with the interesting countenance a robber ? Baron. He is ; but I am almost inclined to believe that he was one to-day for the first and last time in his life. It was a most extraordinary adventure. The young man begged for his mother, and I gave him* a trifie. I might have given him something more, but the game just at that moment occupied my mind. You know, good pastor, when a man is in search of diversion, he pays but little regard to the sufferings of his fellow-creatures. In short, he wanted more. Despair was expressed in his looks, but I turned my back upon him. He then forgot himself, and drew his side-arms ; but I'll bet my life against your head-dress, Amelia, that he is not ac- customed to such practices. Amelia. Oh, I am sure he is not. Baron. He trembled wheu he seized me. A child might have overpowered him. I almost wish I had suffered him to escape. This affair may cost him his act nr. LOVERS' VOWS. 53 life, and I might have saved the life of a fellow-crea- ture for a guilder! If my people had not seen it — But the bad example— Come with me into my room, good pastor, and let us consider how we can best save this young man's life ; for should he fall into the hands of justice, the law will condemn him with- out mercy. [Going. Amelia. Dear father, I have had a great deal of conversation with the Paster. Baron. Have you ? With respect to the holy state of matrimony ? Amelia. Yes, I have told him Pastor. — [Much confused.) — In compliance with your request Amelia. He won't believe me Pastor. I have explained to Miss Amelia Amelia. And I am sure I spoke from my heart — Pastor. — ( Pointing to the door.) — May I beg Amelia. But his diffidence Pastor. The result of our conversation I will ex- plain in your room. Baron. What the deuce do you both mean? You won't allow each other to say a word. Amelia, have you forgotten the common rules of civility ? Amelia. Oh, no, dear father ! But I may marry whom I like ? Baron. Of course. Amelia.— ( To the Pastor.)— Do you hear ? Pastor. - (Suddenly puts his handkerchief to his face.) — I beg pardon — My nose bleeds. [Exit. Baron,— (Calling afier him.)— I expect you. [Going. Amelia. Stop one moment, dear father. I have something of importance to communicate. Baron. — (Laughing.)— Something of importance ! You want a new fan, I suppose. [ Exit, Amelia. — (Alone.) — A fan ! I almost believe I do want a fan. — (Fans herself nitk her pocket handker- * 2 LOVERS' VOWS. act tit. chief,) — No. This is of no use. The heat which oppresses me is lodged within my bosom.* II eavens ! how my heart beats ! I really love the Pastor most sincerely. How unfortunate it was that his nose should just begin to bleed at that moment ! No ; I can't endure the Count. When I look at my fa- ther, or the Pastor, I feel a kind of respect ■ but I only feel disposed to ridicule the Count. If I were to marry him, what silly tricks I should play with him! — {Walks to the tvindow.) — The tower is still shut. Oh ! how dreadful it must be to be confined in prison ! I wonder whether the servants will re- member to take him any victuals. — [Beckoning and calling.) — Christian ! Christian ! Come hither di- rectly. The young man pleases me, though I don't know how or why. He has risked his life for hii mother, and no bad man would do that. Enter Christian. Christian, have yougiven the prisoner any thing to eat? Chris. Yes, sweet Miss Amelia, I have. Amelia. What have you given him ? Chris. Nice rye-bread and clear pump-water. Amelia. For shame, Christian ! Go into tha kitchen directly, and ask the cook for some cold meat. Then fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar, and then take them to the prisoner. Chris. Most lovely Miss Amelia, I Would you obey most willingly ; But, for the present, he must be satisfied with bread and water ; for his Lordship has expressly ordered— Amelia. Oh, that my father did at first, when he was in a passion. Chris. What he commands when in a passion, it i« his servant's duty to obey in cold blood. act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 55 Amelia. You are a silly man, Christian. Are you grown so old without having learnt how to comfort a fellow-creature in distress . ? Give me the key of the cellar. I'll go myself. Chris. Most lovely Miss Amelia, I Would you obey most willingly ; But Amelia. Give me the key directly, I command you. Chris. — (Presents the key.) — I shall instantly go to his Lordship, and exonerate m} T self from any blame which may ensue. Amelia. That you may. [Exil. . Vliru. — (After a pause, shaking his head.) Rash will youth be ever found While the earth shall turn around. Heedless, if from what they do Good or evil may ensue. Never taking any care To avoid the lurking snare. Youths, if steady you will be, Come, and listen all to me. Poetry with truth shall chime, And you'll bless old Christian's rhyme. 56 LOVERS' VOWS. act it. ACT THE FOURTH. Scene, a Prison in an old Tower of the Castle. Frederick is discovered alone. Fre. Thus can a few poor moments, thus can a single voracious hour swallow the whole happiness of a human being. When I this morning left the inn where I had slept, how merrily I hummed my morning song, and gazed at the rising sun ! I re- velled in idea at the table of joy, and indulged my- self in the transporting anticipation of again behold- ing my good mother. I would steal, thought I, into the street where she dwelt, and stoop as I passed the window, lest she should espy me. I would then, thought I, gently tap at the door, and she would lay aside her needle-work to see who was there. Then, how my heart would beat, as I heard her approaching footsteps — as the door was opened — as I rushed into her arms ! Farewell, farewell, for ever, ye beauteous airy castles, ye lovely and alluring bubbles. At my return to my native country, the first object which meets my eyes is my dying mother — my first habitation a pri- son—and my first walk, to the place of execution ! Oh, righteous God ! have I deserved my fate ? or dost thou visit the sins of the father on the son ? Hold! hold! I am losing myself in a labyrinth. To endure with patience the afflictions ordained by Providence was the lesson taught me by my mother, and her share of afflictions has been large indeed I Oh, God ! thou wilt repay us in another world for all the misery we undergo in this. [Gazes towards Heaven with uplifted hands. act it. LOVERS' VOWS. Enter Amelia, with a Plate of Meat and a Bottle of Wine. ( Turning to the side from whence the noise jiroceeds.J — Who comes ? Amelia. Good friend, I have brought you some refreshment. You are hungry and thirsty, I dare say. Fre. Oh, no ! Amelia. There is a bottle of old wine, and a little cold meat. Fre.— (Hastily.) — Old wine, said you ? Really good old wine? A?ne'ia. I don't understand such things ; but £ have often heard my father say that this wine is a real cordial. Fre. Accept my warmest thanks, fair generous unknown. This bottle of wine is to me a most va- luable present. Oh, hasten, hasten, gentle, bene* volent lady ! Send some one with this bottle to the neighbouring village. Close to the public-house stands a small cottage, in which lies a sick woman. To her give this wine, if she be still alive.— (Returns the wine.) — Away ! Away ! I beseech you. Dear amiable being, save my mother, and you will be my guardian angel. Amelia. — (Much affected.) — Good man ! you are not a villain, not a murderer — are you ? Fre. Heaven be thanked I still deserve that you, good lady, should thus interest yourself in my be- half. Amelia. I'll go, and send another bottle of wine to your mother. Keep this for yourself. [Going. Fre. Allow me but one more question. Who are you, lovely, generous creature, that I may name you in my prayers to the Almighty ? 58 LOVERS' VOWS. Amelia. My father is Baron Wildenhain, the owner of this estate. Fre. Just heavens ! Amelia. What is the matter ? Fre. — {Shuddering.) — And the man whom I at- tacked to-day Amelia. Was my fattier. Fre. My father ! Amelia. Ke quite alarms me. [Runs out, Fre. — {Repeating the ivor ds in, most violent agita- tion.) — Was my father ! Eternal Justice ! thou dost not slumber. The man against whom I raised my arm to day was — my father ! In another moment I might have been a parricide ! Hoo ! an icy coldness courses through my veins. My hair bristles towards Heaven. A mist floats before my eyes. I cannot breathe. — ( Sinks into a chair. A pause.) — How the dread idea ranges in my brain ! What clouds and vapours dim my sight, seeming to change their forms each moment as they pass ! And if fate had destined he should perish thus, if I had perpetrated the des- perate deed — whose, all-righteous Judge, whose would have been the guilt! Wouldst thou not thy- self have armed the son to avenge on his unnatural father the injuries his mother had sustained ? Oh, Zadio-! — [Sinks into meditation. A pause.) — But this lovely, good, angelic creature, who just left me What a new sensation awakes in my bo- som ! This amiable being is my sister ! But that animal— that coxcomb, who was with my father in the field— is he my brother? Most probably. He is the only heir to these domains, and seems, a* often is the case on these occasions, a spoilt child, taught from his infancy to pride himself on birth, and on the wealth he will one day inherit, while I — • brother—and my hapless mother— are starving' LOVERS' VOWS. 59 Enter Pastor. Pastor. Heaven bless you ! Pre. And you, Sir! If I may judge by youp dress, you are a minister of the church, and conse- quently a messenger of peace. You are welcome to me in both capacities. Pastor. I wish to be a messenger of peace to your soul, and shall not use reproaches ; for your own conscience will speak more powerfully than I can. Pre. Right, worthy Pastor ! But, when the conscience is silent, are you not of opinion that the crime is doubtful ? Pastor. Yes— unless it has been perpetrated by a most wicked and obdurate heart indeed. Pre. That is not my case. I would not exchange my heart for that of any prince — or any priest. Forgive me, Sir ; I did not intend to reflect on you by that declaration. Pastor. Even if you did, I know that gentleness is the sister of the religion which I teach. Pre. I only meant to say that my heart is not cal- lous ; and yet my conscience does not tell me that my conduct has to-day been criminal. Pastor. Do not deceive yourself. Self-love some- times usurps the place of conscience. Pre. No ! no ! What a pity it is that I do not understand how to arrange my ideas— that I can only feel, and am not able to demonstrate ! Pray, Sir, what was my crime? That I would have robbed ? Oh, Sir ! fancy yourself for a single mo- ment in my situation. Have you too any parent ? Pastor. No. I became an orphan when very young. Pre. That I much lament ; for it renders a fair decision on your part impossible. But I will, never- 30 LOVERS' VOWS. act 11. Amelia, pour out the tea. — (Amelia seats herself at the table, and attends to the breakfast.) — What sort of weather is it ? Have you put your head out of the window yet ? Amelia. Oh, I was in the garden at five o'clock. It is a delightful morning. Baron. One may have an hour's shooting, then. I really don't know what to do with this man : he tires me beyond all measure with his frivolous re- marks,— Ha ! Our guest ! Enter Count. Count. Ah, bonjour, mon Colonel. Fair lady, I kiss your hand. f Amelia curtsies, and returns no answer.) Baron. Good morning ! Good morning ! But, my Lord, it is almost noon. In the country you must learn to rise at an earlier hour. Count. Pardonnez, mon Colonel. I rose soon after your great clock struck six. But my homme de chambre was guilty of a betise, which has driven me to absolute despair ; a loss, which pour le mo- ment cannot be repaired. Baron. I am sorry for it. (Amelia presents tea to the Count.) Count.— (As he takes it.) — Your most obedient and submissive slave ! Is it Hebe herself, or Venus in her place ? (Amelia moves with a smile.) Baron— ( Somewhat peevishly.) — Neither Venu* nor Hebe, but Amelia Wildenhain, with your per- mission. May one know what you have lost ? Count. Oh, mon dieu! Help me to banish from my mind the triste recollection. I am lost in a la- byrinth of doubts and perplexities. I am as it were, envelope. I believe I shall be obliged to write » letter on the occasion. act ii. LOVERS' VOWS. 31 Baron. Come, come ! It is not so very sad a mis- fortune I hope. Count. — (As he sips his tea.)— Nectar, I vow! Nectar positively, angelic lady. But, how could I expect any thing else from your fair hands ? Baron. This nectar was sold to me for Congo tea. Amelia. You have still not told us what you have lost, my Lord. Baron. — (Aside.) — His understanding. Count. You command— your slave obeys. You tear open the wounds which even your fascinating society had scarcely healed. My homme de chambre, the vaut rien ! Oh, the creature is a mauvais sujet! When he packed up my clothes the day before yes- terday, I said to him, " Henri, in that window- stands a little pot de pommade." You comprehend me, lovely Miss Amelia ? I expressly said, " Don't forget it: pack it up," I dare say I repeated this three or four times. " You know, Henri" I said to him, " I cannot exist without this pot de pom- made." For you must know, most amiable Amelia, this pommade cannot be made in Germany. The people here don't understand it. They can't give it the odeurs. Oh ! I do assure you it is incompa- rable ; it comes tout droit from Paris. The manu- facturer of it is parfumeur de roi. More than once, when I have attended as dejour to Her Royal High- ness the Princess Adelaide, she has said to me, " Mon dieu, Compte, the whole antichambre is par- fume whenever you are my dejour." Now only con- ceive, accomplished Miss Amelia — only conceive, my Lord — completely forgotten is the whole pot de pommade — left in the window as sure as I am a ca~ valier. Baron. Yes, unless the mice have devoured it. Amelia. —(Smiling.) — Unpardonable neglect ! 32 LOVERS' VOWS. act ir. Count. It is, indeed! The mice too! Helas! voila, mon Colonel, une autre raison, for desespoir. And could you conceive now that this careless creature, this Henri, has been thirty years in our service ? Thirty years has he been provided with every thing necessary for a man of his extraction, and how does he evince his gratitude ? How does the fellow be- have ? He forgets the pot de pommade ! leaves it standing in the window as sure as I am a cavalier, and — oh del ! perhaps the vulgar German mice have swallowed the most delicate parfum ever produced by France ! But it was impossible to moderate my anger. Diable ! It was impossible— therefore I dis- charged the fellow on the spot. Baron. — (Starting.) — How ! A man who had been thirty years in the service of your family ! Count. Oh ! don't be alarmed on my account, mon cher Colonel. I have another in petto— & charm- ing valet, I assure you — un homme comme il foul — He dresses hair like a divinity. Amelia. And poor Henry must be discharged for such a trifle ! Count. What do you say, lovely Miss Amelia? A trifle ! Can you call this a mere bagatelle? Amelia. To deprive a poor man of his subsis- tence Count. Mais mon dieu! How can I do less ? Hai he not deprived me of my pommade? Amelia. Allow me to intercede in his behalf. Count. Your sentiments enchant me ! but your benevolence must not be abused. The fellow has an absolute quantite of children, who, in time, when they reach the age mur, will maintain their stupid father. Amelia. Has he a family too ? Oh, I beseech you, my Lord, retain him in your service. Count. You are aimable, ma chere Mademoiselle — ACT II. LOVERS' VOWS. S9 vratment, rous etes tres aimable.. You command — your slave obeys. Henri shall come, and submis- sively return you thanks. Baron. — (Aside, impatiently rubbing his hands.) — No. It cannot, shall not be. The coxcomb! — (Aloud.)— What think you, Count, of an hour's diversion in the field before dinner ? Do you shoot ? Count. — (Kissing the ends of his Jingers) — Bravo, 7iion Colonel! A most charming proposition! I accept it with rapture. Lovely Miss Amelia, you shall see my shooting-dress. It is quite a la mode de Paris. I ordered it expressly for this tour. And my fowling piece. Ah, Monsieur le Colonel, you never saw such a'beauty. The stock is made of mother of pearl, and my arms are carved upon it. Oh, you have no conception of the gout displayed in it. Bar. — (Drill/.) — I asked you before, my Lord, whether you were a shooter. Count. I have only been out once or twice in my life, and par hazard I killed nothing. Baron. My gun is plain and old ; but I generally bring my bird down. Enter a Servant. Ser. The pastor begs permission Baron. Well, Count, be as quick as you can in putting on your elegant shooting dress. I shall be ready for you in a few minutes. Count. I fly. Beauteous Miss Amelia, I feel the sacrifice I am making to your father, when for a couple of hours I thus tear myself flora his file aimable. [Exit. Baron. Amelia, it is scarcely necessary that I should speak to the pastor, or he to you. But, how- ever, as he is here, leave us together. I have, in~ deed, other matters, respecting which I wish to have some conversation with him. 34 LOVERS' VOWS. act ir. Amelia. — (As she goes.) — Father, I think I never can love the Count. Baron. As you please. Amelia. — (With great affability as she meets the pastor at the door.) — Good morning to you, my dear Sir! Enter Pastor. Pastor. By your desire, my Lord Baron. No ceremony. Forgive me, if my sum- mons arrived at an inconvenient time. I'll tell you in a few words what I want to mention. I last night received a most wretched translation from the French, which was issued from the press about twenty years ago. I am myself in possession of a very neat German original, of which, without vanity, I am the author. Now, I am required to erase my name from the work, and let it be bound with this . vapid translation. I therefore wish to ask you, as the corrector of my book, what you think of this intended combination. Pastor. Upon my word I do not understand your allegory, my Lord. Baron. Don't you ? Hem ! I'm sorry for it. I was inwardly complimenting myself upon the dex- trous wa}^ in which I had managed it. Well, to be plain with you, the young Count von der Mulde is here, and wants to marry my daughter. Pastor. — (Starts , but immediately recovers his com' posure.) — Indeed ! Baron. The man is a Count, and nothing else upon earth. He is— he is — in short, I don't like him. Pastor.— (Rather eagerly.) — And Miss Amelia? Baron.— (Mimicking her.) — As you desire — If you desire— What you desire. Well, well ; you have a better opinion of my understanding, I hope, than to suppose that I should influence her on such an occa- ACT II. LOVERS' VOWS. $5 sion. Were the fellow's head not quite so empty, and his heart not depraved, I must own the con- nexion would have pleased me; for his father is one of my most intimate friends ; and the match is on many accounts desirable in other respects. Pastor. In other respects ! In what respect can the alliance with a man be desirable, whose head and heart, are bad ? Baron. Why — I mean with regard to rank and consequence. I will explain to you my sentiments. If Amelia were attached to another, I would not throw away a remark upon the subject, nor w ould I ask, " Who is the man?" But — (pointing io his heart)—" is all right here ? If so, enough— Marry each other — You have my blessing, and I hope heaven's too." But Amelia is not attached to any other, and that alters the medium through which I consider this subject. Pastor. And will she never be attached to any one ? Barou. That is, to be sure, another question. — Well, I don't mean — I don't insist upon any thing of the kind. I don't desire or command it, as Amelia says. I only wish to act in such a way as that the Count von der Mulde's father shall not be offended if I don't honour the bill which he has drawn upon my daughter, for he has a right to say value received, having conferred many civilities and kindnesses upon me. I wish, therefore, my worthy friend, that you would explain to my daughter the duties of a wife and mother; and when she has pro- perly understood this, I wish you to ask her whether she is willing to fulfil these duties at the side of the young Count. If she says no— not another word. What think you of this? Pastor. I — to be sure — I must own — I am at your service — I will speak to Miss Amelia. Baron. Do so. — ( Heaving a deep sigh.) — I have removed one burden from my mind ; but alas 1 & 96 LOVERS' VOWS. far heavier still oppresses it. You understand me. How is it, my friend, that you have as yet been un- able to gain any intelligence upon this subject ? Pastor. I have used my utmost endeavours — but hitherto in vain. Baron. Believe me, this unfortunate circumstance causes me many a sleepless night. We are often guilty of an error in our youth, which, -when ad- vanced in life, wc would give our whole fortunes to obliterate : for the man who cannot boldly turn his head to survey his past life must be miserable, espe- cially as the retrospect is so nearly connected with futurity. If the view be bad behind him, he must perceive a storm before him. Well, well ! Let us hope the best. Farewell, my friend ! I am going to take a little diversion in the field. Do what you have promised in the meantime, and dine with me- at my return. [Exit. Pastor. — [Alone.) — What a commission has he imposed upon me ! Upon me! — (Looking fearfully around.) — Heaven forbid that I should encounter Amelia before I have recollected and prepared my- self for the interview ! At present. I should be un- able to say a word upon the subject. I will take a walk in the fields, and offer up a prayer to the Almighty. Then will I return. But, alas ! the in- structor must alone return — the man must stay at home. [Exit, LOVERS' VOWS. $7 ACT THE THIRD. Scene, an open Field, Enter Frederick* Ere. — (Looking at a few pieces of money, which ht holds in his hand.) — Shall I return with this paltry sum— return to see my mother die ? No. Rather will I spring into the first pond I meet. Rather will I wander to the end of the world. Alas! I feel as if my feet were clogged with lead. I can neither proceed or retreat. The sight of yonder straw- thatched cottage, in which my mother now lies a prey to consuming sorrow — oh, why do my eyes for ever turn towards it ? Are there not fertile fields and laughing meadows all around me ? Why must my eyes be so powerfully attracted to that cottage, which contains all my joys and all my sorrows ? — ■ {With asperity, while surveying the money.} — Is this your charity, ye men . ? This coin was given me by the rider of a stately steed, who was followed by a servant in a magnificent livery, glittering with silver. This was bestowed upon me by a sentimental lady, who was on her travels, and had just alighted from her carriage to admire the beauties of the country, intending hereafter to publish a description of them. " That hut," said I to her, and my tears would not allow me to proceeed " Is very picturesque and romantic,'*' answered she, and immediately skipped into the carriage. This was the gift of a fat priest, in an enormous wig, who at the same time called me an idle vagabond, and thereby robbed the present of its whole value.— {Much affected.)— -This dreyer was given me by a beggar, unsolicited. He shared his little all with me, and blessed me too. Oh ! this VOL. III. a LOVERS' VOWS. act nr. coin will be of great value at a future day. The Almighty Judge will repay the donor with interest beyond earthly calculation. — f A pause— then again looking at the money.) — What can I attempt to buy with this ? The paltry sum would not pay for the nails of my mother's coffin — and scarcely for a hal- ter to hang myself with. — (Looking totvards the horizon.) — Yonder I see the proud turrets of the Prince's residence. Shall I go thither, and implore assistance ? Alas ! compassion does not dwell in cities. The cottage of poverty is her palace^ and the heart of the poor her temple. Oh, that some recruiting party would pass this way ! I would en- gage myself for five rix-dollars. Five rix-dollars ! What a sum f It is, perhaps, at this moment staked on many a card. — (Wipes the stveat from his fore- head.) — Father! Father! Upon thee fall these drops of agony ! Upon thee fall my despair, and whatever may be its consequences ! Oh, may'st thou here- after pant for pardon, as my poor mother is now panting for a single glass of wine. — (The noise of shooters is heard at a distance. A gun is Jired, and several pointers cross the stage. Frederick looks round.) — Shooters ! Noblemen, perhaps ! Yes, yes I They appear to be persons of rank. Well, once more will I beg. I beg for a mother. Oh, God ! grant that I may find benevolent and charitable hearts. Enter Baron. Baron. — (Looking behind him.) — Here, here, in\ Lord! Enter Count, out of breath. That was a sad mistake. The dogs ran this way, fcut all the game escaped. Count.— {Breathing tvith difficult!/.) — Tant mieuz, LOVERS' VOWS. tant mieux, mon Colonel. We can take a little breath then. — {Supports himself on his gun, while the Baroa stands in the back ground, observing the dogs.) Fre. — [Advancing towards the Count, toith re- served) — Noble Sir, I implore your charity. Count. — {Measuring him from head to foot toith a look of contempt. — How, mon ami. 1 You are a very impertinent fellow, let me tell you. Why you have the limbs of an Hercule, and shoulders as broad as those of Cretan Milo. I'll venture to say you can carry an ox on your back — or an ass at least, of which there seem to be many grazing in this neighbourhood. Fre. Perhaps I might, if you, Sir, would allow me to make the attempt. Count. Our police is not vigilant enough with respect to vagrants and idle fellows. Fre. — {With a significant look.) — I am of your opinion, Sir. — {Turns to the Baron, ivho is advancing.) — -Noble Sir, have compassion on an unfortunate son, who is become a beggar for the support of his sick mother. Baron. — {Putting his hand into his pocket, and giving Frederick a trifle.) — It would be more praise- worthy in you, young man, to work for your sick mother, than to beg for her. Fre. Most willingly will I do that ; but to-day her necessities are too urgent. Forgive me, noble Sir ; what you have given me is not sufficient. Baron. — ( With astonishment, and a half smile.)— Not sufficient ! Fre. No, by heaven, it is not sufficient. Baron. Singular enough ! But I don't choose to give any more. Fre. If you possess a benevolent heart, give me a guilder. Baron. For the first time in my life, I am told by a beggar how much I am to give him. 40 LOVERS* VOWS. act hi. ■Fit. A guilder, noble Sir. You will thereby preserve a fellow-creature from despair. Bai'on. You must have lost your senses, man. Come, Count. Count. AUons, mon Colonel. Fre. For heaven's sake, gentlemen, bestow one guilder on me. It will preserve the lives of two fellow-creatures. — (Seeing them, pass on, he hieels.) — A guilder, gentlemen i You will never again pur- chase the salvation of a human being at so cheap a rate. — {Tkey proceed. Frederick draws his side arms, and furiously seizes the Baron.) — Your purse, or your lite ! Baron.— -{Alarmed.)— How! What! Holla! Help! — ( Several Gamekeepers rush in, and disarm Frede- rick. The Count in the mean time runs avcay.) Fre. Heavens ! what have I done ? Baron. Away with him to the castle ! Confine him in the tower, and keep strict watch over him till I return. Take good care lest he should attempt to escape. Fre — {Kneeling.) — I have only to make one re- quest, noble Sir. I have forfeited my life, and you may do with me what you please , but, oh, assist my wretched mother, who is falling a sacrifice to penury in yonder hut. S nd thither, I beseech you, and enquire whether I am telling you a falsehood. For my mother I drew my weapon, and for her will I shed my blood. Baron. Take him to the tower, I say ; and let him live on bread and water. Fre.— (As he is led atvay by the Gamekeepers.) — Cursed be my father for having given me being. [Exit. Baron ( Calling to the last of the Gamekeepers.) — Francis ! run down to the village. In the first, second, or third house —you will make it out— en- quire for a sick woman ; and if you find one, give lier this purse. 41 Game. Very well, my Lord. [Exit. Baron. This is a most singular adventure, on my soul. The young man's countenance had noble expression in it ; and if it be true that he was beg- ging for his mother, that for his mother he became a robber — Well! Well! I must investigate the matter. It will be a good subject for one of Meissner's sketches. [Exit. Scene, a Room in the Castle. Enter Amelia. Amelia. Why do I feel so peevish and discon- tented ? No one has done any thing to vex me. I did not intend to come into this room, but was going into the garden. — (She is walking out, but suddenly returns.) — No, I think I'll stay here, Yet I might as well see whether my auriculas are yet in flower, and whether the apple-kernels, which our pastor lately sowed, be sprung up. Oh, they must. — (Again turning round.) — Yet, if any one should come, who wanted to see me, I shall not be here, and perhaps the servant might not find me. No. I'll stay here. But the time will pass very slowly. — ( Tears a nose* ga/j.) — Hark! I hear some one at the front door. No. It was the wind. I must look how my canary birds do. But if any one should come, and not find me in the parlour— But who can come ? Why do I at once feel such a glow spreading over my face ? — (A pause. She begins to iveep.) — What can I want ?— (So bbing.)— Why am I thus oppressed? Enter Pastor. (Approaches him ivith a friendly air, and "wiping atvay a tear.) — Oh, good morning, my dear Sir. Reverend Sir, I should say. Excuse me, if custom makes me fometimes say dear Sir. s 2 4* LOVERS' VOWS. act in. Pastor. Continue to say so, I beg, Miss Amelia. I feel a gratification in hearing that term applied to me by you. Amelia. Do you indeed ? Pastor. Most certainly I do. Eut am I mistaken, or have you really been weeping ? Amelia. Oh, I have only been shedding a few tears. Pastor. Is not that weeping ? May I enquire what caused those tears ? Amelia. I don't know. Pastor. The recollection of her Ladyship, your mother, perhaps ? Amelia. I could say yes, but Paster. Oh, I understand you. It is a little fe- male secret. I do not wish to pry into it. Forgive me, Miss Amelia, if I appear at an unseasonable hour, but it is by his Lordship's desire. Amelia. You are always welcome. Pastor. Indeed ! am 1 really ? Oh, Amelia ! Amelia. My father says that we are more indebted to those who form our hearts and minds, than to those who give us mere existence. My father says this— (casting dozen her eyes) — and my heart says so too. Pastor. What a sweet recompencc is this moment for my eight years of attention. Amelia. I was wild and giddy. I have, no doubt, often caused you much uneasiness. It is but fair that I should feel a regard for you on that account. Pastor. — [Aside.) — Oh heavens !— {Aloud, and stammering.)— I — I am — deputed by his Lordship — your father— to explain — Will you be seated ? Amelia. — (Brings him a chair immediately.) — Don't let me prevent you, but I had rather stand. Pastor. — [Pushes the chair atvay.) — The Count von der Mulde is arrived here. Amelia. Yes. Pastor. Do you know for what purpose ? act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 4S Amelia, Yes ; he wants to marry me. Pastor. He does ! — {Somewhat eagerly.) — But be- lieve me, Miss Amelia, your father will not compel you to marry him against your inclination. Amelia. 1 know he will not. Pastor. But he wishes - he wants to ascertain the extent of your inclination ; and has appointed me to converse with you on the subject. Amelia. On the subject of my inclination towards the Count? Pastor. Yes — No — towards matrimony itself. Amelia. What I do not understand must be indif- ferent to me, and 1 am totally ignorant of matrimony. Pastor. For that very reason am I come hither, Miss Amelia. Your father has directed me to point out to you the pleasant and unpleasant side of the married state. Amelia. Let me hear the unpleasant first, then, my dear Sir. I like to reserve the best to conclude with. Pastor. The unpleasant! Oh, Miss Amelia, when two affectionate congenial hearts are united to each other, matrimony has no unpleasant side. Hand-in- hand the happy couple pass through life. When they find thorns scattered on their path, they care- fully and cheerfully remove them. When they ar- rive at a stream, the stronger bears the weaker through it. When they are obliged to climb a mountain, the stronger supports the weaker on his arm. Patience and affection are their attendants. What would be to one impossible, is to the two united a mere trifle ; and when they have reached the goal, the weaker wipes the sweat from the fore- head of the stronger. Joy or care takes up its abode with both at the same time. The one never shelters sorrow, while happiness is the guest of the other. Smiles play upon the countenances, or tears tremble m. the eyes, of both at the same time. But their 4-i LOVERS' VOWS. joys are more lively than the joys of a solitary indi- vidual, and their sorrows milder ; for participation enhances bliss, and softens care. Thus may their life be compared to a fine summer's day — fine, even though a storm pass over ; for the storm refreshes nature, and adds fresh lustre to the unclouded sun. Thus they stand arm in arm on the evening of their days, beneath the blossomed trees which they them- selves have planted and reared, waiting the approach of night. Then— yes — then, indeed — one of them lies down to sleep — and that is the happy one ; for the other wanders to and fro, weeping and lament- ing that he cannot yet sleep. This is in such a case the only unpleasant side of matrimony. Amelia. I'll marry. Pastor. Right, Miss Amelia ! The picture is al- luring ; but forget not that two affectionate beings sat for it. When rank and equipages, or when ca- price and levity, have induced a couple to unite themselves for life, matrimony has no pleasant side. While free, their steps were light and airy ; but now, the victims of their own folly, they drag along their chains. Disgust lowers upon each brow. Pictures of lost happiness appear before their eyes, painted by the imagination, and more alluring in proportion to the impossibility of attaining them. Sweet en- chanting ideas for ever haunt them, which had this union not taken place, would, perhaps, never have been realized ; but the certainty of which is estab- lished, were they not confined by their detested fetters. Thus they become the victims of despair, when, in another situation, the failure of anticipated happiness would but have roused their patience. Thus they accustom themselves to consider each other as the hateful cause of every misfortune which they undergo. Asperity is mingled with their conversa- tion—coldness with their caresses. By no one are they so easily offended as by each other. What ACT III. LOVERS' VOWS. 45 wsuld excite satisfaction, if it happened to a stran- ger, is, when it happens to either of this wretched pair, a matter of indifference to the other. Thus do they drag on a miserable life, with averted coun- tenances, and with downcast heads, until the night approaches, and the one lies down to rest. Then does the other joyfully raise the head, and, in a tone of triumph, exclaim, "Liberty! Liberty!" This is, in such a case, the only pleasant side of matrimony. Amelia. I won't marry. Pastor. That means, in other words, that you will not love any one. Amelia. But — yes — I will marry — for I will love —I do love some one. Pastor. — (Extremely surprised and alarmed.) — The Count von der Mulde, then ? Amelia. Oh ! no, no ! Don't mention that silly vain fool. — (Putting out both her hands towards him \vith the most familiar confidence.) — I love you. Pastor. Miss i\melia ! For heaven's sake Amelia. I will marry you. Pastor. Me! Amelia. Yes, you. P'/stor. Amelia, you forget Amelia. What do I forget ? Pastor. That you are of noble extraction. Amelia. What hindrance is that ? Pastor. Oh, Heavens ! No. It cannot be. Amelia. Don't you feel a regard for me ? Pastor. I love you as much as my own life. Amelia. Well, then marry me. Pastor. Amelia, have compassion on me. I am a minister of religion, which bestows on me much strength — yet still — still am I but a man. Amelia. You yourself have depicted the married state in the most lovely colours. I, therefore, am not the girl with whom you could wander hand-ia- M5 LOVERS' VOWS. act in. hand through this life — with whom you could shar« your joys and sorrows ? Pastor. None but you would I chuse, Amelia, were I allowed that choice. Did we but live in those golden days of equality, which enraptured poets dwell upon, none but you would I chuse. But, as the world now is, such a connection is beyond my reach. You must marry a nobleman. Amelia Wil- denhain was born to be the consort of a titled man. Whether I could make her happy will never be asked. Oh, Heavens ! I am saying too much. Amelia. Never will be asked ! Yes ; I shall ask that question. Have you not often told me that the heart alone can make a person noble ? — {Lays her hand upon his heart.) — Oh! I shall marry a noble man. Pastor. Miss Amelia, call, I beseech you, your reason to your aid. A hundred arguments may be advanced in opposition to such an union. But — just at this moment — Heaven knows, not one occurs to me. Amelia. Because there are none. Pastor. There are, indeed. But my heart is so full — My heart consents— and that it must not, shall not do. Imagine to yourself how your relatives will sneer at you. They will decline all intercourse with you ; be ashamed of their plebeian kinsman ; invite the whole family, except yourself, on birth days ; shrug their shoulders when your name is mentioned ; whisper your story in each other's ears ; forbid their children to play with yours, or to be on familiar terms with them ; drive past you in chariots embla- zoned with the arms of Wildenhain, and followed by footmen in laced liveries ; while you humbly drive to church in a plain carriage, with a servant in a grey frock behind it. They will scarcely seem to remember you when they meet you ; or should thejr act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 47 demean themselves so far as to enter into conversa- tion, they will endeavour, by every mortifying hint, to remind you that you are the parson's wife. Amelia. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Will not that be to remind me that I am happy ? Pastor. Can you laugh on such an occasion ? Amelia. Yes, I can indeed. You must forgive it ; for you have been my tutor seven years, and never supported your doctrines and instructions with any arguments so feeble as those you have just ad- vanced. Pastor. I am sorry you think so — truly sorry, for Amelia. I am very glad, for Pastor. — [Extremely embarrassed.) — For Amelia. For you must marry me. Pastor. Never! Amelia. You know me. You know I am not an ill-tempered being ; and when in your society, I al- ways become better and better. I will take a great deal of pains to make you happy, or — No, I shall make you. happy without taking any pains to effect it. We will live together so comfortably, so very comfortably — until one of us lies down to sleep, and then the other will weep — But that is far, far distant. — Come ! Consent, or I shall conclude you don't feel any regard for me. Pastor. Oh! it is a glorious sensation to be a man of honour ; but I feel, on this occasion, how difficult it is to acquire that sensation. Amelia, if you knew what tortures you inflict upon me — No — I cannot — I cannot, — 1 should sink to the earth as if struck by lightning, were I to attempt to meet the Baron with such a proposition. Amelia. I'll do that myself. Pastor. For Heaven's sake, forbear. To his kind- aess and liberality am I indebted for my present comfortable circumstances. To his friendship and 18 LOVERS' VOWS. act in. goodness am I indebted for the happiest moments of my life. And shall I be such an ingrate as to mislead his only child ? Oh, God ! thou seest the purity of my intentions. Assist me in this trial with thy heavenly support. Amelia. My father wishes me to marry. My fa- ther wishes to see me happy. Well ! I will marry, and be happy — But with no other than you. This will I say to my father ; and do you know what will be his answer ? At the first moment he will, per- haps, hesitate, and say, " Amelia, are you mad ?" But then he will recollect himself, and add, with a smile, " Well, well ! If you wish it, God bless you both !" Then I'll kiss his hand, run out, and fall upon your neck. The villagers will soon learn that I am to be married to you. All the peasants and their wives will come to wish me joy ; will implore Heaven's blessing on us ; and, oh, surely, surely, Heaven will bless us. I was ignorant before what it could be that lay so heavy on my heart ; but I have now discovered it, for the burden is removed. — (Seizing his hand.) Pastor. — ( Withdrawing it.) — Amelia, you almost drive me to distraction. You have robbed me of my peace of mind. Amelia. Oh, no, no. How provoking ! I hear somebody coming up stairs, and I had still a thou- sand things to say. Enter Christian. [Peevishly.) —Is it you, Christian ? Chris. Yes, Miss Amelia. Christian Lebrocht Goldman Hasten'd hither unto you Soon as he the tidings knew. Amelia. — (Coiifmcd.) — W r hat tidings ? act in. LOVERS' VOWS. 4fl Chris, Tidings which we all enjcy. Pastor. — {Alarmed.) — You have been listening to our conversation, then ? Chris. Not I, most reverend Sir. Listeners hear no good of themselves. An old faithful servant, Miss Amelia, who has often carried her ladyship your mother in his arms, and afterwards has often had the honour of receiving a box on the ear from her ladyship's fair hand, wishes, on this happy occasion, to wait on you with his congratulation. Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! Amelia. My dear Christian, I am not just now in- clined to listen to your lyre. And what can you have to sing about to-day more than usual ? Chris. Oh, my dearest, sweetest young lady, it is impossible that I can be silent to-day. Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! Grant me more than usual fire. Hither, hither, hither come, Trumpet, fife, and kettle drum ! Join me in the lofty song, Which shall boldly run along Like a torrent Amelia. It does run along like a torrent indeed, my dear Christian. Pray, try to proceed in humble prose. Chris. Impossible, Miss Amelia ! There has never been a birth, a christening, or a wedding, since I have had the honour to serve this noble family, and the noble family of my late lady, which old Chris- tian's ready and obedient Muse has not celebratgd. In the space of forty-six years, three hundred and ninety-seven congratulations have flowed from my pen. To-day I shall finish my three hundred and VOL. III. F 50 LOVERS* VOWS. act in. ninety-eighth. Who knows how soon a happy mar- riage may give occasion for my three hundred and ninety-ninth ? Nine months after which my four hundredth may perhaps be wanted. Amelia. To-day is Friday. That is the only re- markable circumstance with which I am acquainted. Chris. Friday! Very true, Miss Amelia. But it is a day marked by Heaven as a day of joy ; for our noble Lord the Baron has escaped a most imminent danger. Amelia. Danger ! my father ! What do you mean ? Chris. Unto you I will unfold What the gamekeepers have told. Amelia. — (Impatiently, and ivith great anxiety.) — Quick then ! What is the matter ? . Chris. The Baron and the Count (good lack !) Were wand'ring on th* unbeaten track, And both attentively did watch For any thing that they could catch. Three turnip-closes they had past, When they espied a hare at last. Amelia. Oh ! for Heaven's sake proceed in prose. Chris. Well, Ma'am, as you insist upon it, I will, if I can. The Baron killed his hare, and a very fine one it is. I have just had the honour of seeing it. His Lordship has wounded it most terribly in the left fore foot. Amelia. — (Impatiently.) — Go on, go on. W T hat happened to my father ? Chris. A second hare had just been found, and the dogs were behaving extremely well, among which it is no injustice to mention Ponto; for a stauncher dog never went into a field. Well ! their Lordships, the Baron and Count, were suddenly act nr. LOVERS' VOWS. 51 accosted by a soldier, who implored their charity. One of the gamekeepers was a witness to the whole transaction at a distance. He saw his Lordship the Baron, actuated by his charitable nature, draw a piece of money from his pocket, and give it to the afore-mentioned soldier. Well ! now, what think you ? The ungrateful, audacious villain suddenly drew his bayonet, rushed like a mad dog at my mas- ter, and if the gamekeepers had not instantly sprung forward, I, poor old man ! should have been under the necessity of composing an elegy and an epitaph. Amelia.— ( Affrighted. ) — Heavens ! Pastor. A robber — by broad day-light ! That is singular indeed. Chris. I shall write a ballad in Burger's style on the occasion. Pastor. Is not the man secured ? Chris. To be sure he is. His Lordship gave or- ders that, till further investigation could be made, he was to be confined in the tower. The game- keeper, who brought the intelligence, says, the whole party will soon be here. — ( Walls to the u-in- dotv.) — l verily believe— the sun dazzles my eyes a little — I verily believe they are coming yonder. Sing, oh Muse, and sound, oh lyre ! [Exit* (Ame)m and the Pastor tvalk to the tvindoiv.) Amelia. I never saw a robber in my life. He must have a dreadful countenance. Pastor. Did you never see the female parricide in Lavater's Fragments ? Amelia. Horrible ! A female parricide ! Is there on this earth a creature so depraved ? But look ! The young man comes nearer. What an interest- ing, what a noble look he has ! That melancholy, too, which overspreads his countenance ! No, no ; 52 LOVERS' VOWS. act hi. that cannot be a robber's countenance. I pity the poor man. Look! Oil Heavens! The gamekeepers are leading him to the tower. Hard-hearted men ! Now they lock the door : now he is left in the hor- rid prison. What are the unfortunate young man's sensations ! Pastor. — {Aside.) — Hardly more distressing than mine. Enter Barox. Amelia. — {Meeting kim.)—l congratulate you on your escape, most sincerely, my dear father. Baron. Let me have no more congratulations, I beseech you; for old Christian pour;:d out such a volley of them in lyrics and alexandrines, as I came up stairs, that he almost stunned me. Pastor. His account is true, then ? The story seemed incredible. Amelia. Is that young man with the interesting countenance a robber? Baron. He is; but I am almost inclined to believe that he was one to-day for the first and last time in his life. It was a most extraordinary adventure. The young man begged for his mother, and I gave hiui a trifle. I might have given him something more, but the game just at that moment occupied my mind. You know, good pastor, when a man is in search of diversion, he pays but little regard to the sufferings of his fellow-creatures. In short, he wanted more. Despair was expressed in his looks, but I turned my back upon him. He then forgot himself, and drew his side-arms ; but I'll bet my life against your head-dress, Amelia, that he is not ac- customed to such practices. Amelia. Oh, I am sure he is not. Baron. He trembled when he seized me. A child might have overpowered him. I almost wish I had suffered him to escape. This affair may cost him his act in. LOVERS* VOWS. 53 life, and I might have saved the life of a fellow-crea- ture for a guilder ! If my people had not seen it— But the bad example— Come with me into my room, good pastor, and let us consider how we can best save this young man's life ; for should he fall into the hands of justice, the law will condemn him with- out mercy. [Going. Amelia. Dear father, I have had a great deal of conversation with the Paster. Baron. Have you ? With respect to the holy state of matrimony ? Amelia. Yes, I have told him Pastor. — [Much confused.) — In compliance with your request Amelia. He won't believe me Pastor. I have explained to Miss Amelia Amelia. And I am sure I spoke from my heart — Pastor. — ( Pointing to the door.) — May I beg Amelia. But his diffidence Pastor. The result of our conversation I will ex- plain in 3'our room. Baron. What the deuce do you both mean ? You won't allow each other to say a word. Amelia, have you forgotten the common rules of civility ? Amelia. Oh, no, dear father ! But I may marry whom I like ? Baron. Of course. Amelia. — ( To the Pastor.) — Do you hear > Pastor. - (Suddenly puis his handkerchief to his face.) — I beg pardon — My nose bleeds. [Exit. Baron.— (Calling after him.)— I expect you. [Going. Amelia. Stop one moment, dear father. I have something of importance to communicate. Baron,— {Laughing.)— Something of importance ! You want a new fan, I suppose. [ Exit. Amelia. — (Alone.) — A fan ! I almost believe I do want a fan. — (Fans herself tcith her pocket handker- v 2 54 LOVERS' VOWS. act hi. chief.) — No. This is of no use. The heat which oppresses me is lodged within my bosom * 1 1 javens ! how my heart beats ! I really love the Pastor most sincerely. How unfortunate it was that his nose should just begin to bleed at that moment ! No; I can't endure the Count. When I look at my fa- ther, or the Pastor, I feel a kind of respect ; but I only feel disposed to ridicule the Count. If I were to marry him, what silly tricks I should play with him! — (Wdlks to the tvindoiv.) — The tower is still shut. Oh ! how dreadful it must be to be confined in prison ! I wonder whether the servants will re- member to take him any victuals. — 'Beckoning and calling.) — Christian ! Christian ! Come hither di- rectly. The young man pleases me, tliough I don't know how or why. He has risked his life for his mother, and no bad man would do that. Enter Christian. Christian, have yougiven the prisoner any thing to eat? Chris. Yes, sweet Miss Amelia, I have. Amelia. What have you given him ? Chris. Nice rye-bread and clear pump-water. Amelia. For shame, Christian ! Go into the kitchen directly, and ask the cook for some cold meat. Then fetch a bottle of wine from the cellar, and then take them to the prisoner. Chris. Most lovely Miss Amelia, I Would you obey most willingly ; But, for the present, he must be satisfied with bread and water ; for his Lordship has expressly ordered — Amelia. Oh, that my father did at first, when he was in a passion. Chris. What he commands when in a passion, it i« his servant's duty to obey in cold blood. ACT III. LOVERS' VOWS. 55 Amelia, You are a silly man, Christian. Are you grown so old without having learnt how to comfort a fellow-creature in distress ? Give me the key of the cellar. I'll go myself. Chris. Most lovely Miss Amelia, I Would you obey most willingly ; But Amelia. Give me the key directly, I command you. Chris. — (Presents the key.) — I shall instantly go to his Lordship, and exonerate rrryself from any blame which may ensue. Amelia. That you may. £ Exit. . Chrii. — (After a pause, shaking his head.) Rash will youth be ever found While the earth shall turn around. Heedless, if from what they do Good or evil may ensue. Never taking any care To avoid the lurking snare. Youths, if steady you will be, Come, and listen all to me. Poetry with truth shall chime, And you'll bless old Christian's rhyme. m LOVEIlS , VOWS. act it. ACT THE FOURTH. Scene, a Prison in an old Tower of the Castle. Frederick is discovered alone. Fre. Thus can a few poor moments, thus can a single voracious hour swallow the whole happiness of a human being. When I this morning left the inn where I had slept, how merrily I hummed my morning song, and gazed at the rising sun ! I re* veiled in idea at the table of joy, and indulged my- self in the transporting anticipation of again behold- ing my good mother. I would steal, thought I, into the street where she dwelt, and stoop as I passed the window, lest she should espy me. I would then, thought I, gently tap at the door, and she would lay aside her needle-work to see who was there. Then, how my heart would beat, as I heard her approaching footsteps — as the door was opened— as I rushed into her arms ! Farewell, farewell, for ever, ye beauteous airy castles, ye lovely and alluring bubbles. At my return to my native country, the first object which meets my eyes is my dying mother — my first habitation a pri- son—and my first walk, to the place of execution ! Oh, righteous God ! have I deserved my fate ? or dost thou visit the sins of the father on the son ? Hold! hold! I am losing myself in a labyrinth. To endure with patience the afflictions ordained by Providence was the lesson taught me by my mother, and her share of afflictions has been large indeed ! Oh, God ! thou wilt repay us in another world for all the misery we undergo in this. [Gazes towards Heaven with uplifted hands. act it. LOVERS* VOWS. 57 Enter Amelia, with a Plate of Meat and a Bottle of Wine. (Turning to the side from whence the noise proceeds.) — Who comes ? Amelia. Good friend, I have brought you some refreshment. You are hungry and thirsty, I dare «ay- Fre. Oh, no ! Amelia. There is a bottle of old wine, and a little cold meat. Fre.— (Hastily.) — Old wine, said you ? Really good old wine? Amelia. I don't understand such things ; but £ have often heard my father say that this wine is a real cordial. Fre. Accept my warmest thanks, fair generous unknown. This bottle of wine is to me a most va- luable present. Oh, hasten, hasten, gentle, bene- volent lady ! Send some one with this bottle to the neighbouring village. Close to the public-house stands a small cottage, in which lies a sick woman. To her give this wine, if she be still alive. — {Returns the mite.) — Away ! x\way ! I beseech you. Dear amiable being, save my mother, and you will be my guardian angel. Amelia. — [Much affected.) — Good man! you are not a villain, not a murderer — are you ? Fre. Heaven be thanked I still deserve that you, cood lady, should thus interest yourself in my be- half. Amelia. I'll go, and send another bottle of wine to 3'our mother. Keep this for yourself. [Going. Fre. A How me but one more question. Who .are you, lovely, generous creature, that I may name you in my prayers to the Almighty ? 5$ LOVERS' VOWS. act iv. Amelia. My father is Baron Wildenhain, the owner of this estate. Fre, Just heavens ! Amelia. What is the matter ? Fre. — {Shuddering,) — And the man whom I at- tacked to-day Amelia. Was my fattier. Fre. My father ! Amelia. Ke quite alarms me. \_Runs out, Fre. — {Repeating the words in most violent agita- tion,) — Was my father ! Eternal Justice! thou dost not slumber. The man against whom I raised my arm to day was— my lather ! In another moment I might have been a parricide ! Hoo ! an icy coldness courses through my veins. My hair bristles towards Heaven. A mist floats before my eyes. I cannot breathe. — ( Sinks into a chair. A pause.) — How the dread idea ranges in my brain ! What clouds and vapours dim my sight, seeming to change their forms each moment as they pass ! And if fate had destined he should perish thus, if I had perpetrated the des- perate deed — whose, all-righteous Judge, whose would have been the guilt! Wouldst thou not thy- self have armed the son to avenge on his unnatural father the injuries his mother had sustained ? Oh, Zadio-J — (Sinks into meditation, A pause.) — But this lovely, good, angelic creature, who just left me What a new sensation awakes in my bo- som ! This amiable being is my sister ! But that animal —that coxcomb, who was with my father in the field— is he my brother? Most probably. He is the only heir to these domains, and seems, as often is the case on these occasions, a spoilt child, taught from his infancy to pride himself on birth, and on the wealth he will one day inherit, while I — « JjjV brother— and my hapless mother— are starving J LOVERS' VOWS. 59 Enter Pastor. Pastor. Heaven bless you ! Fre. And you, Sir! If I may judge by youF dress, you are a minister of the church, and conse- quently a messenger of peace. You are welcome to me in both capacities. Pastor. I wish to be a messenger of peace to your soul, and shall not use reproaches ; for your own conscience will speak more powerfully than I can. Fre. Right, worthy Pastor ! But, when the conscience is silent, are you not of opinion that the crime is doubtful ? Pastor. Yes— unless it has been perpetrated by a most wicked and obdurate heart indeed. Fre. That is not my case. I would not exchange my heart for that of any prince — or any priest. Forgive me, Sir ; I did not intend to reflect on you by that declaration. Pastor. Even if you did, I know that gentleness is the sister of the religion which I teach. Fre. I only meant to say that my heart is not cal- lous ; and yet my conscience does not tell me that my conduct has to-day been criminal. Pastor. Do not deceive yourself. Self-love some- times usurps the place of conscience. Fre. No ! no ! What a pity it is that I do not understand how to arrange my ideas— that I can only feel, and am not able to demonstrate ! Pray, Sir, what was my crime? That I would have robbed ? Oh, Sir ! fancy yourself for a single mo- ment in my situation. Have you too any parent ? Pastor. No. I became an orphan when very young. Fre. That I much lament ; for it renders a fair decision on your part impossible. But I will, never- 60 LOVERS' VOWS. theless, describe my situation to you if I can. When a man looks round, and sees how Nature, from her horn of plenty, scatters sustenance and superfluity around ; when he beholds this spectacle at the side of a sick mother, who, with parched tongue, is sinking to her grave for want of nourishment ; when, after having witnessed this, he sees the wealthy, pampered noble pass, who denies him a guilder, though he is on the brink of despair, lest — -lest the hare should escape — then, Sir, then suddenly awakes the sensation of equality among mankind. He re- sumes his rights ; for kind nature does not aban- don him, though fortune does. He involuntarily •tretches forth his hand to take his little share of the gifts which nature has provided for all. He does not rob — but takes what is his due — and he does right. Pastor. Were such principles universally adopted, the bands of society would be cut asunder, and civi- lized nations converted into Arabian hcrdes. Fre. That is possible ; and it is also possible that we should not, on that account, he less happy. Among the hospitable Arabians my mother would not have been allowed to perish on the highway. Pastor. — {Surprised.) — Young man, you seem to have enjoyed an education above your rank in life. Fre. Of that no more. I am obliged to my mo- ther for this, as well as every thing else. But I want to explain why my conscience does not accuse me. The judge decides according to the exact letter of the law ; the divine should not decide ac- cording to the deed itself, but well consider the motives which excited it. In my case, a judge will condemn me ; but you, Sir, will acquit me. That the satiated epicure, while picking a pheasant's bone, should let his neighbour's rye-bread lie un- molested, is not to be considered meritorious. Pastor. Well, young man, allowing your sophU- LOVERS' VOWS. 61 try to be sound argument, allowing that your verjt particular situation justified you in taking what an- other would not give, does this also exculpate you from the guilt of murder, which you were on the point of committing ? Fre. It does not, I am willing to grant ; but I was only the instrument of a Higher Power. In this occurrence, you but perceive a solitary link in the chain, which is held by an invisible hand. I cannot explain myself on this subject, nor will I attempt to exculpate myself ; yet cheerfully shall I appear before the tribunal of justice, and calmly shall I meet my fate, convinced that an Almighty hand has written with my blood the accomplishment of a greater purpose in the book of fate. Pastor. Extraordinary young man, it is worth some trouble to become more nearly acquainted with you, and to give another turn, perhaps, to many of your sentiments. If it be in your power, remain with me a few weeks. I will take your sick mother in o my house. Fre. — (£mbiacing him.)— Accept my warmest thanks for your good intentions. To my mother you may be of service. As to myself, you know I am a prisoner, and must prepare myself for death. Make any use you think proper of the interval, which the forms of law may perhaps allow me. Pastor. You are mistaken. You are in the hands, of a man whose sentiments are noble, who honours your filial affection, compassionates your miserable situation, and sincerely forgives what has happened to-day. You are at liberty. He sent me hither to announce this ; and to release you from confine- ment, with the exhortation of a parent, and the admonition of a brother. Fre. What is the name of this generous man ? Pastor. Baron Wlldenhain. Fre. W T ildenhain ! — [Affecting to call some cir* vo*, III. G LOVERS' VOWS. act m cumstance to mind.) — Did he not formerly live in Franconia ? Pastor. He did. At the death of his wife, a few weeks since, he removed to this castle. Pre. His wife is dead then ? And the amiable young lady who was here a few minutes since, is his daughter, I presume ? Pastor. She is. Pre. And the young sweet-scented beau is his son > Pastor. He has no son. Fre. — {Hastily.) Yes — he has. — {Recollecting himself.) — I mean the one who was in the field with him to-day. Pastor. Oh ! he is not his son. Fre. — {Aside.) — Thank Heaven ! Pastor. Only a visitor from town. Fre. I thank you for the little intelligence you have been kind enough to communicate. It has in- terested me much. I thank you too, for your phi- lanthropy ; but am sorry I cannot make you an offer of my friendship. Were we equals, it might be of some little value. Pastor. Does not friendship, like love, destroy all disparity of rank ? Fre. No, worthy Sir. This enchantment is the property of love alone. I have now only to make one request. Conduct me to Baron Wildenhain, and procure me, if possible, a private conversation with him. I wish to thank him for his generosity, and will not trouble him many minutes ; but if he be in company, I shall not be able to speak so openly *s I wish. Pastor. Follow me. [Exeunt. ACT IV. LOVERS' VOWS. 63 Scene, a Room in the Castle. The Baron is stated, and smoking a Pipe, Amelia is standing at his Side, in Conversation tvith him. The Count is stretched upon the Sofa, alternately taking Snuff, and holding a Smelling-bottle to his Nose, Baron. No, no, Amelia, don't think of it. To- wards evening, when it is cooler, we may, perhaps, take a walk together to see the sick woman. Amelia. But as it is so delightful to do good, why should it be done through a servant ? Charity is a pleasure, and we are surely not too high in rank to enjoy pleasure. Baron. Pshaw ! who said any thing about rank ? That was a silly remark, and I could be angry at you for it. I tell you I have sent to the cottage, and the woman is better. 1 owards evening, we will take a walk to the village, and the Pastor, no doubt, will accompany us. Amelia. — ( Satisfied.) — Well, if you think so [_Seats herself, and begins to work. Baron. It will be agreeable to you too, Count, I hope ? I dare say you will be gratified. Count. Je n y en doute pas, mon Colonel. Mademo telle Amelie y s douceur 8? bonte d'ame will charm me. But I hope the person's disorder is not epidemical. At all events, I am in possession of a vinaigre incom- parable, which is a certain preventative. Baron. Take it with you, then, Count ; for I ad- vise you to go by all means. There is no better preventative against ennui, than the reviving sight of a fellow-creature grateful for the assistance by which she has been rescued from death. Count. Ennui, said you ? Ah, mon Colonel, how could ennui find its way to a place inhabited by Mademoiselle ? Baron. You are very polite, my Lord. Amelia, don't you thank the Count ? LOVERS' VOWS. act Amelia. I thank your Lordship. Count. — {Boning.) — Don't mention it, I beg. Baron. But, Count, pray have you resided much » in France ? Count, Ah, mon Colonel, don't refer to that sub- ject I beseech you. My father, the barbare, was guilty of a terrible sottise. He refused me a thou- sand louis d'ors, which I had destined for that pur- pose. I was there a few months to be sure— I have seen that land of ecstasy, and should perhaps have been there still, in spite of le barbare my father, had not a disagreeable circumstance — Baron. — [Sarcastically.) — An affaire d'honneur, I presume ? Count. Point de tout. A cavalier could find no honneur in the country. You have heard of the re- volution there. You must— for all Europe speaks of it. Eh bicn ! Imaginez vous. I was at Paris and happened to be passing the palais royal, not know- ing any thing that had occurred. Tout d'un coup, I found myself surrounded by a crowd of greasy tatterdemallions ! One pushed me on this side — another on that— a third pinched me— a fourth thrust his fist into my face. " What do you mean ?" cried I. " How dare you treat me thus ?" The mob, mon Colonel, grew still more unruly, and abused me be- cause I had not a cockade in my hat— entendez vous? a national cockade. " Je suis un Comte du saint Em- pire /" cried I. What was the consequence ? The fellows beat me, foi d'honnete homme. They abso- lutely beat me ; and a filthy Poissarde gave me a blow on the cheek. Nay, some began to shout " A la lanternel" What do you say to this, mon Colo- nel? W T hat would you have done a ma place? I threw myself into my post-chaise, and decamped as speedily as possible. Voila tout ! It is an histoire Jacheuse; yet still I must regret that I did not enjoy more of the moments delicieuses which I tasted in that capitale du monde. But this every one must say — act iv. LOVERS' VOWS. 65 this every one must allow, the savoir vivre, the for- mation, and the pli which is observable in me, are perfectly French, perfectly a la mode de Paris. Baron. Of that I am not able to form any judg- ment ; but your language is a good deal Frenchified. Count. Ah, mon Colonel ! what a high compliment you pay me ! Baron. I beg you will consider it such. Count. All my care and anxiety, then, have not been a pure perte. For five years I have taken all possible pains to forget my native langue. For, Miss Amelia, is it not altogether devoid of grace, and not supportable in any respect, except when it proceeds from your lovely lips \ What an eternal gurgling it causes in the throat ! a tout moment must one stammer and hesitate. It does not flow in French meanders. Par example ; if I want to make une de- claration d' amour, why of course I should wish to produce a ch ef d'cenvre of eloquence. Entendez vous? Helas ! Scarcely have I spoken a douzaine of words when my tongue turns here — then there — first on this side— then on that. My teeth chatter pile mele against each other ; and in short, if I were not im- mediately to add a few French words, in order to bring every thing into proper order, I should run the risk of absolutely losing the faculties of speech for ever. And how can this be otherwise ? We have no genies celebres, to refine the taste. To be sure, there are Germans who pique themselves on gout, on lecture, on belles lettres. There's one Monsieur Wieland, who has acquired some degree of renommee by a few old tales, which he has trans- lated from the mille et une nuits y but still the origi- nal is French. Baron. But Zounds ! Count, why are you every moment taking snuff, and holding that smelling-bot- tle to your nose ? and why, I should like to know, io you drench your clothes, and my sofa with la- g 2. 66 LOVERS* VOWS. act iv. vender water ? You have so completely scented the room, that a stranger might imagine he was enter- ing the shop of a French milliner. Count. Pardonnez mon Colonel ; the smoke of to- bacco is quite insupportable. My nerves are most sensibly affected by it, and my clothes must be ex- posed to the open air for at least a month. I assure you, mon Colonel, my hair, even my hair, catches the infectious vapour. It is a shocking custom, but we must forgive it in the messieurs de militaire, who can have no opportunity en campagne, of associating with the beau monde, and learning the manners of h.avt ton. But really I find it impossible to endure this hornble smell. Vous m 1 excuserez, mon Colonel. I must hasten into the open air, and change my clothes. Adieu, jusqiC au revoir. \_Exit. Baron. Well, heaven be praised, I have discovered a method of driving this creature away, when I am tired of his frivolous conversation ! Amelia. Dear father, I should not like to marry him. Baron. Nor should I like him to be my son. Amelia. — (Who evidently sheics that she has some- thing on her mind.) — I can't endure him. Baron. Nor I. Amelia. How can one help it, if one can't endure a man ? Baron. Impossible ! Amelia. Love is involuntary. Baron. It is. Amelia. We are often very ignorant why we either love or hate. Baron. We are so. Amelia. Yet there are cases in which inclination or aversion are founded on substantial reasons. Baron. Certainly. Amelia. For instance, my aversion to the Count. Baron. True. Amelia. And my inclination to the pastor. xcr iv. LOVERS' VOWS< 67 Baron, Right. Amelia, — (After a pause.) — I must own I should like to be married. Baron. You shall. Amelia.- {After a pause.) — Why does not our pastor marry? Baron. You must ask himself that question. Amelia. — [After another pause, during which sht rivets her eyes on her work.) — He likes me. Baron. I am glad of it. Amelia. I like him, too. Baron. That is but just. Amelia. — {After another pause.) — I believe, if you were to offer him my hand, he would not refuse it. Baron. That I believe too. Amelia. I would obey you willingly. Baron — (Beginning to be more attentive.) — How! Are you in earnest ? Amelia. Yes. Baron. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Well ! we will see. Amelia.— (Cheerfully raising her head.) — Are you in earnest, father ? Baron. No. Amelia. — (Dejected.) — No ? Baron. No, Amelia, this cannot be. To play such romantic tricks as Abelard and Eloisa, Saint Preux and Julia ; will' never do. Besides, our pas- tor is too honourable to have any such thoughts. Amelia. You are his Benefactor. Baron. At least he esteems me in that light. Amelia. Surely, then, it would be honourable to make the daughter of his benefactor happy. Baron, But suppose the daughter is a child, who to-day burns with desire to possess a doll, which to- morrow she will throw away with disgust ? Amelia. Oh, I am not such a child. Baron. Amelia, let me explain this. A hundred fathers would, in my situation, teU you, that, as you 68 LOVERS' VOWS. act iv. are of noble extraction, you should marry a noble- man ; but I do not say so. I will not sacrifice my child to any prejudice. A woman never can obtain merit by rank, and has, therefore, no right to be proud of it. Amelia. Well, and therefore ■ Baron. And therefore I should say, " Marry the Pastor with all my heart, if you can't find among our young nobility any one whose mental and per- sonal endowments correspond with your ideas." But of these there are certainly several — perhaps many. You have as yet had no opportunities of seeing them ; but next winter we will remove to town, and at some ball, or other place of amuse- ment, you will no doubt meet with one adapted to your taste. Amelia. Oh, no. I must first become intimately acquainted with a man, and may, perhaps, be then deceived : but I know our Pastor well — I have known him long: I am as perfectly acquainted with his heart as with my catechism. Baron. Amelia, you have never yet felt the in- fluence of love. The pastor has been your instruc- tor, and you mistake the warmth of your gratitude for love, not knowing what it really is. Amelia. You explained it to me this morning. Baron. Did I : Well, and my questions ? Amelia. Applied exactly to our Pastor. I could have fancied you were acquainted with every sen- sation of my heart. Baron. Indeed ! Hem ! Amelia. Yes, my dear father, I love, and am be- loved. Baron. Beloved ! Has he told you this ? Amelia. Yes. Baron. Shame on him ! He has not acted a proper part. Amelia. Oh, if you knew how I surprised him 69 Baron. You him ! Amelia. He came, by your command, to converse with me respecting the Count, and I told him I would not marry the Count. Baron. But him ? Amelia. Yes. Baron. You are very candid, I must confess* And what did he answer ? Amelia. He talked a great deal about my rank, my family, and my duty to you. In short, he wanted to persuade me not to think of him any more ; but my heart would not be persuaded. Baron. That was noble in him. He will, there- fore, not say any thing to me upon the subject. Amelia. No. He declared he should find that impossible. Baron. So much the better. I may, then, be supposed to know nothing of the matter. Amelia. But I told him I would mention it to you. Baron. So much the worse ! I am placed in a rery awkward situation. Amelia. And now I have mentioned it. Baron. You have. Amelia. Dear father ! Baron. Dear Amelia ! Amelia. The tears come into my eyes. Baron. — {Turning away.) — Suppress them. — (Amelia, after a pause, rises and stoops as if in search of something.) — What are you seeking ? Amelia. I have lost my needle. Baron. — {Pushes his chair bach, and stoops to as- sist her.) — It cannot have flown far. Amelia.— {Approaches and Jails on his nech.) — My good father ! Baron. What now ? Amelia. This one request ? Baron. Let me go. You make my cheeks wet with your tears* 70 LOVERS' VOWS. act iv. Amelia. I shall never love any other man— I shall never be happy with any other man. Baron. Pshaw ! Be a good girl, Amelia, and banish these childish fancies. — (Touches her cheek.) — Sit down again. We will have some further con- versation on this subject at another time. You are not in so very great a hurry, I hope ; for affairs of such moment require deliberation. The knot of wedlock is tied in a moment, but the married state endures for years. Many a girl, who shed a tear because she might not marry the object of her affections, sheds a million when she has surmounted all difficulties, and obtained him. You have now shaken the burden from your heart, and your fa- ther bears it for you — for his beloved Amelia. Time will probably heal this slight scratch ; but if not — why, you yourself shall fix upon a surgeon. Amelia. — (Seats herself again, and resumes her toori tvitji the appearance of heartfelt gratitude.) — My dear good father ! Baron. Ay, truly, if your mother had been alive, 3 r ou would not have escaped so easily. She would have dwelt, as usual, upon the sixteen people whom she called her ancestors. Enter Pastor. Baron. Ha ! I am glad you are come. Pastor. In compliance with your desire, my Lord, I have released the young man from his prison. He waits in the anti-chamber, and wishes to express his gratitude in person. Baron. I am glad to hear it. I must not send him away empty-handed. It would have the ap- pearance of half a kindness. Pastor. He begs to be allowed a private inter- view. Baron. Private ! — Why ? act i*. LOVERS' VOWS. 71 Pastor. He says he shall be confused in the pre- sence of witnesses. Perhaps, too, he wants to make some discovery which weighs heavy on his mind. Baron. Well! with all my heart! Go, Amelia, and stay with the Pastor in the anti-chamber. 1 wish to have a little conversation with you both afterwards. [Exit Amelia. The Pastor opens the door, lecJ;ons to Frederick that he may come, and exit. Enter Frederick. Go, young man, and Heaven's blessing be with you ! I have sent to your mother, and find she is better. For her sake I pardon you ; but take care you do not again commit sucli an offence. Rob- bery is but a bad trade. There is a louis-d'or for you. Endeavour to earn an honest livelihood ; and if I hear that you are sober, diligent, and honest, my doors and my purse shall not be shut to you in future. Now go, and Heaven be with you ! Fre. — (Takes the louis-d'or.) — You are a gene- rous man, liberal in your charity, and not sparing of your good advice. But allow me to beg another, and a still greater favour. You are a man of large property and influence. Procure me justice against an unnatural father. Baron. How so? Who is your father? Ere. — (With great asperity.) — A man of conse- quence; lord of a large domain; esteemed at court; respected in town; beloved by his peasants; gene- rous, upright, and benevolent. Baron. And yet allows his son to be in want ? Fre. And yet allows his swn to be in want. Baron. Why, yes, for a very good reason, I dare •ay. You have probably been a libertine, and squandered large sums at a gaming-table, or on eorne mistress, and your father has thought it ad- 72 LOVERS' VOWS. act iv. visable to let you follow the drum for a couple of years. Yes, yes. The drum is an excellent re- medy for wild young rakes ; and if you have been one of this description, your father has, in my opinion, acted very wisely. Fre. You are mistaken, my Lord. My father does not know me ; has never seen me ; for he abandoned me while I was in my mother's womb. Baron. What? Fre. The tears of my mother are all the inherit- ance he bestowed upon me. He has never en- quired after me— never concerned himself respect- ing me. Baron. That is wrong — [Confused) — very wrong. Fre. I am a natural son. My poor, deluded mo- ther educated me amidst anxiety and. sorrow. By the labour of her hands she earned as much as en- abled her, in some degree, to cultivate my mind; and I therefore think 1 might be a credit to a father. But mine willingly renounces the satisfaction and the pleasures of a parent, and his conscience leaves him at ease respecting the fate of his unfortunate child. Baron. At ease ! If his conscience be at ease in such a situation, he must be a hardened wretch in- deed. Fre. Having attained an age at which I could provide for myself, and wishing no longer to be a burden to my indigent mother, I had no resource but this coat. I enlisted into a volunteer corps — for an illegitimate child cannot obtain a situation under any tradesman. Baron. Unfortunate young man ! Fre. Thus passed my early years, in the bustle of a military life. Care and sorrow are the compa- nions of maturer years. To the thoughtless youth nature has granted pleasure, that he may strengthen himself by the enjoyment of it, and thereby be pre- act iv. LOVERS' VOWS. 73 pared to meet the care and sorrow which await him. But the pleasures of my youth have been stripes ; the dainties I have feasted on have been coarse bread and clear water. Yet, what cares my father ? His table is sumptuously covered, and to the scourge of conscience he is callous. Baron. — {Aside.) — His words pierce to my heart. Fre. After a separation of five years from my mother, I returned to-day, feasting on the visions of anticipated bliss. I found her a beggar on the high- way. She had not tasted food for four-and-twenty hours — she had no straw to rest her head upon — no roof to protect her from the inclemency of the weather— no compassionate fellow-creature to close her eyes— no spot to die upon. But, what cares ray father for all this ? He has a stately castle, and re- poses upon swelling beds of down ; and when he dies, the pastor, in a funeral sermon, will descant upon his numerous christian virtues. Baron. — (Shudders.) — Young man, what is your father's name ? Fre. That he abused the weakness of an innocent female, and deceived her by false vows ; that he gave life to an unfortunate being, who curses him ; that he has driven his son almost to the commission of parricide. — Oh, these are mere trifles, which on the day 01 retribution may be paid for by this paltry piece of gold. — ( Throws the louis d'or at the Baron's feet.) Baron. — (Almost distracted.) — Young man, what is your father's name ? Fre. Baron Wildenhain I— (The Baron strikes his forehead with doth hands, and stands rooted to the spot. Frederick proceeds in most violent agitation.)— in this house, perhaps in this very room* did you beguile my hapless mother of her virtue, and beget me for the sword of tlie executioner. And now, my Lord, I am not free — I am your prisoner— Iwill not be free — VOL. III. H 74 LOVERS' VOWS. act i^. I am a robber. Loudly I proclaim I am a robber. You shall deliver me over to justice. You shall ac- company me to the scaffold. You shall hear the prie«t in vain attempting to console me, and inspire my soul with hope. You shall hear me, in the an- guish of despair, curse my unnatural father. You shall stand close to me when my head is severed from my body, and my blcod — your blood shall be- smear your garments. Baron. Hold! Hold! Fre. And when you turn away with horror from this spectacle, you shall behold my mother at the foot of the scaffold, and hear her breathe her last con- vulsive sigh. Baron. Hold, inhuman as thou art. Enter Pastor hastily. Pastor. What means this ? I heard you speak with violence, young man. Surely you have not dared Fre. Yes. I have dared, worthy Pastor, to as- sume your office, and make a sinner tremble. — (Pointing to the Baron)— Look there ! Thus, after one and twenty years is licentious conduct punished. I am a robber, Sir, a murderer ; but what I feel at this moment is ecstasy compared to his sensations. Look at him. Remorse and anguish rend his very heart-strings. I go to deliver myself into the hands of justice, and appear in another world a bloody witness against that man. [Exit. Pastor. For Heaven's sake ! what means this ? I do not comprehend Baron. He is my son ! he is my son ! Away, my friend ! Lend me your aid at this dreadful moment. Away to the sick woman in the village ! Francis will direct you to the cottage. Hasten, I beseech you. act iv. LOVERS' VOWS. 75 Pastor. But what shall I Baron. Oh, Heavens! your heart must instruct you how to act — {Exit Pastor.) — Have I lost my senses ? — ( Holding his head.)— Or am I dreaming ? — No. — I have a son— a worthy, noble youth, and as yet I have not clasped him in my arms— as yet I have not pressed him to my heart. Matthew ! Enter a Gamekeeper. Where is he ? Game. Who, my Lord ? The robber ? Baron. Scoundrel ! The young man who but this moment left me. Game. He is waiting to deliver himself up ; and we have sent for the constable as he himself desired. Baron. Kick the constable out of doors if he comes, and let no one dare to lay a hand on the young man. Game. — (Astonished.) — Very well, my Lord. [Going* Baron. Holla! Matthew! Game. My Lord ! Baron. Conduct the young soldier into the green chamber over the dining room, and attend on him, if he be in want of any thing. Game. The Count von der Mulde occupies that chamber, my Lord. Baron. Turn the Count out, and send him to the devil. — (The Gamekeeper stands in doubt how to proceed, while the Baron tvalks to and fro.) - I want no son-in-law. I have a son — a son, who shall possess my estates, and continue my name ; a son, in whose arms I will die. Yes. I will repair the evils I have caused. I will not be ashamed of re- cognizing him. All my peasants, all my servants shall know that, though I could forget, I will not abandon my child. Matthew ! 76 LOVERS' VOWS. act v. Game. My Lord ! Baron. Conduct him hither. Request him to come hither, and let all my servants accompany him. [Exit Gamekeeper. How strange are my sensations ! My blood courses through my veins so rapidly that I feel my pulse beat from head to foot. How little do I deserve the bliss which is to-day my lot ! Enter Frederick, surrounded by a crowd of Servants. He comes '— Quick let me press thee to my heart!— ( Rushes towards him, and clasjJS him with fervour in his arms.) — My son ! ACT THE FIFTH. Scene, the Room in the Cottage as in the Second Act. Wilhelmina, the Cottager and his Wife are discovered. Wil. Go to the door once more, good man, and look if he be not coming. Cot. It will be of no use ; I have just been to call on a neighbour, and looked round on every side, but he is not to be seen. Wife. Have a little patience. Who knows where he may be staying ? Cot. Very true. He is gone to the town, I 4are say. LOVERS* VOWS. tar Wife, Ay, and little good will he do there ; for people are hard-hearted enough tb )re. Wil. Good man, do look - oner more. He may, perhaps, be coming now. Cot. Well ! well ! I'll look. [Exit. Wife. If your son knew what Heaven has sent you since he left us he would soon return, W'il. I feel alarmed respecting him. Wife. Alarmed ! Pshaw ! She who has a heavy purse in her pocket should be at ease. I mean, if she obtained it honestly. Wil. Where can he loiter thus? It is four hours since he left us. Some misfortune must have hap- pened to him. Wife. Misfortune ! How can that be ? Why, it is broad day-light. Come, come ! Cheer up ! We'll have a hearty meal at night. With all that money you may live comfortably for many a day. Oh, our Baron is a good, generous man. Wil. How could he learn I was herei Wife. That Heaven knows. Mr. Francis was so close Wil. — {Half aside.)— Has he discovered who I am : Oh, yes ! Doubtless he knows me, or he would not have sent so much. Wife. Don't say that. Our Baron is often cha- ritable to strangers, too. Re-enter Cottager, scratching his Head, Wil. — (As soon as she sees him. J — Well ? Cot, I can discover nothing, if I stare till I am blind- Wil, Merciful Heavens ! What can this mean? Cot, Our Pastor just now came round the corner. Wil, Is he coming hither ? Cot, Who knows but he may ? He generally gives ms a call every three or four weeks. h 2 LOVERS' VOWS. ACT V. Wife. Yes, he is very kind in his visits to all his parishioners. He talks to them about their farms, and so forth. When there are any quarrels and dis- putes, he settles them. When any one is in distress, he assists them. Do you remember, husband, when our lame neighbour Michael's cow died ? Cot. Ay, he sent him another— the best milch- cow he had. Heaven bless him for it ! Wife. Heaven bless him, say I too, with all my heart. Enter Pastor. Pastor. God be with you, good people ! Cot. and Wife. Good day to you, Sir! Cot. We are glad to see you. Wife. — (Wipes a chair with her apron.) — Pray sit down. Cot. It is a warm day. Shall I fetch you a draught of beer ? Wife. Or a couple of mellow pears? Pastor. I thank you, good people, but I am not thirsty. You have a visitor, I perceive. Cot. Yes, Sir, a poor woman, who is very weak and ill. I found her on the high-road. Pastor. Heaven will reward you for assisting her. Cot. That it has already done, Sir ; for my wife and I never were more happy since we were married than we are to-day. Eh, Rachel i [Offering his hand. Wife. Yes ; that we are. [ They shake hands. Pastor. — ( To Wilhelmina.) — W r ho are you, good woman ? Wil. I! Alas! (In a whisper.) if we were alone Pastor. — (To Cottager.) — Be so kind, honest John, as to let me have a little private conversation with this good woman. LOVERS* VOWS. 79 Cot. To be sure. Do you hear Rachel ? Come. \_Exeunt Cottager and Wife. Pastor. Now, we are alone. Wil. Before I confess to you who I am, and who I was, allow me to ask a few questions. Are you a native of this country ? Pastor. No. I was born in Franconia. Wil. Were you acquainted with the venerable Pastor who was your predecessor , ? Pastor. No. Wil. You are totally ignorant, then, of my un- happy story, and mere accident has brought you hither ? Pastor. If in you I find the person whom I sus- pect, and whom I long have sought, your story it not quite unknown to me. Wil. Whom you suspect, and whom you long have sought ! Who commissioned you to do this ? Pastor. A man who sincerely sympathizes in your distresses. Wil. Indeed ! Oh, Sir, tell me quickly whom you suspect to have discovered in me. Pastor. Wilhelmina Boetcher. Wil. Yes. I am the unfortunate, deluded Wil- helmina Boetcher. And the man who sympathizes so sincerely in my distresses is — Baron Wildenhain ; the man who robbed me of my virtue, murdered my father, and for twenty years has exposed me and his child to misery. All this he believes he can to-day atone for by a purse of gold. — (Dratvs out the purse.) — Whatever may be your intention in com- ing hither, Sir, whether it be to humble me, assist me, or send me beyond the borders, that the sight of me may not reproach the libertine, I have but one request to make. Take back this purse to him who sent it. Tell him my virtue was not sold for gold. Tell him my peace of mind cannot be bought with gold. Tell him my father's curse cannot be so LOVERS' VOWS. act t. removed from me by gold. Say that Wilhelmina, jioor, starving, and in a beggar's rags, still scorns to accept a favour from the hands of her seducer. He despised my heart — I despise his money. He trampled upon me — I trample upon his money. — (Throivs the purse on the earth with violence.)- But he shall be left to revel as heretofore. The sight of me shall not be an interruption to his pleasures. As soon as I have in some degree recovered my strength, I will for ever quit this place ; where the name of Wildenhain and the grave of my father bow me to the ground. Tell him, too, I knew not that he was returned from Franconia, and was in this neighbour- hood ; for he may fancy I came hither in search of him. Oh, let him not fancy that ! — {Breathing tooth difficulty.) — Now, Sir, you see that your presence, and the subject to which your visit led me, have ex- hausted my strength. I know not what I can say more. I know not, indeed, what more can be re- quired of me by him who sent you. — (With indigna- tion.) — But, yes : it may, perhaps, have occurred to his Lordship, that he once promised me marriage ; that on his knees he called the Almighty to witness his vow, and pledged his honour to fulfil it. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Tell him not to discompose himself on that account. I have long since forgotten it. Pastor. I have allowed you to proceed without interruption, that I might learn your sentiments with respect to the Baron, and your general way of think- ing. Unprepared, as you must have been, for a conversation with me, your full heart has over- flowed, and I am convinced you have not used any dissimulation. I therefore rejoice to find you a no- ble woman, worthy of every reparation which a man of honour can make. I rejoice too, in being able at once to remove an error, which perhaps has, in a great degree, caused the asperity of your expres- sions. Had the Baron known that the sick woman LOVERS* VOWS. 81 in this cottage was Wilhelmina Boetcher, and had he then, instead of ail consolation, sent her this purse, he would have deserved — to have been mur- dered by his own son. But, no. This was not the case. Look at me. My profession demands confi- dence ; but setting that aside, I would not utter a falsehood. A mere accident made you the object of his charity, which he imagined he was exercising to- wards one unknown to him. Wil. How, Sir ! would you convince me that this present was the effect of mere accident ! To one unknown to him he might have sent a guilder, or a dollar, but not a purse of gold. Pastor. I grant that appearances are against my assertion, but the accident was of a peculiar nature. Your son Wil. What of my son ? Pastor. Compose yourself. The Baron was af- fected by the way in which your son implored his charity. Wil. Charity ! Did he implore the Baron's cha- rity ? His father's charity ? Pastor. Yes, but they did not know each other ; and the mother, therefore, only received this present for the son's sake. Wil. They did not know each other I Where is my son ? Pastor. At the castle. Wil. And do they not yet know each other ? Pastor. They do ; and I now appear here by com- mand of the Baron, who sent me not to a sick wo- man, but to Wilhelmina Boetcher ; not with money, but with a commission to do as my heart directed. Wil. Your heart ! Oh, Sir, do not lend that cruel man the sensations of your heart. But, yes — be it so, I will forget what I have endured on his account, if he will console me by his conduct towards Frede- rick. As a woman I will pardon him, if he will LOVERS' VOWS. act V. deserve a mother's thanks. How did he receive mv boy ? Pastor. I left him in most violent agitation. It was the very moment of discovery, and nothing was resolved upon. But, doubtless, while we are now in conversation, the son is in his father's arms. I am convinced by the goodness of his heart Wil. The goodness of his heart again ! Heavens ! How can this man's heart be so suddenly altered ? After having been for twenty years deaf to the voice of nature Pastor. You wrong him. Listen to me before you decide. Many an error seems, on a superficial view, most infamous ; but did we know every cir- cumstance which tended to excite it, every trifle which had an imperceptible effect in producing it, our opinion would be very different. Could we ac- company the offender from step to step instead of seeing, as in the present instance, only the first, the tenth, and twentieth, we should often pardon when we now condemn. Far be it from me to defend the Baron's conduct towards you, but surely I may maintain that a good man by committing one bad action, does not, on that account, entirely forfeit his claim to the title of a good man. "Where is the demigod, who can boast that his conscience is as pure as snow just fallen from the sky ? If there be such a boaster, for Heaven's sake place no confi- dence in him ; he is far more dangerous than a re- pentant sinner. Forgive me, if I appeal- too talka- tive ; and let me now tell you, in a few words, the story of the Baron since your separation. At that time he loved you most sincerely ; and nothing but the dread of his rigid mother prevented the fulfil- ment of his promise. But he was summoned into the field, where he was dangerously wounded, and made a prisoner. For a year he was confined to his bed. He could not write, and received no intelli- 83 gence of you. Thus did the impression of your image on his mind first become weaker. He had been conducted from the field of battle to a neigh- bouring castle, the owner of which was a worthy nobleman, who possessed a large fortune and a beautiful daughter. This lady became enamoured of the young officer, and seldom left his couch. She attended on him with the affection of a sister, and shed many tears for his fate, which were not unob- served. Gratitude knit the band, which death rent asunder but a few months since. Thus the impres- sion of your image was erased from his mind. He did not return to his native land, but purchased an estate in Franconia, to the cultivation of which he devoted his time. Fie became an husband and. a father. None of the objects which surrounded him reminded him of you, and thus the recollection of you slumbered, till care, anxiety, and domestic dis- cord, awoke it, and embittered his existence : for, when it was too late, he discovered in his wife a proud, imperious being, who had been spoilt in her infancy, who always thwarted him, always insisted on being right, and seemed only to have rescued him from death, in order to have the pleasure of tor- menting him. At that time an accident led me to his house. He became attached to me, made me the instructor of his daughter, and soon after en- trusted me with his confidence. Oh, how often has he pressed my hand in violent emotion to his heart, and said, " This woman revenges on me the wrongs of the innocent Wilhelmina. ,, How often has he cursed all the wealth which his wife had brought him, and sighed for a less splendid but far happier lot in your arms ! When, at length, the old Pastor of Wildenhain died, and he bestowed the benefice on me, the first expression which accompanied the gift was, " There, my friend, you will gain some tidings of my Wilhelmina." Every letter which. I 84, LOVERS* VOWS. act y. afterwards received from him, contained this excla- mation : " Still no account of my Wilhelmina." I have those letters, and can let you see them. It was not in my power to discover where you dwelt. Fate had higher views respecting you, and prevented it until to-day. WiL Your description has excited in my breast emotions, which my heart acknowledges to be con- viction. But how can this end ? What will become of me ? Pastor* The Baron, I must own, has never told me what he meant to do in case he ever found you : but your sufferings demand reparation ; and I know but one way in which this reparation can be made. Noble minded woman, if your strength will allow it, accompany me. The road is good, and the distance short. WiL I accompany you ! Appear before him in these rags ! Pastor. Why not ? WiL Do I wish to reproach him ? Pastor. Exalted being ! Come to my house. My f-ibter shall supply you with clothes, and my carriage shall take us to the castle. WiL And shall I see my Frederick again ? Pastor. Rest assured you will. WiL— ( Rising.) — Well ! For his sake I will un- dergo the painful meeting. He is the only branch on which my hopes still blossom— all the rest are withered and destroyed. But where are the good Cottagers ? I must take leave of them, and thank them. Pastor. — (Takes up the purse and goes to the door.) —Neighbour John ! Enter Cottager and his Wife. Cot, Here I am. ACT V. LOVERS' VOWS. 8.5 Wife. Well, you can stand again, I see, thank Heaven. Pastor. Yes, good people. I shall take her with me. I can accommodate her better than you, though you have done what you could. Cot. Why, to be sure, we can give her no more than we have, and that is but little. Wife. But she is very welcome to that. Pastor. You have acted like worthy people. There ! take that as a reward for your kindness. — {Offers the purse to the Cottager, who puts his hands together before him, twirls his thumbs, looks at the money, and shakes his head.) — Well ! won't you take it?— (Offers it to his Wife, xuho plays with the string of her apron, looks askance at the money, and shake* her head.) — What means this? Cot. Sir, don't be offended, but we don't chuse to be paid for doing our duty. Wife. — (Looking towards heaven.) —You have often told us we should be paid hereafter. Pastor. — (Laying his hands on their shoulders, much affected.) — You will. God bless you ! Wil. You will not refuse my thanks ? Cot. Say no more about the matter. Wife. We assisted you with pleasure. Wil. Farewell ! — ( The Cottager and his Wife shake hands with her.) Cot. Good bye ! take care of yourself. Wife. And when you come this way, let us see you. (Wilhelmina wipes her eyes, leans on the Pastor's arm, and supports herself on the other side with a stick.) Pastor. God be with you ! Cot. — (Taking off his cap, and tcr aping.) — Good day to you, Sir. VOL. III. i bo LOVERS' VOWS. Wife. We are much obliged to you for this visit. Both. And we hope we shall soon see you again. — ( They attend the Pastor and Wilhelmina to the door. ) Cot. — {Presenting his hand to his Wife.)— Well, Rachel, how shall we sleep to-night, think you ? Wife. —{Shaking his hand.) — Like tops. {Exeunt. Scene, an Apartment in the Castle. The Baron is seated on a Sofa, exhausted by various Emotions. Frederick stands leaning over him, and pressing his Father's Hand between his oivn. Baron. So you have really seen some service ? You know the smell of gunpowder ? I'll stake my head against a turnip, that if you had been Frede- rick von Wildenhain, you would have been spoilt by your father and mother; but as Frederick Boetcher, you are become a fine-spirited lad. This has, to be sure, cost you many an uneasy hour. Your juvenile days have not been very comfortable. Well ! Well ! You shall feel an alteration for the better, Frederick. I will legitimate you. Yes, my boy, I will openly acknowledge you as my only son and heir. What say you to this ? Eh ? Fre. And my mother ? Baron. She shall be well provided for, too. Do you think your father is poor ? Don't you know that Wildenhain is one of the best estates in the country ? Yes, and but a mile from it lies Wellen- dorf, another neat place ; and in Franconia I ob- tained with my wife — {Heaven rest her soul!) — three large manors. Fre. But my mother ? Baron. Well, I was just going to say that she ACT V. LOVERS' VOWS. may reside where she chuses. If she will not live in Franconia, why, she may remain at Wellendorf. There is a neat little house, neither too large, nor too small ; an excellent garden ; a charming pros- pect ; in short, the place is a little paradise. She shall have every thing she wants, and a happy old age shall smooth the furrows which the misfortunes of youth have ploughed in her face. Fre.— {Retreating a Jem steps.) — How ! Baron. Yes, and I'll tell you what, my boy. It is but a short distance from the castle. If, when we rise in a morning, we feel disposed to visit your mother, we need but order a couple of horses to be saddled, and in an hour we shall be with her. Fre. Indeed ! And what name is my mother to bear, when she lives there ? Ba ron . — ( Emba rrassed.) — How ? Fre. Is she to be considered as your housekeeper, or your mistress ? Baron. Pshaw ! Pshaw ! Fre. 1 understand you. I will withdraw, my fa- ther, and give you time to consider well before you finally resolve on any thing. But one thing I must irrevocably swear by all that is dear and sacred to me : My fate is inseparable from that of my mother. Frederick von Wildenhain and Wilhelmina von Wil- denhain ; or Frederick Boetcher and Wilhelmina Boetcher ! \_Exit. Baron. Zounds ! What does he want ? He surely does not expect me to marry his mother. No, no, young man ; you must not dictate to your fa- ther how he is to act. I was flattering myself with the idea of having arranged every thing very com- fortably, was as happy as a king, from having re- lieved my conscience of a heavy bin den, was breathing more freely than for many years, when this boy throws a stone at my feet, and wants to make me stumble over it again. No, no. Friend $8 LOVERS* VOWS. act v. conscience, I thank Heaven that I can address thee as a friend again. What thinkst thou of this ? Thou art silent. But no. Methinks thou art still not completely satisfied. Enter Pastor. Ha ! my friend, you come most opportunely. My conscience and I are involved in a suit, which must be determined in the court where you preside. Pastor. Your conscience is right. Baron. Hold ! Hold ! You are deciding before you know the merits of the case. Your sentence is partial. Pastor. No. Conscience is always right; for it never speaks until it is right. Baron. Indeed ! But I am as yet ignorant whe- ther it speaks or is silent. On such occasions a divine has a quicker ear than a layman. Listen to me. I will state the case in a few words. — (Laying his hand on the Pastor's shoulder.) — My friend, I have found my son, and a noble fellow he is -full of fire as a Frenchman, of pride as an Englishman, and of honour as a German. — That apart ; — I mean to legitimate him. Am I not right ? Pastor. Perfectly. Baron. And his mother shall enjoy peace and comfort for the remainder of her life. I mean to settle my Wellendorf estate upon her. There she may liye, alter it according to her own taste, revive in the happiness of her son, and grow young again amidst the gambols of her grandchildren. Am I not right ? Pastor. You are not. Baron. — {Starting.) — How ! — What should I do, then > Pastor. Marry her. Baron. Yes. That is very likely, to be sure I ACT V. LOVERS' VOWS. Pasto". Baron Wildenhain is a man who does nothing without a sufficient reason. I stand here as the advocate for your conscience, and expect you to produce your reasons, after which you shall hear mine. Baron. Zounds ! why, you would not wish me to marry a beggar ? Pastor. — : After a pause.) — Is that all you can advance ? J -aron.—(At a loss.)— "No — not exactly — I have other reasons several other Pastor. May I beg you to mention them ? Baron.— ( Very much embarrassed.)- I am a noble- man. Pastor. Proceed. Baron. The world will ridicule me. Pastor. Proceed. Baron. My relatives will shun me. Pastor. Proceed. Baron. And— and— ( Very violently.)— Zounds! I can't proceed. Pastor. Then it is my turn to speak on the sub- ject ; but, before I do this, allow me to ask a few question?. Did Wilhelmina, Tty coquetry or levity of conduct, first raise in you a wish to seduce her ? Baron. No. She wes always chaste and modest. Pastor. Did it cost you any trouble to gain your point ? Btfr&n. Yes. Pastor. Did you ever promise her marriage ? — (The Baron hedt tes. The Pastor says xvith great solemnity) — I repeat my question. Did you ever promise her marriage ? !:aion. Yes. Pastor. And summoned God to witness that pro- m's e ? Baron. Yes. i2 90 LOVERS' VOWS. Pastor. You pledged your honour that you would fulfil this vow- did you not? Baron,— (With impatience.) — Yes, yes. Pastor. Well, my Lord, from your own confes- sion it appears that the witness you called upon was God, who beheld you then, who beholds you now. The pledge you offered was your honour, which you must redeem, if you be a man of integrity. I now stand in your presence, impressed with the full dignity of my vocation. I shall speak to you as I would speak to the meanest of your peasants : for my duty commands it ; and I will fulfil my duty, should I even thereby forfeit your esteem. If in the days of gay and thoughtless youth (when a man lives, as it were, only to enjoy the present mo- ment) you seduced an innocent female, without considering what might be the consequence ; and if, when more advanced in years, you repented your youthful indiscretion, and endeavoured to make every reparation in your power, you are still a re- spectable man. But if a licentious youth, by wicked snares, has plunged a guiltless being into misery; has destroyed the happiness and innocence of a fe- male, to gratify a momentary passion ; has, while intoxicated with his happiness, pledged his honour, and sacrificed his conscience, to his brutal desires ; can he imagine reparation may be made by a paltry handful of gold, which chance bestowed on him ? Oh, such a wretch deserves — pardon my warmth, my Lord. It might injure a good cause, though it is on this occasion very natural. Ye good old days of chivalry ! you have taken with you all your vir- tues, your sense of honour, your respect for female delicacy, and have left us nothing but your pride and broils. The conquest of innocence is, in our degenerate days, an act of heroism, which the con- queror glories in, while the helpless victim of seduc- act v. LOVERS' VOWS. 91 tion curses the murderer of her honour, and, per- haps, projects the murder of her infant which is in her womb. Once more, my Lord, I say you must fulfil your promise. You ought to do it, if you were a prince ; for a prince, though he may be re- leased by the state from the fulfilment of his vows, will never be released by his conscience. There- fore, thank God that you are not a prince. Thank God that it is in your power to purchase at so cheap a rate the most valuable of all treasures — peace of mind. In resolving to marry Wilhelmina, you have not even any claim to merit ; for this union will en- hance your happiness. What a pity it is that it does not cost you any sacrifice, that your whole pro- perty is not dependent on it! Then might you have stept forth, and said, " I'll marry Wilhelmina. Do I not act nobly ?" But now, when she brings you a dowry, larger than any princess could bestow, your peace of mind, and an amiable son, now, you can do nothing but exclaim, " Friend, wish me joy: I'll marry Wilhelmina." Baron. — ( Who during the Pastor's address, has alternately walked up and down the room in most violent agitation, and stood with his eyes fixed on the earth, at one moment exhibiting marks of anger, at another of remorse, now approaches the Pastor with open arms, and presses him to his heart. J — Friend, wish me joy. I'll marry Wilhelmina. Pastor. — (Returning his embrace.) — I do wish you joy. Baron. Where is she ? You have seen her ? Pastor. She is in that room. That I might not excite curiosity, I conducted her thither through the garden. Baron. Well, then you shall marry us this very day. Pastor. That cannot be. The union must not take place so soon, and must not be so private. 92 LOVERS' VOWS. act v. All your tenantry witnessed Wilhelmina's disgrace : they, therefore, ought to witness the restoration of her honour. On three successive Sundays I will publish the banns. Do you agree to this ? Baron. With all my heart. Pastor. We will then celebrate the nuptials ; and the whole village will participate in your happiness. Do you agree to this ? Baron. Yes. Pastor. Is the suit, then, at an end ? Is your conscience silent ? Baron. Still as a mouse. I only wish the first interview was over. I feel as much ashamed of first meeting Wilhelmina's eye, as a thief when obliged to appear before the person whom he has defrauded. Pastor. Be at ease. Wilhelmina's heart is the judge. Baron. And (why should I not confess it ?) pre- judices resemble wounds, which, though as nearly healed as possible, smart when any alteration takes place in the weather. I— I am ashamed — of con- fessing all these circumstances — to my daughter — - to the Count— to my servants. I wish it were over. I should not like to see Wilhelmina — I should not like to resign myself entirely to joy, till I have ex- plained every thing to Holla ! Francis ! Enter a Gamekeeper. Where are my daughter and the Count ? Game. In the dining-room, my Lord. Baron. Tell them I shall be glad to see them here. \_Exit Gamekeeper. Stay with me, my worthy friend, lest the Count's insipidity should put me out of humour. I will tell him clearly and briefly w hat my opinion is, and if his senses be not entirely destroyed by the follies of act v. LOVERS' VOWS. 95 France, he will order his horses to be put to the carriage, and— he may then drive with all his boxes of pomade to the devil. Enter Amelia and the Count. Count. Nous voila a vos ordres, mon Colonel. We have Deen enjoying a promenade delicieuse. Wilden- hain is a paradise on earth, and possesses an Eva, who resembles the mother of mankind. Nothing is wanting to complete this garden of Eden, except an Adam, who, as we are told by mythologie, accepted with rapture the apple of death itself from her fair hand — and this Adam is found— yes, my Lord, this Adam is found. Baron. Who is found? Frederick, but not Adam. Count. Frederick ! Who is he I Baron. My son — my only son. Count. Comment ? Your son ! Mon pere assured me you had no children except Mademoiselle. Baron. Your pere could not know I had a son, because till within a few minutes I was myself igno- rant of the circumstance. Count. Vous parlez des enigmes. Baron. In short, the young man who attacked us this morning in the field. You remember him, for you ran away from him quickly enough. Count. I have a confused recollection of having seen him. But proceed. Baron. Well, that very young man is my son. Count. He your son ? Impossible ! Baron. Yes, he. — (Apart to the Pastor.) — lam really ashamed of confessing the truth even to that coxcomb. Pastor. A man like you ashamed of such an animal as that ! Baron. — (Aloud.)— He is my natural son. But that is of little consequence ; for in two or three 9* LOVERS' VOWS. ACT V. weeks I shall marry his mother, and shall break any man's bones who ridicules me for it. Yes, Amelia, you may stare. The boy is your brother. Amelia. — (Delighted.) — Are you joking, or serious? Count. And who is his mother, mon Colonel 1 ? Is she of good extraction? Baron. She is— ( To the Pastor.) — Pray answer him. Pastor. She is a beggar. Count.— (Smiling.) — Vous badinez. Pastor. If you particularly wish to know her name, it is Wilhelmina Boetcher. Count* Boetcher ! The family is quite unknown to me. Baron. Very likely. She belongs to the family of honest people, and that is unfortunately a very small one. Count. A mesalliance then ? Pastor. Generosity and integrity will be united with affection and fidelity. You may call that mes- alliance if you please. Count. It really requires an (Edipe to unravel this mystery. Un Jils naturel? A la bonne heure, mon Colonel! I have two natural children. There are momens in which instinct and a tempting girl are irresistible —In short, such things happen every day. Mais mon Dieu! Vv T hat attention should be paid to such creatures ? Let them learn some business or other, and they are provided for. Mine shall be both friseurs. Baron. And mine shall be a nobleman, as well as heir to all the estates I possess. Count. Me voila stupe/ait. Miss Amelia, I must plead in your behalf. You are on the point of being ecrasee Amelia. Don't trouble yourself, my Lord. Count. La Jille unique! L 1 unique hereticre! Amelia. I shall still possess and inherit the affec- tion of my father. LOVERS' VOWS. 95 Baron. Good Amelia! Right, my dear girl! Come hither and give me a kiss.— (Amelia Jlies into his arms.) — Count, you will oblige me by leaving us for a few moments. We may, perhaps, have a scene here, which will not suit your disposition. Count. De tout won cceur! We understand each other. It is clair de tune, and I hope you will there- fore allow me to return this evening to town. Baron. As you please. Count. A dire vrai, mon Colonel! I did not come hither in search of a voleur de grand chemin for my brother-inlaw, or a gueuse for my mother-in-law. — ( Skipping axmy. ) — Henri J Henri ! [ Exit. Baron. — {Still holding Amelia in his arms), — I breathe more freely. Now a word with you, my dear Amelia. Twenty years ago 1 basely seduced a poor girl, and gave life to a child, who, till to-day, has been a prey to poverty and distress. The cir- cumstance has weighed on my heart like a rock of granite. You have often observed, that on a dreary evening, when I sat in my arm-chair with my pipe in my mouth, and my eye fixed on the floor, I did not attend to you, when you spoke to me, smiled at me, or caressed me. I was then overpowered by the accusations of conscience, and felt that all my riches, that even you, my child, could not restore to me the blissful sensations of an honest man. Thanks be to heaven, those sensations are restored to me — the causes of their absence, my wife and son, are restored to me. This worthy man feels — (pointing to the Pastor) — and I feel — (pointing to his heart) — it is my duty to acknowledge them as my wife and son. What think you ? Amelia. — (Caressing him.) — Can my father ask? Baron. Will the loss be no affliction to you, if your father's peace of mind be purchased with it I Amelia, What loss ? 69 LOVERS' VOWS. ACT V. Baron- You were my only child, and all my estates would A melia. — ' K Gcntl y reproving h in: .) — Hold, my father! Baron. You lose some valuable manors. Amelia. For which my brother's affection will requite me. Baron. And mine. — {Clasps her with fervour in his arms.) Pastor. — {Turning away.) — And why not mine ? Baron. — {To the Pastor.) — My friend, I am obliged to you for the conquest over one prejudice, to my- self for the conquest over another. A man who, like you, is the friend and supporter of virtue, raises his profession to the highest pitch of human excel- lence—of human rank. If all your brethren re- sembled you, Christianity might be proud indeed. You are a noble man — I am but a noUftnsm. If I be on the point of becoming more, I am obliged to you for the promotion. I owe you much. Amelia, will you pay the debt for me ? [Amelia gazes for a moment at her father, in doubt how to understand his words. He releases her hand, after leading her towards the Pastor, i?ito whose arms she immediately flies.) Pastor. — [Astonished beyond all measure.) — Heavens ! my Lord ! Baron. Say not a word on the subject. Amelia. — (Kissing him.) — Silence ! I know you love me. — ( The Pastor releases himself from her ein- brace. Tears gush from his eyes. He attempts fto speak, but is unable. He then approaches the Baron, seizes his hand, and is about to press it to his lips, when the Baron withdraws it, and clasps him in hi, arms. Amelia looks at them, and says) — How happy do I feei ! ACT V. LOVERS' VOWS. 97 Baron. — {Releasing himself from the Pastor.) — • Zounds ! I shall begin to shed tears. Let me en- deavour to compose myself. A scene awaits me which will affect my heart still more than this. Well, my dear son, in a tew moments all will be at an end, and the last beams of the setting sun will smile upon the happiest beings in nature's wide ex- tended empire. Where is Wilhelmina ? Pastor. I will bring her hither. Baron. Stop ! How strange are my sensations ! Let me have another moment — Let me compose myself. — {Walks to and fro, breathes with difficulty, and looks several times toivards the room into which the Pastor said lie had conducted Wilhelmina.) — She will come from that room ! That was my mother's bed-room ! Often have I seen her come from it. Often have I feasted on her fascinating smile. How shall I be able to endure her care-worn look? Frederick shall intercede in my behalf. Where is he ? Holla ! Enter a Servant. Where is my son ? Ser. In his chamber, my lord. Baron. Tell him he is wanted here. — {To the Pastor.)— Go, then. My heart throbs most violently. Go, and conduct her hither. [Exit Pastor. ( The Baron looks towards the room which the Pastor has entered, and all the muscles of his countenance are contracted.) Enter Wilhelmina, led by the Pastor. Baron. — {Rushes into her arms. She sinks into his, and nearly swoons. He and the Pastor place her in a chair, and he kneels before her with his arm round VOL. %IU K LOVERS' VOWS. her waist and her hand in his oven.) Do you remember my voice ? Wil. — {In a weak and tender tone.) Baron. Can you forgive me ? Wil. Can— I do. Enter Frederick, hastily. Fre. My mother's voice! — Ha! — Mother! — Fa- ther ! — {Throws himself on his knees at the other side of Wilhelmina, and bends affectionately over both. The Pastor gratefully raises his eyes towards Heaven, while Amelia reclining on his shoulder, wipes her eyes. The curiam falls.) —Wilhelmina ! — Wildenhain ! THE END. DEAF AND DUMB; OR, THE ORPHAN. AN HISTORICAL DRAMA. IN FIVE ACTS. KOTZEBUE. DRAMATIS PERSONAL MEN. Abbe Del' Epee. Theodore. Darlemont, his Guardian and maternal Uncle, Saint Alme, Son of Darlemont. Franval, an Advocate. Dupre. an old Servant. Dubois, DarlemonVs Valtt. Dominic, Franval' s Servant. WOMEN. Mrs. Franval. Clementina, her Daughter. Rachel, Widow of Count Solar's Porter, The Scene lies in Toulouse. DEAF AND DUMB; OR, THE ORPHAN. ACT THE FIRST. Scene, a large Square. On one side is the ancient Palace of Count Solar — on another Mr. Franval's House. Enter St. AhUBjrom the former. He walks a few steps, and then rivets his eyes on a window of the latter. Dubois follows him from the Palace. Dub. Who could have imagined, sir, that you were gone out already ? — He does not hear me. His whole soul yes, yes, love has a strange ef- fect on mankind. It is a sort of lottery, in which there are, to be sure, a few prizes, but the first deposit is the understanding, and that is generally lost. Alme.— ( Awalcingfrom his reverie. ) — Ha ! Dubois, are you here ? Dub. Yes, sir. I have been looking for you in your own room. Alme. What do you want > k 2 102 DEAF AND DUMB. Dub. To report the conversation, which by your desire I have had with Dupre. Alme. Has he told you what are my father's in- tentions? — for he alone is acquainted with every secret. Dub. True, sir. I know no servant, who is on so confidential a footing with his master. Alme. Well? Dub. I have obeyed your orders, sir, and have learnt every thing. Alme. — {Hastily.) — Doubtless my father — Dub. Honest Dupre is not easily prevailed upon to be communicative. Alme. That is immaterial. Tell me only Dub. Besides, he is always so melancholy, that one might almost fancy he had a bad conscience. Alme. Dupre !— Impossible ! — He is one of the most honest men on earth. So old a servant of my father ! — But to the point — I insist upon it. Dub. Well, Sir,— last night, when all was quiet in the house, I went to Dupre under the pretext of wanting to light my candle. Of course we entered into conversation — so I slily adverted to your fa- ther's intentions respecting you, and learnt that your suspicions were unfortunately just, — that pre- parations are already making for your union with the Count d'Harancour's daughter. Alme. Heavens ! Dub. The lady is not handsome, certainly, but she is the only daughter of the oldest nobleman in Toulouse — a man of the first consequence, who can give her an enormous fortune. Alme. What are to me his riches and his rank ? — Would not one look from Clementina overbalance them ? Dub. Miss Clementina is a most loveiy creature, I allow, sir, but I would, nevertheless, advise you to abandon every idea of marrying her. ACT I. DEAF AND DUMB. 10B Alme. What ! Renounce the sweetest hope life can afford ! Dub. Your Either will never give his consent. Alme. And why not ? Is she not the daughter of a man, whose memory is revered by every one in Toulouse ? Is she not the sister of the most eminent advocate in the place — a man, who makes me happy in the possession of his friendship ? — her mother is a poor widow, I allow, dependent on her son's af- fection for subsistence, and consequently unable to give Clementina any fortune. — But why should I wish for any ? has not nature already endowed her with the choicest gifts ? Dub. Choice gifts in your eyes, Sir, but you know your father. Alme. Oh, how hateful to me are these golden mountains, which rise between Clementina and my- self! In former times — when my father was but a humble merchant, he would have thought it the greatest honour that an alliance should take place between his family and Franval's, but since he came ' into possession of Count Solar's property, whose uncle and whose guardian he was, ambition has gained a complete ascendancy over him, and he ha* departed from the path of real happiness. Dub. The old people who were servants at our house in former times, frequently speak of this Count Solar. Was he not deaf and dumb from his birth ? Alme. He was. About eight years since my fa- ther took him to Paris for the purpose of consulting some eminent medical men respecting his case, but he was either negligently treated — or his constitu- tion was too weak for the necessary operations. He died in Dupre's arms, who alone had attended my father on his journey. Dub. Now I am no longer surprised that I so often 104 DEAF AND DUMB. act i. find Dupre looking at the picture of this child, which hangs in the saloon. Alne. It is very natural he should do so. The younz Count was the last branch of a noble family, which Dupre had long and faithfully served — Poor little Julius ! — How much were we attached to each other ! — To him I am obliged for my life. — How cou- rageously did he risk his own in my defence ! — Never, never shall I forget it. — He was about ten years of age, and I twelve, when we were separated. f The moment of his departure is still present to me. Unfortunate Julius ! — He could not speak— but how eloquent were his looks — how expressive his every action ! — With what emotion he pressed me to his heart —as if aware it was our last embrace ! — Alas ! Why is he no more ? — Had he lived, I should have had another friend, and my father, in his humbler state, would have willingly consented to my union with Clementina. Dub. I hope, however, you are certain your af- fection is returned, sir. Alme. I flatter myself with this conviction. — You know, Dubois, that I every morning go to her bro- ther, for the purpose of being instructed by him as to the nature of our laws. Clementina, on these occasions, always appears under the most artful pretexts, which love can suggest. Her eyes often meet mine, on which she instantly blushes. When she speaks to me her voice falters, and her lips tremble. She seems to be afraid that her secret will escape.— If all these be not symptoms of love, how can it be discovered ? Dub. I think, however, that before you proceed Sir, you should obtain a formal confession of her attachment, and above all things the consent of her family. Alme, That her brother will consent I am certain. act i. DEAF AND DUMB. 105 His penetrating eye has, doubtless, long discovered the situation of my heart, and if this attachment were displeasing to him, would he still hear me in so friendly a manner ? — No. My only fears are grounded on the mother's character Dub. Yes, Sir— the good lady is not easily satisfied on any occasion. Alme. She is descended from a noble family, and is still prouder than my father. But I rely on the great influence her worthy son possesses over her. [FranvaPs door opens, and Dominic appears. Dub. Here comes the old servant. Let us draw him into conversation. It is not very difficult. We may perhaps learn something decisive respecting Miss Clementina's sentiments. [Dominic comes forward. Dom. — (Good humoured and loquacious.) — Ha ! — I must own I little expected to find any body here at so early an hour. — (Shakes hands with Dub.) — Good-day to you, neighbours. — ( To Alme.). — Your servant, Sir. This morning air purifies the blood, and cools the fancy. At your age too — well, well —I can easily account for your early rising. Love and sleep are sworn enemies. Dub. What do you mean, Dominic ? Dom. Yes — pretend to be surprised. I have good eyes, I promise you— and though sixty years of age, I defy any lover to deceive me. — ( To Alme, who constantly looks towards the window.) — Ha! you ex- pect us to appear at the window — do you ? But we shall not rise so early as you wish. We were play- ing on the guitar till two o'clock this morning, and at the same time singing those pretty verses, which a certain person made on our recovery. We are still fast asleep, and perhaps dreaming of the au- thor. Ha! Ha! Ha! Alme, Your good humour inspires confidence, 106 DEAF AND DUMB. Dominic. — Yes, I love your young mistress — I adore her. Dub. And I have been trying to subdue his passion. Dom. Subdue it ! For what reason ? Dub. Come, come, Dominic, you are a sly ex- perienced old fellow. You must have remarked as well as myself that Miss Clementina is far from sharing the sensations she has inspired. Dom. — (Ironically.) — Have you discovered this? Dub. Very evidently. It is as plain as possible. Dom. Mercy on us ! What wonderful penetration ! Yes, you are the man to pry into a secret. Ahne. Can you have observed any thing contrary to the suspicions of Dubois ? Dom. A vast deal. I have discovered that she loves you, Sir — that she no longer thinks, acts, and lives but of you, for you, and through you. Alme. Is it possible ? Dub. — (Apart to Alme.) — Be cautious, if you want to know more.— {Aloud.) — But neighbour Do- minic, what proofs have you ? D?m. Proofs !— -A thousand. I need but recol- lect the fever which so nearly proved fatal about two months ago. Whose name did she constantly utter during her paroxysms ? Alme. Mine. Dom. When she read the list of those, who had enquired after her health, at whose name did she always stop with a blush ? Alme. At mine ? Dora.— (Imitating the voice of an invalid.) — " He called then, Dominic ?" said she to me. "Yes, madam." — "Often, Dominic?" — "Every hour, madam." — " And he appeared to be really inte- rested?" "Indeed did he, madam. I never saw a man more happy in my life than he seemed, when I told him you were better." — —Then her act i. DEAF AND DUMB. 107 weak frame began to tremble, — I saw a tear glisten in her eye, and a smile for the first time play round her pretty lips :— " Yes," said she — " I am better, Dominic -much better 1 feel that I am out of danger."— Ha ! Ha! Ha!— Alme. I confess these little circumstances — Dub. Are, in my opinion, by no means sufficient to prove D.om. Not sufficient !— And the quarrel which I had with her only a few days since. — Ha ! Ha ! — > Excuse me, Sir — I cannot refrain from laughter, when I think of it. Alme. To what do you refer ? Dom. I went into the parlour according to my usual custom, for the purpose of putting every thing into its proper place. — Well— I found Miss Clemen- tina busily employed in painting a miniature — so busily indeed, that she no more saw me than if I had been a hundred miles from Toulouse — Well — I crept on tip-toe behind her chair — for there cer- tainly is nothing more pleasant than to observe the actions of people who are in love — Alme. Proceed, proceed. Dom. Well — I looked at the portrait — You, Sir — it was you to a nicety. Alme. Me ! Dom. Yes, you, sir. — " Well — what a likeness !" cried I, without thinking what a fool I was for say- ing a word. Up she rose, with " Do you think so ?"— and laid her work aside. — " Bless my heart," said I to her, " a man must be blind not to discover that at the first glance." " Indeed ! Whom do you think it is intended to resemble?" — " Why young Mr. St. Alme, to be sure." — " St. Alme !" cried she, quite confused, and rather angry. " It certainly is not like him. I meant it to be a likeness of my brother, and was trying to paint it from memory." " That may be, madam," said I, u but you have 108 DEAF AND DUMB. certainly made a mistake, for every feature is Mr* St. Alme's." " I tell you it is my brother — and no one else." Then she hid the portrait in her bosom, walked away, and was for the first time in her life out of humour with old Dominic. Ha ! Ha! Ha! Alme. How happy dost thou make me ! Dom. But while I am prating here, I forget Alme. Stay another moment, honest Dominic. You know not with what pleasure I listen to you ! Dom. Yes, yes — that I believe, but you know not how many errands I am sent upon. First the old lady — then the advocate — then Miss Clemen- tina ! Above all things, Sir, beware of letting it be known that we have been talking together, for I should be scolded — and why ? — Young people have a strange way of managing love affairs. Not a soul must know their secret, though it has been the town-talk for a month. — {Shakes hands tdjth Dub.) — Farewell honest Penetration. Oh, you are a shrewd observer. You know she does not love your mas- ter — " Very evidently — It is plain as possible," Ha ! Ha! Ha! [Exit. Alme, Well, Dubois ? Dub. I am satisfied that your affection is com- pletely returned, Sir. Alme. And shall I marry another > Never \ Never ! Dub. We must immediately devise means, then, to counteract your father's purpose. Alme. You must aid me in this, Dubois. Dub. My advice is that you go to Mr. Franval*s nt the usual hour, confess the whole to him, and make a declaration of your love to Miss Clemen- tina in the presence of her brother. After receiv- ing his consent, go directly to Count d'Harancour, whose daughter it is intended to force upon you. Describe your situation. He is a worthy man, and ACT I. DEAF AND DUMB. 109 will be pleased with the candour of your conduct. In this way you will, I think, defeat the ambitious project of your father. Alme. You are right. I will follow your advice. The step is extremely delicate, I own ; but I shall conduct myself with so much respect and openness, that the Count, who is just and generous, will sym- pathize in my distress, nay perhaps even assist me in obtaining her, who alone can make me happy. — Oh yes, he will, he will. His hotel is not far off. Go, and ask when I may be allowed to wait upon him. Say I wish to have a private interview. Dub. I will, sir. Expect me again in a few mi- nutes. \_Exeunt severally* Enter the Abbe del' Epee and Theodore in travelling dresses. Theodore walks a few steps before the Abbe, and approaches in violent agitation — then turns, and makes a sign. Abbe. This sudden agitation painted in every fea- ture allows me no longer to doubt that this place is known to him. ( The. rivets his eyes on the palace, walks towards the door, shrieks and falls into the Abbe's arms.) Abbe. What a dreadful tone !— Scarcely can he breathe. — Never have I before seen him thus affected! (The. hastily gives him to understand that he re- cognizes the house of his father. This is done by placing his hands alternately, and several times upon each other, then spreading his fingers to resemble the shape of a roof, and lastly by shewing with his right- hand the size of a child about three feet high.) Abbe. Yes, thank Heaven — he recognizes the ha- bitation of his parents. Beloved, sweet piace, where first we saw the light, where swiftly rolled away the years of childhood, never dost thou lose thy lawful claim upon our hearts. No human being is there VOL. Ill, L 110 DEAF AND DUMB. so devoid of sensibility as not to feel delighted, when he again beholds thee. (The. kisses the Abbe's hand, and endeavours to express his gratitude.) (Abbe, replies by signs that thanks are due to Heaven, not him.) (The. immediately knee!.;, and prays for a blessing on his benefactor. ) Abbe.— -(Bending forward with uncovered head.) — Oh thou, who with almighty power directest all our projects— thou, who didst inspire me with this great design, accept the thanks of an old man, who has acted under thy guidance and protection — accept the thanks of an orphan to whom thou hast made me a second father.— If I have honestly fulfilled my duty — if all my care and trouble may expect a re- compencefrom heavenly justice, oh let it light upon the head of this unfortunate young man— let me in his happiness find my reward. — (They sink into each others arms,) — Now I must learn to whom this palace belongs. (Theodore is going into the house, but the Abbe holds him back, and imitates a person who attempts to speak, but who is driven away without being listened to. Theodore understands him, and obeys.) Enter Dubois. Abbe,— (Aside.)— Here comes one, whom I may ask. — (Aloud.) — Friend, can you tell me the name of this square i Dub. The gentlemen are strangers, it appears. It is called St. George's Square. Abbe. I thank you.— (Dubois is going.) — Another word, if you please. Do you know any thing of this palace ? Dub. To be sure~ I do. I have lived five years in it. DEAF AND DUMB. Ill Abbe — {Aside.) — A lucky accident.— {Aloud.) — To whom does it belong ? Dub. It was formerly Count Solar's, and now be- longs to Mr. Darlemont, in whose service I am. Abbe. Solar! Darlemont!— Who is this Mr. Darle- mont ? — (During this conversation, Theodore surveys the house, and leans against the door ivith a mixture of delight and melancholy.) Dub. Who is he ! — {Aside.) — This man is very in- quisitive. Abbe. Yes— his rank, "his situation — Dub. Upon my word I know no more of him than that he is one of the richest men in Toulouse. — But I am wanted. You will therefore excuse me. — {As he goes into the house.) — These strangers have their share of curiosity, however. \_Exit. Abbe, Could he divine why I was so inquisitive — but not a moment must be lost. First, let me find safe and convenient lodgings.— This palace, which probably bears the name of an ancient family, and this Darlemont, the present owner of it, must be well known in Toulouse — I will dive into the mystery. — (Presses Theodore, who anxiously approaches, to his heart.) — If my Theodore has parents possessed of sensibility, how many tears must they have shed, since they lost him. What transport shall I feel in restoring him to their embrace ! — But if he be a sa- crifice to villany — arm me, oh Heavenly Providence, arm me with power to redress his wrongs. Give mankind through me another proof that soon or late the most hidden crimes will be discovered, and that nothing can escape eternal justice. \_Exeunt 9 Theodore several times looking back at the palaceo 112 DEAF AND DUMB. act u. ACT THE SECOND. Scene, Fr anval's Study. On his Desk is a Flower- pot, and on all sides are seen Books, Parchments, Sfc. Franval is discovered, reading Papers. Fra. I find it impossible to withdraw my attention from the subject, on which I am appointed arbitrator. Is there any, indeed, which can be of greater im- portance to society, or more creditable to a man of my profession ? — I am appointed to reconcile a hus- band to his wife. Alas! These separations are too frequent — and it behoves every honest man to exert himself in the prevention of them. Enter Clementina ri-ith a small basket.. Cle. Good morning, dear brother. Fra. Clementina, good morning. Cle. I have brought some fresh flowers for your desk. — (Puts them into the jlower-pot.) Fra. This daily present and your daily kiss, good sister, make me diligent. — (With a smile.) — I have a friend, too, who would not be averse to the same inspiration. Cle* — (Confused.) — Whom do you mean ? Fra. Whom !— You need not blush. — ( Rises, leads her forward, and rivets his eye on her.) — Clementina! i 'le— ( A bashe d.)~ What do you wan t , dear brother ! Fra. These flowers and your affectionate kiss, are always welcome — but the)' will cease to be of any value, if you withhold from me your confidence. — Clementina, } T ou cannot dissemble. I perceive — Cle. Oh, cease ! ACT IU DEAF AND DUMB. US Fra* Why should you oppose an irreproachable attachment ! Is not St. Alme in every respect de- serving of it ? Cle. I must own I have thought so. Fra. I say nothing of his person and counte- nance Cle. They are noble and expressive. Fra. Of his manners Cle. They are polite and captivating. Fra. I confine myself to his mental qualifications* He is a sensible, candid, amiable young man. Such a character is to the woman who will be his wife the surest pledge of happiness. Cle. That I have often thought. Fra. In a word, he loves you. Cle. Do you really think so, brother ? Fra. Have you not observed it ? Cle. I have been afraid of deceiving myself. Fra. You confess, then, that you feel a regard for him ? Cle. — [Falling into his arms.) — Brother, you have learnt my secret. Enter St. Alme. Alme. — (Shaking hands with Franval.) — Good morning, my dear friend — (With a respectful bow to Clementina.) — Miss Clementina — Fra. So early abroad— and so gaily dressed too 1 Some affair of consequence has surely caused this* Alme. Of the utmost consequence to me. Fra. May I know it ? Cle. You seem much agitated. Alme. Who could be otherwise in my situation ? You see me in despair — Cle. Heavens ! Alme. My friend, never did I so much need your counsel as at present. L 2 DIi AF AND DUMB. ACT II. Fra. Explain yourself. Cle. I will not be any interruption. — (Going.) Alme. No. Stivy I beseech you. I have just had a conversation with my father — Fra. Upon what subject ? Alme. Still do I hear his dreadful menaces. — And why did he use them ? Because I feel it impossible to gratify his ambition. If I could do this by shed- ding my blood, by sacrificing my life, I should not hesitate — but to renounce my attachment — my first attachment— (Clementina cast her eyes upon thejloor.) — Cruel, obdurate parent! Has nature given you any right to make our sacred feelings the slaves of your arbitary will ? Do you give us existence only to make us the victims of ambition ? Fra. Be calm, my friend, and proceed. Alme. Our conversation turned upon that dreaded alliance, which I before have mentioned to you. My father has informed me that within .three days the union must take place. — " Within three days !" exclaimed I. "Never! Never!" On hearing these words, which escaped me in a violent tone, my father was so much enraged that all attempts to soothe him were ineffectual. At length — feeling myself obliged to avow my sentiments — and being ani- mated with the hope that the name of her I love would disarm him - I ventured to confess that my heart had already made its choice — I named Cle- mentina ! Cle. Clementina ! Alme. — (Falls at her feet.) — I cannot, will not any longer conceal my sensations. Yes, lovely Cle- mentina — you you I love — shall love for ever ; and if my presumptuous hopes — Cle.— { Trembling.) - Rise, I beseech you. What said your father to this ? Alme. " She is an amiable young woman," said he, much embarrassed, " and in every respect act ii. DEAF AND DUMB. 115 worthy of your choice, but I have other views — you must forget her." " Impossible !" cried I, pressing his hand to my heart. " Impossible !" repeated he, in a dreadful tone — and now he gave way to all the violence of fury, wounded my sensibility with the most galling reproaches, threatened me with dis- inheritance, and commanded me to quit his presence for ever. — My b'ood boiled- my senses almost for- sook me — I left him - and fled hither, that on the bosom of a friend I might learn to bear the thought of being banished from the bosom of a father. Fra. - (Embracing him.) - I am ready, dear St. Alme, to fulfil that friendly duty. My first advice is that you will endeavour to compose yourself, and never forget, that even the errors of a parent de- mand a respectful forbearance on the part of a child. Mme. He thought to alarm me by his threats — but oh they have only bound me still closer to the object of my innocent attachment. Never did I love more fervently than now. Never was Clemen- tina so lovely in my eyes — and if you both con- sent Fra. Happy should I have been to present my sister's hand to you— happy to have embraced a brother in my friend— and Clementina herself Cle. Brother! Fra. Why withhold a confession which will so much alleviate his distress? — Yes, St. Alme, sincere as is your affection for Clementina, it is only an ex- change of sensations which you have inspired. Alme. Is it then true ? — Is my love returned ? — Dare I hope to hear a confirmation of my happiness from yourself? Cle. As my brother has betrayed me, I will no longer conceal my attachment — but alas, why should I avow it, since your father Alme, Oh, I shall prevail upon him to renounce 116 DEAF AND DUMB. act it. his project. What can be impossible to the man, whom Clementina loves ? If, before I had heard this sweet confession, I opposed his fury, surely my resolution must be doubled now.— To all his menaces I shall answer : Clementina loves me — dear father -Clementina loves me. - But I had quite forgotten that I must instantly see Count d'Haran- cour, whose assistance will be of the greatest ser- vice. I will speak to his feelings — I will describe the situation of my heart. Yes. Who can refuse to interest himself in behalf of the man that can boast he possesses the regard of Clementina. [Presses her hand to his Hps and exit, Fra. Why does he go to Count d'Harancour ? Cle. I wish his ardour may not make him rash. Enter Dominic with some hooks. Dom. My mistress desires to know whether you will breakfast in the study ? Fra. If agreeable to her we will. Cle. You have not yet seen my mother this morn- ing. You know how rigid her ideas are with respect to these little attentions. Fra. I have been so busy— but Pll go, and bring her hither. Cle. In the mean time, I'll see that breakfast is forwarded. [Exeunt Fra. and Cle. Dom. — {Lays the boohs on the desk.) — There ! My name is not Dominic if I have not walked two miles this morning. — Let me see whether I have executed all my commissions.— (Draws out a list.) — for if not, the old lady will be sure to tell me again that I have lost my memory, and I am of no use. — (Reads.) — " To invite Mrs. Doubray and the prior of St. Mark in the name of my mistress. ,, That's done. " To call at the library for some books ordered yesterday." There they are. " To see the parish officers, and act ii. DEAF AND DUMB. 117 tell them not to proceed against the poor people, whose house was burnt, they being ready to pay the six hundred livres." Now would I bet a round sum, that these six hundred livres came out of my master's own pocket, to save an unfortunate family from ruin. " To leave two Louis d'ors in Laurence-lane, sent by Miss Clementina to the widow of the late Count Solar's porter." Ay, poor old soul ! How she blessed Miss Clementina — and well she might, for such a charitable friend is not found every day. — - But, Mercy on us, here they come, and the cloth is not laid. — (Draws a table Jbrivard, and brings breakfast. J Enter Franval, Mrs. Franval, and Clemen- tina. Mrs. F. I tell you, son, there are very few fami- lies in Toulouse as ancient as ours, and I hope you will always remain worthy of your ancestry, though you are but an advocate. Fra. I think, dear mother, my profession would be an honour to any owe.— {They seat themselves to breakfast.} Mrs. F. I confess, son, it mortifies me that you are not a seneschal like your father, but misfortunes and the injustice of mankind compelled me to sell that office at his death. Fra. I am therefore obliged to my talents and exertion for the respect which 1 should otherwise only have acquired by accident and prejudice. Mrs. F. I know verj well that you hold a con- spicuous place in the courts, but still it is a kind of degradation. Dom. This letter is just come for you, madam 3 from Mr. Darlemont. Fra, Mr. Darlemont ! 118 DEAF AND DUMB. ACT II. Mrs. F. What can he want with me ?— (Reads.)— " Madam, allow me to address you in defence of my most sacred rights" — What can he mean? Leave us Dominic. — (Exit Dom.) — " My most sacred rights. My son loves your daughter, and asserts that the attachment is mutual." (Cle. is muck agitated, Mrs. F. casts a severe look towards her.) Fra. Proceed, I beg, dear mother. Mrs. F. " Violent as may be the passion of my son, and amiable as the object of it may be, this connexion can never take place." — No, sir, it cer- tainly cannot. Cle. - ( .hide.) — What torture ! Fra. Finish the letter, I beseech you. Mrs. F. " I therefore hope, madam, that you will forbid his visits to your house, and no longer afford him any opportunity of bidding defiance to the rights and dignity of his father. — Darlemont." — No longer afford him an opportunity ! Did any one ever hear such impertinence ? Fra. Be calm, dear mother. Mrs. F. And who told this petty merchant, who became such a great man as it were but yesterday, that I wanted an alliance with his family. He might recollect, I think, that, rich as he may be, there is a material inequality between his rank and mine. 1 hope, son, that after this insult, you will order your doors to be shut on young St. Alme, and as for his father, if he ever Enter Dominic. Dom. A stranger wishes to wait on you, sir. Fra. A stranger! Dom. Yes— an old man with grey hair. He looks like a priest. act ii. DEAF AND DUMB. 119 Fra. Let him come. [F^VDom. Mrs. F. — (Still reading the letter,) — " This con- nexion can never take place." The upstart ! Cle. — (Aside to Fra.) — Oh, brother, I am lost. Dom.— (Without.) — This way, sir, if you please. Enter Abbe. Abbe. — (After the usual salutations. ) — Have I the honour of speaking to Mr. Franval, the advocate } Fra. I am that person. Abbe. Could you spare a quarter of an hour Fra. With great pleasure. May I ask with whom I have the pleasure of conversing . ? Abbe. I live at Paris. My name is Del* Epee. Fra. Del* Epee ! But not the founder of an in- stitution for instructing the deaf and dumb. Abbe. The same. Fra. Mother— sister — you see a man before you, who does honour to the age he lives in. — {The ladies move respectfully.) Abbe. — (Avoiding his praise.) — Sir, I Fra. I often read the miraculous account of your success, and am always struck with astonishment and admiration. Be assured that no one feels a greater interest in your exertions, and more respect for your name than myself. Abbe. Happy is it for me, then, that I applied to you. Fra. What has procured me this good fortune I Abbe. Your reputation, sir. I have to impart a matter of the greatest consequence. Mrs. F. Come, Clementina, we will not be any hindrance. Abbe. What I have to disclose cannot be too public. Above all things I wish to interest feeling - hearts, and if these ladies will listen to me Mrs. F. As you allow it 120 DEAF AND DUMB. ACf II. Cle — (Aside.) — What a friendly tone, and what a venerable appearance ! Era. We seated, I beg. — (All take chairs.) Abbe. I shall be somewhat diffuse, and yet I can omit nothing, which may assist me in the attainment of my object. Fra. We are all attention. Abbe. It is about eight years since an officer of the police in Paris brought to me a boy who was deaf and dumb. He had been found on the Pont neuf, appeared to be about nine or ten years of age, and was of an engaging appearance. The coarse tatters with which he was clothed, made me at first suppose he belonged to poor people, and I promised to take care of him. — The next morning, when I examined him more minutely, I observed a certain dignity in his looks. He seemed astonished at finding himself in rags, and I suspected that it was not without some intention he had been thus clothed and exposed. I immediately published the circumstance, and ac- curately described his person in the newspapers, but without effect. It is not usual with mankind to be too eager in acknowledging those who are unfor- tunate. Fra. Alas, you are right, sir. How much is hu- man nature often degraded ! Abbe. As I perceived that all investigation was in vain, and as I was convinced that this child was the victim of some secret intrigue, I now merely endea- voured to obtain information from himself. I called him Theodore, and received him among my pupils. He soon distinguished himself, and so entirely jus- tified my hopes, that after the expiration of three years, his mind expanded, and he was, (if I may use the expression ) a second time created. I conversed with him by signs, which in rapidity almost equalled thoughts. One day, as we drove past a court of justice in Paris, he saw a magistrate step from his act ii. DEAF AND DUMB. 121 carriage, and was unusually agitated. I asked the reason, and he gave me to understand that a man like this, clothed in purple and ermine, had often embraced him, and shed tears over him. From this I concluded that he must be the son or near rela- tion of some magistrate, who, from his robes, could only belong to a superior court of justice ; con- sequently that my pupil's native place was probably a town of considerable size. Another time, as we were walking together, we met the funeral of a nobleman. I immediately perceived the former agitation in Theodore, which increased as the pro- cession came nearer. At length the hearse passed us — he trembled, and fell upon my neck. I ques- tioned him, and he replied by signs that a short time before he was conveyed to Paris, he had fol- lowed the hearse, in which was the man, who had so often caressed him. From this I concluded he was an orphan, and the heir to a large fortune, of which his relations had been induced to deprive him , by his helpless situation. These important disco- veries doubled my zeal and resolution. Theodore became daily more interesting to me, and I began to cherish hopes of regaining his property for him. But how to begin my search ? He had never heard his father's name ; he knew not where he had re- ceived existence. — I asked him whether he remem- bered when he was first brought to Paris ?■ — Fie answered in the affirmative, and assured me he should know the gates through »vhich he entered. The very next morning we went forth to examine them, and when we approached those which are called del 9 Enfer, he made a sign that he recog- nized them ; that the carriage was there examined, and that his two conductors, whose features still were present to his mind, alighted with him there. — These new discoveries proved that he came from the south of France. He added that he was several VOL. III. M 122 DEAF AND DUMB. ACT II. days on the road— and that the horses were changed almost every hour. After making calculations from his several statements, I concluded that his native place was one of the principal towns in the south of France. Fra. Oh, how penetrating is the mind when in- spired by philanthropy ! Proceed, proceed. Abbe. After numberless unavailing enquiries by letter, I at last resolved to make a tour through the southern towns with Theodore. The various circumstances, which he so minutely recollected, made me hope that he would easily recognize the place of his nativity. The undertaking was cer- tainly difficult, for i thought all expectations of success were idle, unless our journey was per- formed on foot. I am old, but Heaven was pleased to grant me strength. In spite of age and in- firmity I left Paris about two months ago. I passed through the gates del* Enfer, which Theodore again recognized. When we had left Paris a little way behind us, we embraced each other, prayed that Heaven would guide our steps, and pursued our way with confidence. We have visited almost every place of magnitude, and now my strength was be- ginning to fail — my consolatary hopes were nearly exhausted, when this morning we arrived before the gates of Toulouse. Fra. — ( With extreme anxiety.) — Well ? Abbe. We entered the town — Theodore hastily seized my hand, and made a sign that he knew it. We proceeded. At ever}' step his appearance be- came more animated, and tears fell from his eyes. We arrived at the market-place, when suddenly he threw himself on the earth, and raised his hands towards heaven — then sprung up, and informed me he had now found the place of his birth. Like him intoxicated with delight, I forgot all the fatigues of my journey. We wandered to other parts of the act ii. DEAF AND DUMB. 123 town, and at length reached this square. He espied the palace. Exactly opposite to your house, ut- tered a loud shriek, threw himself breathless into my arms, and pointed out the habitation of his fa- ther. — I made enquiries, and learn that this palace formerly belonged to the family of Count Solar, the last branch of which is my pupil, — that all his property is in the possession of a Mr. Darlemont, the guardian and maternal uncle of the young Count, by a false declaration of whose death, he became possessed of it. — I immediately tried to dis- cover who was the most eminent advocate in Tou- louse, that I might entrust him with this important business. — You were mentioned to me, sir, and I am come to place in your hands what is dearest to me in the world — The fate of Theodore. Heaven sent him to me that I might educate him. Receive him from my hands, and let your exertions restore to him the rank and fortune, to which he is entitled by the laws of nature and of France. — ( All rise.) Fra. — ( With enthusiasm.) — Rely on me — rely se- curely on the fervent zea), which the confidence of such a man inspires. Never was I so happy— never so proud of my profession. — Oh, sir, you know not how it delights me to be of service to you. — [At- tempts to hiss the Abbe*s hand, who opens his arms, into which Franval rushes.) Abbe. Yes, I can rely on you entirely. I see your tears. Cle. Who can be so unfeeling as not to be affected by such a recital ? Fra. It is a painful circumstance that I should find the father of my friend so criminal, and I must beg you will in the first instance allow me to make every attempt which caution and delicacy will al- low. Should these fail, I will unmask the hypo- crite. 124 DEAF AND DUMB. ACT II. Airs. F. I burn with desire to see him humbled in the dust from which he roise. Cle. — (Aside.) — Happy prospect ! St. Alme will now be as poor as myself. Fra. I3ut where did you leave your Theodore ? AbbS, At an inn, where he doubtless expects me with impatience. Fra. Why did you not bring him hither ? Cle. I should be most happy to see him. Abbe. A person who is deaf and dumb always creates distressing sensations. I was, therefore, afraid that his presence Fra. Surely not that it would diminish the inte- rest inspired by his situation ? Abbe. — {Taking his hand.) — Hearts like yours are not every where to be founds Fra. You must bring him to us — nay, I require more. The young man should not be left alone, when we are taking steps for him, which make his absence necessary. Accept a room in my house. Never have I with greater pleasure fulfilled the duties of hospitality. Abhe. You are too good. I only fear Mrs. F. Sir, you will do us an honour by accept- ing my son's invitation. Cle. After so fatiguing a journey you must want repose, and you will no where find yourself less dis- turbed than with us. Abb:\ Such intreaties I cannot withstand. I will go for my pupil. Fra. And I will, in the mean time, consider how we should proceed. That we have to surmount many difficulties, I must not conceal from you. To counteract legal evidence to wrest a considerable fortune from an ambitious and powerful usurper — to convict him of so atrocious a crime — all this re- quires the greatest caution. act in. DEAF AND DUMB. 125 Abbe. I rely entirely on your wisdom and talents. Be the event what it may, the conscious recollection of having done my duty, and your acquaintance, shall be my rewards. [ Exit. ACT THE THIRD. Scene, the same room. Enter Clementina and Dominic. Dom. No, madam. Mr. St. Alme is not yet re- turned home. Cle. How unfortunate ! Never was his presence more necessary. Dom. — ( Smiling.) — Don't be afraid. He will not fail to come, I promise you. If he suspected that his company was so much wished for, he would have certainly Cle. Dominic, have you given the money to old Rachel as I directed ? Dom. To be sure I have.— Poor soul ! She was seated at her spinning-wheel, when I entered, M Good day to you, Rachel !" said I. " Your ser- vant Mr. Dominic. I hope your good young mis- tress is well. ,, — " Quite well, Rachel, and how are you ?" — " Why so so*' — and here the poor creature began to cough — "but 1 will contrive to work for my living.'' — " There is a present from Miss Cle- mentina. Take it, Racnel."— " How ! What ! Two Louis d'ors ?— Oh the dear generous lady !" Then she kissed the money— then began to pray for your M 2 126 DEAF AND DUMB. act hi. happiness and health. — I'll lay my life that she comes to thank you in the course of to-day. Cle. Honest Rachel ! How willingly do I assist her ! — 1 never shall forget how attentive she was during my illness. When she comes, Dominic, con- trive that no one may see her except myself. Dom. I will. —Poor old creature ! Her circum- stances are sadly reduced ! When her late husband was porter to Count Solar, she wanted nothing; but Mr. Darlemont unmercifully drove them both out of doors, with all the rest who had been in the ser- vice of his brother-in-law. The honest porter died broken-hearted, and many of the rest would have followed him, if Mr. St. Alme's generosity had not Cle. Mr. St. Alme certainly wishes to make every atonement for his father's injustice. Dom. True, madam. One is as proud, gloomy, and severe, as the other is open, friendly, and libe- ral. Oh, he will one day be a good master — and a good husband too. — Don't you think so, Miss Clementina ? Cle.— ( Confused.)— Undoubtedly — I believe— that whoever obtains his affections Dom. Some one has already obtained them. Cle. Indeed ! Dom. I know it to a certainty. Cle. Right ! I remember to have heard that he is engaged to Count d'Harancour's daughter. Dom. I have heard as much too — but that match will never take place. Cle. Do you think it will not ? Dom. To be sure I do. We love another lady.— - We prefer content to riches. Every one has his taste — and we have therefore cast our eyes upon one of the most amiable objects Cle. Is the room in order, which the strangers will occupy ? ACT III. DEAF AND DUMB. 127 Dom. Not quite. Cle. Go then, and make every thing ready. They will be here directly. Dom. Well, well — I am going. — {Aside.) — I never can prevail upon her to own that she loves him. [Exit. Cle. This old man delights in tormenting me. 1 felt my cheeks glow at every word he uttered At present I will confine my ideas to this important discovery of the venerable Del' Epee and the new hope which it inspires. — Should Darlemont lose his fortune, the gulph between his son and me will vanish. Love will be no longer subservient to ambition, but will enforce its rights. Yet will my mother, who thinks herself insulted by his con- duct—Soft ! They come. Enter Mrs. Franval and Franval. Mrs. F. And can you, son, have any hesitation m delivering over such a wretch to the vengeance of the law ? By being merciful you become an ac- complice in the crime. Fra. Can I forget that Darlemont is the father of my friend?— (Jo Clementina.) — Has Dominic requested St. Alme to come hither ? Cle. Yes, brother, he has left a message with the servant. St. Alme was not within. Mrs. F. I must own, son, that after receiving so insolent a letter from the father, I do not wish to see the son in my house. Fra. Is it just that he should suffer for his fa- ther's misconduct ? Cle. My dear mother, he is so far from approving of his father's behaviour, that he wishes to make every one forget it. Mrs. F. But such a letter I never will forget. • Fra. Were Darlemont alone concerned in this 128 DEAF AND DUMB. act in. case, I would without mercy tear away the veil, and expose him to the abhorrence of mankind ! but you know the power of prejudice. I cannot un- mask him, without attaching disgrace to his inno- cent son. Cle. Yes, innocent he is, indeed. How often in our presence has he lamented the death of his cou- sin ! How many tears has he shed, when he called to mind the companion of his infancy ! It is impossi- ble to unite greater openness with more tender sen- sibility. It is impossible — {Her mother looks at her with a frown — she turns to Franval.) — Am I not right, brother I Fra. Undoubtedly. No one can know St. Alme without being convinced. Eut see — here come our guests. Enter Abbe 7 and Theodore. Abbe. I have brought my Theodore. (The. bows with a friendly air to all, and at last fixes his eyes on Clementina.) Mrs. F. The exact image of his late father! Abbe. Indeed, Madam ! Do you perceive that ? Mrs. F. I never saw so strong a likeness. [The. gazes with a penetrating look at Franval. Fra. His countenance is expressive, and com- mands respect. It bears the stamp of his instruc- tor's mind. (The. makes signs to the Abbe. He places his right hand on his forehead, and then stretches out his arm with force and dignity.) Fra. What does this imply ? Abbe. That he reads in your appearance the cer- tainty of success. Fra. Yes. I pledge my sacred promise he shall regain his rights. — f Emb? aces Theodore. J (The. tvith a look of distress puts his hand to hi$ ACT III. DEAF AND DUMB. 129 mouthy and then to his ears — he grasps one of Eran- val's hands and lays it on his heart.) Fra. What means this ? Abbe. That he cannot express his gratitude by words, but that you may feel it by the beating of his heart. Fra. Is it possible you can so exactly understand him ? Abbe. Perfectly. Mrs. F. He can comprehend what you mean too? (The. again Jixes his eyes on Clementina.) Abbe. Most certainly. By this alone was I able to improve his mind and heart. Cle. Plow attentively he observes me ! Abbe. Ee not surprised at that. Genuine beauty always attracts his notice. Nature, who has been in many respects so cruel a stepmother to him, has made some reparation by granting him a nicety of instinct, and a mind which takes impressions with a facility most wonderful and rapid. The genius of persons in his unfortunate situation, when once sum- moned into action, makes much greater progress than our own. I have among my pupils profound mathematicians, able historians, and distinguished literati. This very youth, who stands before you, obtained the prize last winter for his skill in poetry, and to the great astonishment of his competitors was openly crowned in the Lyceum. Fra. I remember that the newspapers mentioned this phenomenon, and consecrated the name of Del' Epee to immortality. Cle. But how is it possible that one who is deaf and dumb, should comprehend and express Abbe. He can even answer any question on the spot. I'll give you an example. — (Strikes Theodore on the shoulder to awake his attention, points "with the fore-Jinger of his right hand to his forehead, then to Clementina, andjinally seems to write some lines on his left hand.) 130 DEAF AND DUMB. act in. (The. makes a sign that he understands him — seats himself at the desk and prepares to write,) Abbe, Now ask any question. Through the in- terpretation of ray signs he will comprehend it, and write it on paper, with his answer below. He awaits your commands. Cle. I scarcely know what question Abbe. The first that occurs to you. Cle. — (After a moment 7 s consideration.)— Who is, in your opinion, the greatest man now existing in France ? Abbe. Now, have the goodness to begin once more, and repeat the words slowly as if you were dic- tating them to himself. (The. attends and writes.) Cle. Who is ( Abbe throws both hands forward, spreading his fingers, and then with the forefinger of Ids right hand describes a semicircle from right to left,) Cle. In your opinion .(Abbe points to his forehead — then to Theodore.) Cle. The greatest man (Abbe raises his right hand thrice, and then both hands as high as possible — then lets them sink to his shoulders, and thence over his breast quite to his waist. ) Cle. Now existing ■ (Abbe describes life by drawing his breath deeply several times, and placing his hand on ^fiis pulse.) Cle. In France ? (Abbe raises both hands and points to every thing around him.) (All these signs must be made with minuteness, but also with rapidity, that the action of the scene may not be suspended.) Abbe. — (Takes the paper from Theodore, and pre- sents it to FranvalJ — In the first place you perceive that he has written the question properly. act in. DEAF AND DUMB. 131 Fra. It is faithful and correct. (Abbe returns the paper to Theodore, who sits in a meditating attitude.) Cle. lie seems embarrassed. Abbe. The question is rather of a difficult nature, you must allow. (Theodore's features become gradually more ani- mated, and he writes.) Fra. What fire darts from his eyes! What ani- mation is there in his every feature ! He seems at the same time satisfied and affected. I am much mis- taken, if his answer will not bear the united marks of sensibility and understanding. (The. rises, presents the paper to Clementina, end makes a sign* requesting she will read it, Fran- val and his mother approach with great curiosity. Theodore places himself close to the Abbe, and anxi- ously observes them.) Cle.— (Reads.) — "Question: W 7 ho is, in your opinion, the greatest man at present living in France? — Answer: Nature names Buffon— the sciences d'Alembert — truth and feeling speak in behalf of Rousseau — wit and taste of Voltaire — but genius and humanity loudly declare — the Abbe del' Epee. Him I prefer to all." ( The. represents a pair of scales, by letting his hand rise and sink alternately — he then raises one hand as high as possible, points with the fore-Jinger of the other at the Abbe, and falls into his arms.) Abbe. — {Presses him to his heart with emotion^ which he endeavours, hut in vain, to hide.) — Pardon his mistake— it arises from enthusiastic gratitude. Fra. — [Looking at the paper.) — My astonishment cannot be equalled. Mrs. F. No one but a witness of the transaction would believe it. Cle, I can scarcely suppress my tears. Fra. This answer at once indicates refined taste 132 DEAF AND DUMB. act in. and extensive knowledge. What endless care and trouble must it have cost you to produce such con- sequences ? 4bbe. To tell you how much it has cost me is impossible — but the exalted idea of being, as it were, a new creator, inspired me with strength and reso- lution. If the peasant feels delight when he be- holds the abundant harvest which rewards his indus- try ; judge what must be my sensations, when I stand in the midst of my pupils, and see how the unfortunate beings emerge by degrees from dark- ness — how they become animated by the first beam of heavenly light — how they step by step discover their powers, impart their ideas to each other, and form around me an interesting family of which I am the happy father. Yes, there are many more bril- liant delights — many more easily attained, but I doubt whether in universal nature there is one more real. Fra. And believe me, of all the celebrated men, whom Theodore has accurately described, none will so long live in the recollection of posterity as you. If France be ready to erect monuments in comme- moration of our heroes, can she refuse one to the creative genius, which, by persevering industry and patience inexhaustible, made amends for the forget- fulness of nature ? Dom. — {Within.) — But I tell you, Rachel, you must come at another time. Miss Clementina can- not see you now. Enter Rachel and Dominic. Rac. Not see me! I must thank her— I must kiss her hand. Dom. — [Aside to Clementina.)— It was impossi- ble to keep her back. (The. casts a look toxvcrds Rachel, and seems to be struck with some sudden recollection.) ACT III. DEAF AND DUMB. 133 Rac. Forgive me, Madam, if I take the liberty — and you, dear Mr. Advocate, if I disturb you - but my heart was so full that I could not stay at home. 1 came to thank my good, kind-hearted Miss Cle- mentina ■ Cle. Rachel, it is not worth while Rac. Oh, allow me, dear lady Mrs. F. Daughter, what means all this ? (The. examines every feature of Rachel, is greatly agitated, and makes signs to the Abbe, which the latter observes with joy and astonishment. Theo- dore imitates a man who knocks at a door, and then points at Rachel.) Rac. Her bashfulness will not let her answer, but I came to relieve my heart. You must know, Ma- dam, that since Miss Clementina recovered from her illness, scarcely a day has passed without her send- ing clothes or victuals to me, and only this morning Mr. Dominic brought me two Louis d'ors, which will enable me to assist some of my poor neighbours. — (Kisses Clementina's hand.) — Oh, how sincerely I thank you ! Abbe. Good woman Rac. Sir! - Abbe. Were you not in the service of the late Count Solar ? Rac. My husband was his porter five-and-thirty years. Abbe. Do you remember to have ever seen little Julius, who was deaf and dumb ? Rac. Remember it ! Many a time have I carried him in my arms. Alas ! We suffered so much by his death, that I shall never forget him. Abbe. — (Leads her to Theodore, who gazes at her with great emotion.) — 'Tis well. Look at this youth Rac. What do I see ? Is it possible ? Abbe. Examine him minutely. vol. ui, N 134 DEAF AND DUMB. act hi. (The. removes the hair from his face that she may see all his features — then signifies by signs, that nhen he xvas a child she had carried him in her arms.) Rac. It is Julius — it is he, whom we all loved so much ; whose death we so much lamented. Oh yes, yes, I recognize him.— (Falls at his feet.) (The. 7-aises and embraces her.) Dom. And I was such a fool as to tell her she must not come in. Abbe. What a strange but important discovery ! Fra. True. It will doubtless procure us incon- testible evidence. Mrs. F. And this haughty Darlemont will be humbled. That delights me above every thing. Cle. While secretly assisting a fellow-creature in distress, I have supported a witness for the injured Theodore.— Oh, celestial charity ! Rao, Oh that my poor husband were alive ! — But how happens it that this dear youth, whom we thought dead, should now be in Toulouse ? By what miracle Abbe. You shall know every thing, good woman. But tell me — are you so firmly convinced of seeing Julius Count Solar before you, that you will testify this before a court of justice ? Rac. Before God and all the world. Fra. Can you procure us the evidence of some old servants, who as well as yourself knew the young Count in his infancy ? Rac. Oh yes. The coachman's widow is still alive. Dom. And Peter, the groom. He came with his wife to see me only a few days since. They live at no great distance. Mrs. F. They should be sent for immediately. Dom. I'll run Fra. Stay [To the Abbe.) — I have already told you that my friendship for St. Alme makes forbear- ance at first my duty. Let us, therefore go toDar- act iv. DEAF AND DUMB. 135 lemont— let us make our united attack, you with the irresistible arms of nature's interpreter— I with the language of our laws, and all the force which a just cause inspires. — Hardened in villany as he may be, we shall prevail. Abbe, You are right, and I think I know the means, which will ensure success.— {Leads Theodore aside, and informs him, by signs, "what they have re- solved upon. ) Fra.—(To the rest.) — I recommend profound se- crecy to you all. Rac. I promise it. Dom. Be at ease on my account. Mrs, F. As for me, I shall make no such agree- ment. Cie. But dear mother Mrs. F. But dear daughter — you may say what you like, but I will not deprive myself of the plea- sure which I feel in declaring my opinion of this Darlemont. He is an ambitious wretch, who ought to be humbled — an abandoned villain, who ought to be severely punished. YExeimt* ACT THE FOURTH. Scene, a magnificent room in Count Solar's Palace. Enter Darlemont, Dupre', awe? Dubois. Dar. My son not yet returned ? Dub. No, sir. Dar, And forbade you to follow him ? DEAF AND DUMB. ACT IT* Dub. He did, sir. Dar. Can he, in defiance of his father, be at Franval's ? Dub. Scarcely, sir ; for Mr. Franval has just sent to enquire for him. Dar. Go, and remain with the porter till he ar- rives—then tell him to come hither instantly —in- stantly I say. [Exit Dub. Well Dupre, what do you want ? Dup. — (Who, when he entered the room, appeared to be much dejected, draivs forth a purse.) — I come, sir, to return the five-and-twenty Louis d'ors, which you sent, this morning. Dar. Return them ! Why ? — They are the first half-yearly payment of the pension which I lately granted for your services. Dup. I beg, sir, you will take them again. It is impossible I can receive money for a deed which will oppress my heart as long as I live. Dar. Will you never forget this boy, then ? Dup. Never. His image is always present to me. How well do I recollect the look, which he cast towards me, when Dar. No more of this ! What regard could you or any one feel for a mere automaton ? Dup. But you must allow, sir, he had good natu- ral abilities and an excellent heart. Young as he was, whenever he saw a beggar he would relieve him. He knew no greater pleasure than to share all he had with others. And surely, sir, you recollect that he saved your son's life. Mr. St. Alme had thrown stones at a dog till it turned and attacked him. Julius saw the danger, flew like lightning to his assistance, and fell upon the furious beast, by which he received a dangerous wound in his right arm. Dar. How often am I to be reminded of this ? Dvp. Does it not prove that the young Count act iv. DEAF AND DUMB, 137 possessed as much courage as goodness of heart ? — Alas ! Who can know tins better than myself? I was the confidential servant of his father - I attend- ed him during his childhood — yet I (oh, infamous !) I was prevailed upon to forsake him, and become an accomplice in your guilt. Dar. — (Incensed.) — Dupre ! Dup. Yes, sir — an accomplice in your guilt. The man who has deprived an old servant of his peace of mind, after his conduct had been irreproachable for fifty years, ought to hear his complaints and respect his sufferings. Dar. — (Suppresssing his rage— aside.) — I must be calm. — (Aloud.) — My dear Dupre, this excess of sensibility misleads you. Is it possible that, after having possessed my confidence so long, you can betray me ? Dup. Oh, what service would it be? Where could we now expect to find the unfortunate young man ? No. I have promised secrecy, and my promise shall be sacred, but only on condition that you never again remind me of your hateful pension. My con- science is sufficiently oppressed, and shall not be loaded with the still further guilt of taking a bribe, which reflects equal disgrace on the giver and re- ceiver. [Exit. Dar. This fellow's scruples perplex me. Cruel necessity ! to be thus dependant on a menial ! — but what need I fear ? Is not the boy far from his na- tive home ? Was he not left in the very centre of Paris ? He probably passes his life in some religious institution — or perhaps is dead. At all events, how can one in his situation give any account of his ori- gin? Dupre alone — I must treat him kindly — must suppress my rage when in his presence— and above all things never lose sight of him. Oh wealth, wealth, how many humiliations hast thou cost me — how dearly have I paid for the enjoyment of thee ! n 2 138 DEAF AND DUMB, ACT IV. Enter St. Alme. Alme. I obey your summons, sir. Dar. My son, I will once more speak to you — but observe me well — if you do not without hesita- tion accede to my wishes — we see each other for the last time. Where have you spent the morning ? Alme. Dear sir, I am incapable of dissimulation. I am just come from Count d'Harancour. Dar [Alarmed.) — How! Without me! What were you doing at his house ? Alme. I have opened my whole heart to him — I have acquainted him with my affection for Miss Franval. Dar. What ? Had you the audacity Alme . I know I have acted contrary to your will ; but judge, sir, what influence my attachment must have over me, when it can make the idea of dis- pleasing you supportable. Dar. And what said the count ? Alme. Oh, my father ! What a noble exalted soul does he possess ! Dar. What said he ? Answer me. Alme. I will repeat his exact words : " The con- nection between you and my daughter would have gratified me much, and have been a consolation to me in the decline of life — but the choice which you have made is unexceptionable." Dar. —{Whose rage increases.) — How ! Alme. " The ties by which you are united to so amiable a lady must be indissoluble." Dar. Indissoluble ! Alme. My recital seems to make you angry, sir. Dar. Proceed, sir — finish it. Alme.— {With diffidence and timidity.)— At last he assured me that my frank avowal by no means of- fended him — that he approved of the motives by iter rv. DEAF AND DUMB. 139 which I was guided — that he would even exert his influence to obtain your consent. Yes, sir, I hope he will soon be here to unite his entreaties with my own. Dar. And you can even flatter yourself with the idea that I shall listen to his entreaties— that I shall become the plaything of your humours ? Alme. My father ! iDok. Was there ever a man more unfortunate than myself! I became possessed— (He hesitates awhile.)-— of a considerable fortune. I wish, by availing myself of this, to bring about an alliance between my only son, and one of the first families in the province. After having surmounted every difficulty, and removed every prejudice — an ungrate- ful boy defeats my plan, and refuses wealth— rank — consequence — every thing. Alme. Of what value are wealth and rank to me ? —Of what consequence is any title but the title of Clementina's husband ? Dar* Fool ! Thou, who canst despise this wealth and rank, knowest not what it costs to gain them. — {Seizes his arm, and drams him Jbrivard.) — No, I say. Thou knowest not what it costs. Alme. Whatever may have been the sacrifices by which you obtained your present fortune, can they be placed in competition with those, which you de- mand of me ? I love — adore Clementina — and now I can also add— I am beloved by her. Dar. How have you learnt this ? Alme. From herself. Dar. And this confession on the part of a poor and designing woman can make you renounce the splendid prospects, which I open to your view ? Alme. Oh, my father, wound my heart in every way — do any thing, every thing to counteract me — but spare me, I beseech you, the agony of hearing the idol of nay soul calumniated* That I cannot 140 DEAF AND DUMB. ACT IV. bear. — Yes. Clementina has obtained my affection, but not by any designing arts. Her enchanting beauty, her numerous virtues, and unexceptionable birth, were all the snares she used. Dar. — (For a moment confused, and almost ashamed.) — For the last time hear your father's command. You must renounce Miss Franval. Alme. Rather will I die. Dar. — {In a mild tone.) — My peace of mind de- pends upon it. Alme. And my life. Dar. — {In a tone of entreaty?) — Yield to my wishes. Ahne. I love and am beloved. Dar. — [Embracing him.) — My son, I conjure y U Alme. — (Kissing his hand.) — Dear father, I love and am beloved. Dar. — (Pushes him furiously away.) — Enough! Begone.— (Alme again attempts to kiss his hand, which he withdraws.) — Begone, I say. [Exit Alme. (Afer a long pause.) — Never shall I succeed in overpowering so violent a passion. — This alliance with the daughter of Count d'Harancour would have made ray credit equal to my wealth, and would have been a protection against every possible dan- ger. It was my dearest wish — my only ambition. Alas ! My plan is entirely defeated. Enter Dubois. Dub, Mr. Franval requests a private interview, Sir. Dar. Franval the advocate ? Dub. Yes, Sir. Dar. Tell him I am not at home. [Exit Dub. Doubtless he comes to persuade me that this union act iv. DEAF AND DUMB. 141 with his sister is most eligible. Yes, yes. They are all concerned in the plot. These lawyers of repute think themselves equal to any one, and I rejoice it is in my power to humble the arrogance of this Franval. He shall learn Re-enter Dubois. Dub. He has sent me again, Sir, to inform you that he is accompanied by the Abbe del* Epee, in- structor of the deaf and dumb at Paris. Bar— {Alarmed.)— The Abbe deP Epee ! Dub. And that they wish to communicate several circumstances of the utmost importance. Dar.— (Aside, in great confusion.) — What a sus- picion enters my mind ! Every thing combines to torture me. Dub. I wait your commands, Sir. Dar. — (Endeavouring to summon resolution.) — Let- them come. [Exit Dub. Horrible suspicion! — -I must prepare myself. What can have brought this celebrated Abbe to Toulouse ? — W T hat can he want with me ? Is it possible, that after the expiration of eight years, in spite of every precaution, Alas! Shall I never know a moment's peace ? — Ha ! — They come-, Let me be firm. Enter Franval and the Abbe'. Abbe.-- {With a bow.)— Mr. Darlemont Dar. Be seated. — You have requested a private interview. May I ask Fra. A regard for the father of my friend, and a wish to do an act of justice, bring us hither. Dar. Explain yourself if you please. Abbe. — {Minutely observing him.) — I shall surprise you much. Know, sir, that accident, or rather 142 DEAF AND DUMB. act n\ Providence, has delivered your nephew, Count So- lar, into my hands. [Darlemont is extremely agitated. Fra. Yes, sir, your nephew is alive, and in his name the Abbe del' Epee now demands his fortune. Dar. — {Endeavouring to suppress his fears.) — Julius alive, say you ? Ab be. Heaven has rewarded me by preserving his existence. Dar. That would be most welcome news to me — but, alas, it is impossible. The young Count died at Paris eight years ago. Abbe. — (Keenly rivetting his eyes on him.) — Are you sure of that ? Fra. You may have been deceived. Dar. I myself was present — and — Abbe. Plow ! Were you yourself present when he died ? — Did you yourself see the dead body ? Dar. — (Embarrassed.) — Without replying to your interrogatories, 1 think it sufficient if I tell you that the death of Julius Count Solar was, at the time alluded to, legally proved, and rendered indis- putable by a le^al document. Abbe.-^(Stil! observing him very minutely.)— That document is false — I am at this moment more con- vinced of it than ever. Dar. And on what is this conviction founded ? Abbe, Excuse my frankness — on your confusion. Every thing betrays ycu, against your will. Dar. — (Rises.) — Dares any one attach a suspi- cion Abbe, — (Who also rises, as voell as Franval.) — A man, who has studied nature during sixty years, who has traced all her effects to the very causes which produce them — such a man finds it not diffi- cult to read the human heart. With my first look I discovered every thing concealed in yours. Dar. I have nothing to reproach myself with — act iv. DEAF AND DUMB. 14* nor am I bound to give you any account of my con- duct. By what right, indeed, and with what pre- tence do you come hither ? Abbe. By the right of eight years' labour, care, and patience— by the right (which ev^ry worthy man possesses) of assisting a fellow-creature in dis- tress. With what pretensions ? — I have but one ; it is just, and I will enforce it. Heaven entrusted Count Solar to me that I might love him, educate him, and avenge him. The will of Heaven I have hitherto obeyed, and still obey. Dar. Avenge him ! Fra. The rights by which I too appear before you are not inferior to his. My first incitement is the confidence of this celebrated man, who has fixed on me to complete a work than which none was ever yet more honourable to humanity. My second is the duty which my profession demands, to protect the weak against the powerful, and ever assist the oppressed. Dar. Of what oppression are you pleased to speak ? F?-a. As to my pretensions, I too have only one. I wish to be a mediator between you and the young Count. Dar. I do not understand you. Fra. Nothing can counteract his claims. If you have been guilty, you may still make repara- tion. Confide in me, and be assured that next to the orphan's interest nothing in the world shall be more sacred to me than the honour of my friend's father. Dar. But once more I ask what evidence have you that this young man, for whom you so much interest yourselves, is Count Solar? There are many others, who are deaf and dumb. Fra. Every circumstance corroborates it. 144- DEAF AND DUMB. ACT IV. Abbe. The time at which you took him to Paris was the same at which he was brought to me Fra. And the same at w hich his death was re- ported here. His age—his natural defects Ahbe. His striking likeness to his late father Dar. Likeness! Abbe. His joy and agitation on entering this town, and on seeing this palace Fra. The discovery of a former servant Abbe. And finally his own declaration. Dar. His own declaration ! Fro. The statements which he has made with so much confidence and certainty Dar. Statements ! Abbe. Does this astonish you?— You fancied it impossible, I presume, that one unfortunately deaf and dumb Fra. Know that Julius found in this man a se- cond creator ; that, guided by his instructions, nourished by his virtues, inspired by his genius, your nephew has received a complete education. — He is acquainted with the past as well as the pre- sent. Nothing escapes his memory and penetra- tion. Even you Dar. — [With increasing embarrassment.) — No. Never will I acknowledge this stranger. My ne- phew's death was clearly proved, and I am ready before any court of justice to Fra. Reflect what you are about. — More than one old judge is still alive, who may easily recognize in this youth the features of a man whose memory is revered by all Toulouse. Reflect that every in- habitant of this town will be affected by the young Count's return, and the narrative of all that has been done for him by the philanthropic Abbe. Look at this venerable man — count his grey hairs, and you will count his good actions. Once more, be- act iv. DEAF AND DUMB. 145 ware of the courts of justice. You will be con- victed, and branded with infamy for ever. Dar. Your threats alarm me not: for, even if the legal document were to be declared false, the law can only punish those who signed it. Fra. But if witnesses charge you with bribery, and acknowledge themselves to have been accom- plices in your guilt, think you then to escape punish- ment ? Ha ! You shudder. Abbe. The confession trembles on your lips. Re- lieve your heart. Fra. Rid yourself at once of the tortures, which you have so long endured. Abbe. You know not the satisfaction arising from a frank confession of an error. Fra.— {Takes one of his hands.) — Follow our advice. Abbe. — (Takes the other.) — Yield to our entreaties. Dar. — (Tears himself avoay.) — Leave me, leave me. — (Covers his face with both hands.) Abbe.— (Apart to Franval.) — He is alarmed. Now let us strike the decisive blow. — ( Opens the door. J Enter Theodore and Rachel. (Abbe leads Theodore close to Darlemont, so that token the latter turns, his first look must Jail on Theodore.) Dar. — (Aside, vohile he endeavovrs to summon re- solution.) — These two men have so much cunning — so much penetration—but I will brave them. — (Assumes an air of defiance, turns and espies Theo- dore.) — Gracious God ! — (Stands rooted to the spot.) (Theodore gazes intently at Darlemont, shrieks, flies into the Abbe's arms, and indicates by signs that he recognizes his guardian.) Abbe.— (After a pause.) — Now, Sir ! Can you still doubt whether this is Count Solar ? vol. nr. o 146 DEAF AND DUMB. act iv. Dar. — (Most violently agitated.) — This — my nephew ! Fra. How ! Even now do you Dar. If he were Julius — why would he avoid me ? Why would he not come to my arms ? Abbe. If he were not Julius, why this alarm when he espied the author of his sufferings ? Yes. If any doubt had still remained, this evidence of na- ture would completely remove it. Dar. I do not recognize him, and never will, unless legal evidence Abbe. You do not recognize him ! Why, then, do you tremble thus ? Dar. Who? I! Abbe. Wlience that involuntary shriek at sight of the young Count ? Fra. And why now avert your face ? Abbe. In vain do you contend against nature. (Theodore makes farther signs, by which he en- deavours to describe a child, whose clothes are stripped from his body, and exchanged for rags.) Abbe. My pupil himself assures me that he recol- lects you — that it was you who took him to Paris — that it was you who Dar. Enough ! I am weary of your nonsensical remarks. Away ! Leave me, all of you. Fra. — (With energetic dignity.) — We shall not obey your orders. We are in the palace of Count Solar. Dar. Begone, I say — or dread my fury. Enter St. Alme. Ahne. What a strange noise ! Can any one dare to insult my father ? What do I see i Franval ! (Theodore recognizes Alme, and flies with a joyful acclamation into his arms.) act iv. DEAF AND DUMB, H7 Alme. Who is this young man ? Fro. Your cousin Julius — your father's ward. Alme. — {Delighted.) — Is it possible ? Dar. An infamous deception, my son ! Alme. Oh, no, no. It is true that time has altered these features, but I feel that my heart Dor. An infamous deception, I tell you— a snare laid for us. Alme. A snare ! That I can soon decide.— {Ex- amines Theodore's arm, and shetvs a scar.) — 'Tis he. Dar, How ! Alme. Yes — 'tis he. Look at the wound he ob- tained in defending my life. 'Tis he — my preserver. [Embraces Theodore with heartfelt satisfaction* Dar. St. Alme, go to your room. Alme. What! Would you separate Julius and me so soon ? Dar. Go, or tremble. Alme. No. I will stay — even if your curse fall upon me at this moment — even if heaven's lightning blast me on the spot. He was my first friend — the companion of my earliest years. Who can resist the impulse of nature ? [Again clasps Theodore in his arms. (Darlemont, overpowered by shame and fury, throws himself into a chair.) Abbe. And does not even this scene affect you i Can you see all our tears, and be callous ? Oh, Sir, how much I pity you ! Fra. Yield to the power of conviction and cor- roborating circumstances. Oppose us no longer. Your own son Alme. Father, for heaven's sake Dar. Peace ! — {To Abbe and Franval.) — I do not know this young man. Say what you will— produce what proofs you may, I can maintain the validity of a legal document, and my own rights. I insist upon it that you leave my house. 148 DEAF AND DUMB. act iv. Abbe. — (Takes the hand of Theodore.) — Come, then, unfortunate orphan— come, thou weak plant, which the tempest has already bent so low.— (Theo- dore observes a tear in his eye, and gently wipes it away.) — Come. If the law will not avenge thy wrongs; if avarice and ambition drive thee from the habitation of thy fathers, still there is one asylum open to thee— still thou shalt be welcome to the peaceful abode and affectionate heart of DePEpee ! Alme. — (With reverential astonishment.) — DePEpee! (Abbe drains Theodore after him. Both cast a look towards Darlemont, mho sits faith downcast eyes.) (Rachel follows them to the door.) Fra. — (To Darlemont, after embracing Alme.) — If I have hitherto exercised that forbearance which I thought due to the father of my friend, be now assured I will do my duty to its utmost extent, and arm myself with that determination which my abhor- rence of your conduct inspires. Whatever may be the shadow of hope, at which you grasp, whatever reliance you may place upon your wealth and power, be assured, Mr. Darlemont, you shall not escape me. [ Exeunt Franval, Abbe, Theodore, and Rachel. Aime. Franval ! My friend ! In a few moments I will be at your house. Dar.— (Aside.)— At last they are gone. Alme. Hear me, my father. Dar. Away from me ! Alme. It is Julius. Can you still have any doubt ? Dar. Leave me, wretch ! Alme. You draw down destruction on us. Dar. Say rather thou thyself dost this. Madman — Thy rashness— but I will counteract all they can do \_Going. Alme. — (Falls at his feet, and detains him.) - By every thing sacred I conjure you not to be guided by this foul ambition, the end of which must be inevitable ruin. Resign the fortune which belongs ACT V. DEAF AND DUMB. not to us. — (Darlemont in vain attempts to tear him* self away— fire flashes from his eyes.) — Let my inhe- ritance be poverty, but let not my name be dis- honoured. Hear me, nry father You avoid me — you avert your face. My father ! you disgrace us — you disgrace us. — (Darlemont furiously release! himself. The curtain Jails,) ACT THE FIFTH. Scene, the same room as in the second act. Franval is seated at his desk, and near him Theo* dore, idho is reading. The Abbe' walks to and fro, and appears to be much interested in Fran v a l 9 s employment. Mrs. Franval and Clementina are serving, and Clementina often looks with great uneasiness towards her brother. Cle. Dominic stays long. Mrs. F. As usual. Fra.— {Writing.)— I cannot suppress the painful sensations which I experienced in drawing out this appeal. Mrs. F. But I hope, son, you have no longer any idea of sparing this Darlemont. Abbe. He is, indeed, a most abandoned villain. I did not think it possible that he could have with- stood our statements, and above all, the sight of his nephew. Mrs. F. He is a robber, whose punishment can- not be too much hastened. Fra. You are right — but his son Cle. Yes, dear brother. His son certainly excites every one's compassion. o 2 150 DEAF AND DUMB. ACT V. (Abbe looks with penetrating eyes at Clementina, and gives her to understand that he suspects her attachment.) Fra.-(Throu:s the pen axvuy.) — His very name almost breaks my heart. AbbS. I feel the value of the sacrifice you make, but all my hopes rest on you. Fr a.— (Summoning resolution.) — Yes, I promise r y to yon, and vengeance to your Theodore. Pard voluntary agitation of friendship. Abbe. Pardon it ! I admire it. If by the exercise of mercy we could obtain our object, I should be the first to recommend it. But the obdurate Darlemont will yield to nothing but compulsion. The thunder of the law alon can terrify him into obedience. Fra Yes. He may dread its thunder ; for when this appeal has been delivered, nothing can rescue him from infamy. What will then became of his unfortunate son, whose nice ideas of honour — oh, that he might yet succeed in convincing Darlemont how dangerous is his situation, and prevail on him to avoid the dreadful consequences. Mrs. F. The villain will not be convinced, I am certain. Cle. And why not ! If the voice of a father can reclaim an erring son, why may not the voice of such a son operate upon his father's heart. Abbe. — {Observing her.)— I am of your opinion, and place very great reliance on this young man. Enter St. Alme. (He is extremely dejected, and stands in the back- ground unperceived.) Fra.— (Writing.) — Alas! He knows not that the hand which he has so often pressed within his own, is now employed in writing an appeal against his father.— (Alme sighs.) ACT V. DEAF AND DUMB. 151 Abbe. There he is. Fra. — ( Springing from his chair.) — Heavens ! Alme. — {Approaches with dignity.) — Franval, I come not to complain. What you do is right. There are situations in which friendship must give way to duty. (Clementina lets her work Jail into her lap, and is much distressed.) Abbe. Alas, young man, must I, in fulfilling the duty imposed upon me by a heavenly power, wound such a heart as yours ? You know not, Sir, how much this hurts my own. Fra. And judge, St. Alme, what must be my sensations. On one side justice calls me — on an- other friendship. Whether I obey the former or the latter, every step prepares for me some future sorrow. Alme. — (Taking the hands of Franval and the Abbe.) — I acknowledge the value of these noble feelings in their full extent — but let me too fulfil the duty which nature dictates. Let me undertake my father's defence. Fra. Have you any hopes of persuading him to — Alme. He would not listen to me — but spurned me from him — Every thing which honour and filial affection could inspire, I have attempted but no appeal could move him. He insists upon it, that he can prove the death of his ward, and in every other respect preserves a gloomy silence. (The. perceives Alme standing with a dejected mien, throws away the book, and clasps him in his arms. ) Abbe. Does it not almost appear as if Theodore understood what you have said, and wishes to con- sole you ? Alme. — (Returning Theodore's embrace.) — I have him again — after so long a separation. — Alas ! Why must our meeting be embittered by so many sorrows ; 152 DEAF AND DUMB. — But are you both perfectly convinced that my fa- ther is culpable ? Enter Dupre. Dup. — ( Without a hat, and in a kind of delirium.) — For Heaven's sake — Mr. Darlemont has just in- formed me — is it possible— the young Count Solar — Fra.— (Points to the Abbe.)— Here is the man who has preserved his life. Dup. O Heaven ! — (Espies Theodore.) — There he is. I see him again (Theodore hastens towards him with open arms — Dupre sta?'ts back with horror.) — Alas ! He thinks that he only beholds in me the servant who attended him in childhood. He knows not that I am unworthy of his favour— that I myself was instrumental in depriving him of his inheritance. Alme. You, Dupre ? (The. after observing the signs of the Abbe, stands for an instant rooted to the spot, then walks away with a look of astonishment and anguish.) Dup. But he must also know my agony and pe- nitence— he must allow me to die at his feet. [_Falls at Theodore's/^. Fra. — (Raises him.) — Compose yourself, and tell us. Alme. He alone attended my father and the Count to Paris. Fra. — (To Dupre.) — This was about eight years ago. Dup. It was, Sir. On the very evening that we arrived, Mr. Darlemont ordered me to procure some beggar's rags, that we might clothe little Julius in them. Abbe. And in those rags he was brought to me. Dup. As soon as that was done, his uncle took him away in a hackney-coach, and returned alone some hours after. I was astonished, and pressed him to account for it, till he at length entrusted me act v. DEAF AND DUMB. 153 with his confidence, and told me he had now exe- cuted a project which he had devised long since, by leaving the 3'oung Count to his fate in the middle of Paris. Alme. — {In a faultering voice.) — Could my father be guilty of such a base, inhuman crime ? Dup. In order to obtain possession of the Count's estates, it was necessary that his death should be legally proved. Two witnesses were wanting for this purpose — the one was our landlord — who, tempted by money — Alme. — {Lays his hand on Dupre's mouth.) — Wretch ! — {After a pause.) — But no. Proceed. Fra. And the second witness — Dup. Was myself. (Abbe makes Dupre's confession known to Theo- dore, by seeming to write a few lines on his left hand y then by shutting his eyes and letting his head fall on his breast, by which he expresses death. Theodore comprehends him, and looks ivith abhorrence at Dupre.) Dup. In a few days we left Paris — and, assisted by this false testimony — Aline. Hold ! — I am no longer allowed to doubt — Oh, what torture does a parent's guilt inflict upon his son ! — {Sinks into a chair.) Dup. Since that day, my peace of mind never has returned. Heaven is just, and has saved the innocent victim. I am ready to make a public con- fession, and deliver myself into the hands of justice. I know the rigour of the law. I know what punish- ment awaits me, and willingly submit to it. Happy shall I be, if, by my death, 1 make some atonement for my guilt. Alme. — {Springs up suddenly.)— Yes — it must be so— Follow me, unhappy man. — {Draws Dupre away.) Dup. Do with me what you please. Fra. — {Detaining Alme.)— St. Alme, whither go you ? 154 DEAF AND DUMB. act v. Ahne. Wherever despair may lead me. Abbe. Reflect that Theodore — Alme. The sight of him increases my torment. Fra. What would you do ? Alme. Avenge him, or die. Abbe. — ( Also detaining him. J — You are not capa- ble at present. Alme. Let me go. — My father ! my father ! — ( Tears himself away., and rushes out, drawing Dupre after him. ) ( Abbe makes signs, by which he relieves Theo- dore, who was in great distress during the above scene.) (Cle. is extremely dejected, and is still minutely observed by the Abbe.) Mrs. F. At last, then, we are fully acquainted with the villany of this Darlemont. Fra. To avail himself of a helpless child's defects, to abuse the confidence of a dying friend and rela- tive — I must own the evidence of this old servant was necessary to make such conduct credible. Mrs. F. And can you still hesitate, son ? Will you wait till his wealth and influence counteract your intentions ? Abbe. Allow me also to remark, that Theodore is not the only person to whom 1 am attached by duty and affection. All the pupils whom I left at Paris suffer by my absence, and every moment is of value to me. Fra. Yes — I should be culpable were I to wait any longer. — Sign the appeal. — (Abbe and Theodore sign it.) Cle. — {Aside.) — All hopes are at an end, then. Enter Dominic and Rachel. Mrs. F. So, you are returned at last, Dominic. Well ! Have you brought nobody but Rachel with you P DEAF AND DUMB. 155 Dom.—(Out of breath.) — It is not my fault — I have run — and enquired — and sought First we went to the old groom's house— old Peter — but he and his wife went out of town this morning. line. Then we went in search of the coachman's widow— Dom. But nobody was at home. The neighbours, however, promised to send them as soon as they re- turned. Fra. I hope you concealed our reasons for want- ing them. Dom. Of course, of course, Sir. Fra. — ( Takes the appeal and his hat.) — Let us go, then. — [To the Abbe.) — You and your pupil must accompany me. — ( To his mother and sister, the lat- ter of whom is in the greatest distress..) — Should St. Alme return during our absence, try to console him — you, especially, Clementina. Convince him how much it hurts me to proceed, but a single moment's delay may be injurious to the young Count, by fur- nishing his opponent with arms against him. — Let us instantly go. — ( Going. ) Cle. 1 hear some one on the stairs. Dom.— (At the door.) —It is Mr. St. Alme.— How wild his looks are ! Enter St. Alme, without hat and sword, Alme. Friend, Friend! — [Falls breathless into the arms o/'Franval, who supports him to a chair. Theo- dore flies to his assistance with heartfelt sympathy. All surround him.) Fra. St. Alme ! Rouse yourself. Alme. — {Scarcely able to speak,) — My father — Fra. Explain yourself. Alme. My father— Abbe. Pray proceed. 156 DEAF AND DUMB. act v. Alme. Overpowered by Dupre's recital, I has- tened home — My father had locked himself in his cabinet— I broke open the door— Dupre followed me — told him he had confessed every thing — that he was going to deliver himself as well as his em- ployer into the hands of justice. " I have shared your guilt," said he, " you shall share my punish- ment." This threat alarmed my father much — I availed myself of the decisive moment, and placed the point of my sword to my breast. " Rather than be thus dishonoured, I will die upon the spot," said I. " Instantly will I plunge this sword to my heart, unless you acknowledge my cousin Ju- lius." — My declaration, the infamy which awaited him if still obstinate, and the certainty of my death, had at length their effect. — Nature was victoroius — my father w< s moved — and with a trembling hand — wrote these lines.— (Draws a paper from his bosom, and delivers it to Franval.) Fra.— (Reads.) — " I acknowledge the pupil of the Abbe Del* Epee, called Theodore, to be Julius Count Solar, and am ready to replace him in all his rights. Darlemont." Abbe. — (Takes off his cowl.) — Almighty God, ac- cept my thanks. — (Takes the paper from Franval, and presents it to Theodore.) Fra.— (To Alme.) — Oh my friend! of what a burden you relieve my heart ! — (Tears the appeal.) (The. reads the paper— falls at the Abbe's feet— kisses his hand — springs up, transported with joy — hangs on FranvaPs neck—ihen approaches Alme— observes him attentively—appears to be suddenly struck with some idea— -hastens to the desk — and writes a few lines under Darlemont's confession.) Fra. What means this ? Abbe. I know not. Alme. He seems much agitated. act v. DEAF AND DUMB. 157 Cle. Tears drop from his eyes. (The. approaches, lays Alme's hand upon his hearty and delivers the paper to him.) Alme. — {Reads.) — " I cannot be happy at the ex- pence of my first friend. I give him half my fortune. He must not refuse it. We were used in former days to share every thing as brothers. Our hearts are re-united, and we must not forget our former customs." — Oh Heavens ! — (Clasps The. in his arms. ) Abbe. — (Deeply affected.)—! am richly rewarded for every thing I have done. Rac. The image of his generous father ! — ( To the Abbe.) — May I hope to pass my remaining days in the young Count's family I Abbe. Yes, good woman — you and all the ser- vants, who are still alive. Fra. But on condition, Rachel, that you, like every one here, observe a sacred silence as to what has happened. Alme. Oh, why cannot I wash away the recollec- tion with my blood ?— How shall I ever bear it. Abbe. — {With a friendly smile, and a glance toivards Cle.) — If this young lady would endeavour to erase the recollection Fra. Nothing can escape your penetration. Mrs. F. You surely forget that such an alliance — Abbe. Will crown the wishes of an amiable pair, whose happiness I gladly would promote. Mrs. F. Indeed, Sir, you of all men in the world are most likely to gain my consent — for Avho cam witness your good actions, and oppose your will ? (Abbe turns to The. places one of his hands tzvice in the other, and seems to put a ring on his finger. The. joins the hands of Alme and Cle. — then presses them to his heai't.) Cle. What a blissful moment ! How little did I anticipate it ! VOL. III. P DEAF AND DUMB. act v. Alme. I feel my happiness— but no one must ex- pect I can describe it. Fra, My feelings can only be equalled by my admiration. — (To the Abbe.) — Generous man, how proud must you be of your pupil ! Compare him as he now stands before us with what he once was, and rejoice in the completion of your work. Abbe. — (In the midst of the group.) — He has found his home — he again bears the respectable name of his ancestors, and I already see him surrounded by many, whom he has made happy. I have not a wish ungratified. Almighty ruler of the world, summon me away as soon as it is thy pleasure to receive me. My bones will rest in peace ; for I have finished my career with a good action. THF, END. THE INDIAN EXILES, A COMEDY, IN THREE ACTS. FROM KOTZEBUE, DRAMATIS PERSONA'. MEN. Mr. Trad ELY , formerly a rich Merchant. Samuel, Comptroller of the Customs, ) g 6ns Kobert, Master of a Vessel, J Hurry, a Custom-house Officer. Jack, a Sailor. -Staff, a lean Notary. JStuff, a fat Notary. Tom, a Boy. Caberdar, formerly Nabob of Mysore. Ganem, his old Companion. Fazir, a young East Indian. WOMEN'. Mrs. Traoely, a German Lady of high birth, Lydia, Daughter of Tradely. Gurli, Daughter of Caberdar. The Seenc lies in Mr. Tradely's House, at an English Port. THE INDIAN EXILES. ACT THE FIRST. Scene, a Room with a large Door in the Centre, and a smaller one at each Side. Tradely is discovered in a Chair mounted on wheels : his gouty Leg is covered with Flannel. At his side sits Lydia, with a Newspaper in her Hand. Trad. Oh ! Oh ! O— h ! Lydia. Dear Sir, is your foot painful again ? Trad. It is indeed, good Lydia. It feels as if a band of Hottentots were dancing in every toe. Lydia. Poor father ! Trad. Kind Lydia ! Lydia. How I wish I could relieve you ! Trad. That very wish is a relief to me. You are the only being in this house who tends my fast de- clining health. Lydia. Oh, no, Sir ! Trad. Yes, Lydia, I vow to Heaven you are my only comfort. Lydia. You forget that you have sons. Trad. Rather say they forget they have a father. Eighteen years ago, I, like a fool, murmured when p 2 162 THE INDIAN EXILES. Providence bestowed on me a daughter. Sons I would have— brisk, active lads. They, thought I, make their way better through the world. Yes, yes, they do make their way, and leave their poor old father in the lurch. There's Samuel Lydia. The multiplicity of his business Trad. Pshaw ! Gratitude to his parents ought to be the first business of every child. Then there's Robert Lydia. —( With great sympathy.) — Well, dear Sir, Robert Trad. Your eye sparkles whenever I mention his name, Lydia. Why, yes, Robert is better than his brother. Lydia. Oh, he loves you most sincerely. Trad. Much of his love can I feel at the distance of a thousand miles. There is he, traversing un- known seas, while the gout is traversing every limb of my frame. Lydia. Indeed, Sir, he knows no sorrow but the recollection of that. He will now, perhaps, soon return. I look at the weathercock every morning ; and if he should bring riches with him, if he should convert our poverty to comfort. — This, Sir, a son may do, while a daughter must remain at home, and can shew her affection in nothing but nursing a sick father. Trad. I value your attention to me more than if Robert were to bring me the riches of the Indies. Dear Lydia, when I read in your eyes how you sympathize in my distress, you know not how I feel. You often think your father is asleep, because his eyes are closed. No, Lydia, he is praying for you. But, as for your mother and Samuel — Well, well ! if I have no cause to bless them as a husband and father, let me at least forgive them as a christian. Lydia. May I then beg your blessing ? [Kneels. act i. THE INDIAN EXILES. 163 Trad. — (Laying his hand upon her.) — God bless you ; and may he prolong ray life till I have seen you comfortably settled ! — God bless you ! Lydia. And my brother Robert. Trad, Him too. Lydia. And Samuel ? Trad. Hold, Lydia ! You heard what I but just now said. He has the blessing of his mother. Lydia. How unhappy is this disagreement in so small a family ! Trad. Who is the cause of it ? Your mother. Is she not for ever tormenting me from morn to night? for ever reminding me of my unmerited bankruptcy? for ever sneering at my respectable descent, and pluming herself on German ancestry ? Does she not starve me ? Does she not squander the little money which these few houses still produce ? Did you hear how I begged last night for a little Madeira, as pre- scribed by the physician ? Your mother and Samuel went to the play, while I was obliged to sleep away my wishes. Lydia. Dearest father, to-day you shall want nothing. Trad. I thank you, Lydia. Oh that some honest man were as nearly acquainted with the goodness of your heart as I am, and would marry you ! I would go, and dwell with you till death. — (Speaking in a lo^cr voice, and pointing to the opposite door.) — The stranger seems to be pleased with you. Lydia. — (Alarmed.) — With me ! Trad. I have more than once thought so. He is, to be sure, not very 3'oung ; but he seems to be an upright man ; and your affections are disengaged ? Lydia. — {Confused.) — They are, Sir. Trad. W T hat a provision would this be for your poor father ! W^ell ! let us leave it to time — Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! — There it flies again from my foot to my knee. 164. THE INDIAN EXILES. Lydia. It is, perhaps, caused by your talking so much — (Looking at the newspaper.) — Shall i go on? Trad. Do. I may, perhaps, be able to sleep a little. Lydia. Will it not be better if we go into your own room ? for in this there is always so much noise, both on our side and the lodger's. Trad. No, Lydia ; I will stay here. I shall not be allowed to wink in my own room. Be the noise as great as it may, I can bear it. Any thing is better than the voice of a scolding wife. Lydia. —{Reading.) — Paris, twenty sixth of Jan- uary Trad. Or — better still, Lydia. Will you play a tune, or sing a song ! Lydia. Most certainly. — {She seats herself at the harpsichord, and plays or sings till she sees herjather is asleep; then rises.) — He sleeps. Now, quick! Tom must have been waiting a long time for my signal. — {Goes to the window and makes signs.)— He understands me. — ( Returns and takes a pair of gloves out of her work-bag.)— If my mother should surprise me — or that suspicious spy, Samuel — or if my father should awake — (Looking towards him.) — Heavens ! how confused should I be ! Enter Tom. Hist ! Hist ! Softly ! He is asleep. Tom. You have kept me long, Miss. Lydia. Well ! well ! you shall have a penny more for it. Now, take this pair of gloves. Tom. To sell again ? Lydia. Yes. Tom. What am I to ask for them ? Lydia. A crown is the very lowest price. I have been employed five nights in netting them. Tom. That makes no difference to the buyer. If THE INDIAN EXILES. IGg he likes them, he'll never ask whether you worked five nights or five minutes at them. Lydia. Don't talk so loud. You may wake my father. Tom. Well ! I'm going. Lydia. Stop ! I have something more to tell you. When you have sold the gloves, go to the tavern at the corner of the street, and buy a pint of Madeira. Tom. Well? Lydia. Then wait at the usual place for my signal. Tom. I will. Lydia. Go, then. Tom. Your servant, Miss. [Exit. Lydia. Best of fathers ! How limited are your de- sires ! To my work again ! — [Beginning to sew.) — How sweet it is to work for a parent ! Enter Samuel, tvith Hat and Stick. Good morning, brother ! Sam. Good morning!— (Aside.) — Hem! Question: Is all safe ■ — (Feeling in his pockets.) — There is the key of the desk — there, of the closet — there, of the great trunk. Answer : All right. [Going. Lydia. I fear you have forgotten the principal key, brother. Sam. Principal ! Question : What can that be ? Lydia. The key of your heart, which you certainly have lost, and which I shrewdly suspect to be stolen by the little Indian girl who lodges here. Sam. Don't be afraid of that. I own she did just gently open the door, for who, alas ! can be, at all times, on his guard ? But be assured, Lydia, I have, on this, as on all other occasions, taken the necessary precautions. Ldyia. Precautions against love ! Pray let me hear what they are. 166 THE INDIAN EXILES. Sam. — (Significantly.) — You find the want of them do you, Miss Lydia ? Lydia. — (Confused.) — 1 ? Sam. Yes, you. Do you think I never discovered that ? The young fool of an East Indian, who is at sea with Robert, and whose history he so carefully conceals, has (between ourselves) taken my sister's heart upon the voyage with him. Lydia. I thank you for the compliment, brother. You first call him a fool, and then suppose me to be in love with him. Sam. Yes, yes. Love has bewildered you. My dear sister, when a person runs to the window about twenty times a-day to see how the wind blows Lydia. That I do for the sake of my brother Robert. Sam, Robert has often been at sea before, but never did Miss Lydia grieve so much as when he last sailed. Moreover when a person blushes at the bare mention of a certain name, when a person's pocket book contains a certain miniature, I beg leave to ask : Is this love ? Answer : Yes. Lydia. And I beg leave to ask : When a person opens his sister's pocket book without her leave, is he a mean dishonourable fello'v ? Answer : Yes. Sa7n. What! in a pet ! Is it my fault that other people are not so careful of their pocket book as I of mine ? Enter Mrs. Tradely. Mrs. T. Tres grand. Tres noble ! When dinner is ready, you swarm about it like wasps, but never think of coming near me in a morning. Sam. The duties of my office have engaged me. Mrs. T.—(To Lydia.)— And you ? Lydia. I have been reading the newspaper to my father. ACT I. THE INDIAN EXILES. 167 Mrs. T. But I have heard you prating together some time. What was the subject of your conver- sation ? Lydia. Oh, nothing of consequence. I was joking with my brother. Sam. And I was talking very seriously to my sister. Mrs. T. About whom, or what? Lydia. About the wild girl who has lodged with us for the last four months. Sam. About the wild lad who has been wandering with Robert (Heaven knows where) for the last twelve months. Lydia. She has, in spite of his ever avowed cau- tion, made a conquest of him. Sam. He has, in spite of her never avowed giddi- ness, made a conquest of her. Mrs. T. Why, surely the creatures have both lost their»senses. Sam. I am perfectly satisfied with mine. Mrs. T. That is a certain sign they are gone. — Man is never satisfied with any thing but his sense ; and the less he has, the better satisfied is he. But, sans badinage, I hope neither of you is capable of seriously harbouring such grovelling ideas ; for though, by your father's side, you are but of vulgar extraction, the blood of ancient noblesse flows in the veins of your mother. — [Looks at them as if in expec- tation of an answer. Lydia sews, and Samuel plays with the string of his cane. She raises her voice, and places her arms a-Mmbo.) — How ! What ! Point de reponse ! Shall 1 then live to see my eldest son mar- ried to a vagabond ? Sam. Be cautious, honoured mamma, be cautious. Our lodger may overhear every word. Mrs. T. — (Jb Lydia.) — And you ! Could you so far forget your Maker and your rank, as to bestow your hand upon a heathen, who is nobody into the bargain ? 168 THE INDIAN EXILES. Lydia. — (In a tone of supplication.) — Speak lower, dearest mother. My father is asleep. Mrs. T. What! Would the girl attempt to re- strain my tongue? Asleep indeed! — (Turning to Tradely, and bawling still louder.) — He shall awake. He shall assist me in combating the follies of his children. Holla ! Mr. Tradely, I say ! Trad. —(Starting from his sleep.) — O — h ! Mrs. T. What's the matter now ? Trad. My leg. Mrs. T. Forget your leg. We are talking about things of far greater consequence to you. Trad. I should like to know what can be of greater consequence to me than my own limbs. Mrs* T. Ten thousand things. You ought to forget you leg. Trad. — (Allowing her to be right.) — Very true. Oh! O— h! Mrs. T. A gouty leg is good for nothing. Trad. Nothing at all. Mrs. T. Had you been blessed with a liberal edu- cation, you would have known that the ancient Stoics did not consider pain as any affliction. Trad. The ancient Stoics never had the gout, then. Mrs. T. Mr. Tradely, your illiterate vulgarity is unpardonable. You have been blessed with a wife of rank, and have consequently had many opportu- nities of improving yourself. How often have I re- peated, and how often must I repeat to you, that nothing is so certain to make a healthy person feel the horrors of ennui, as to hear an invalid constantly complaining of his maladies ? Trad. Well, then, for Heaven's sake, talk of some- thing else. Mrs. T. That I should have done long since, if you would have allowed me to speak. There stands your son, Mr. Samuel Tradely, and there your daughter, Miss Lydia Tradely. THE INDIAN EXILES. 169 Trad. I see them. Mrs. T. They are both mad. Trad. Both! Mrs. T. This amiable youth wants to marry a run-away Indian wench. Sam. To marry ! Who said any sucli thing. To be sure, if the question were : Does the girl please me ? the answer would certainly be, yes. But before I could determine on so momentous and awful a particular as matrimony, a hundred thousand circumstances must be considered, mil- lions of obstacles must be removed, and an innu- merable list of requisites must be adjusted. Trad. Yes, my dear, you need not be afraid. Samuel will not be too hasty, I am sure. Sam. No. Indeed I shall not. Trad. But if in this case he should, it will be ihe first wise step he ever took in his life. The girl is bewitching. Her careless easy air must en- chant every one. Mrs. T. Tres noble! A remark perfectly worthy of your low-born mercantile ideas. You seem, Mr. Tradely, as usual, to have forgotten the two most material points, the axis upon which the whole moral world turns. Trad. And those are Mrs. T. Birth and fortune. Sam. Very true. Trad. With regard to fortune, I must, to my sor- row, confess she is right. Sam. Perfectly right. Trad. I, nevertheless, hope the girl will not be wanting in this respect. Her father lives privately, but well. He owes no one a farthing, and pays us our weekly rent at the very hour. Lydia. He is very charitable, too. Mrs. T. Dion Dieu ! Let us hear no more of your calculations, Mr. Tradely. You are ever re- vol, in, Q 170 THE INDIAN EXILES. act i. minding us you have been in trade — and have been it is indeed. Who in his senses ever reckoned re- gular payment a sign of wealth ? The richest people are in debt to the whole world. But passe pour cela! If this be granted, the most essential point still remains undecided : or perhaps you think punctual payment a proof of an illustrious deriva- tion too. Trad. Not I, indeed ; but I consider this point to be superfluous ; and in the choice of a wife (I mean if I might chuse again) I should prefer a handsome good tempered girl, to a hump-backed vixen with a dozen generations of ancestors. Mrs. T. Monjils! Have you a smelling bottle? Sam. Oh, yes, honoured mamma ! [Presents it. Mrs. T. Lydia, support me. I shall faint. Trad. You need not take the trouble, my dear. I shall pay no regard to it. Mrs. T. No wonder were it, if the spirits of my great forefathers hovered about me at this instant. 94 Such is her fete," may they contemptuously ex- claim, " who demeaned herself to be a merchant's wife. Such is her fate, for whose hand the nobles of the German Empire sued, and who preferred to them a man sans education, sans savoir vivre, sans principes nobles, a bankrupt, a cripple, a beggar " Trad. Lydia, help me, to my chamber. Mrs. T. What! Do you think I can't follow you? I'll be with you soon, I promise you. Trad. Then, Lydia, help me to my grave. Mrs. T. But first a word or two with you my son. [Lydia pushes Tradeley's chair off. True it is, Samuel, you have reached the age when you may think of matrimony. Sam. And I do think of it. Mrs. T. Yes, but you have been thinking for five years, and are advanced no farther. Sain. Caution is the mother of wisdom. THE INDIAN EXILES. 171 Mrs. T, Your caution is an ignis Jatuus, which will lead you into a morass. Sam. What a simile, honoured mamma ! Can caution be an ignis fatuus? Answer : No. Is Gurli a morass ? Answer : No. Rather may she be com- pared to a flower-garden, or a flowery meadow, or a floriferous lawn. Mrs. T. Yes, but some flowers grow under hedges. Sam. They are not on that account less fragrant. Airs. T. Fi done, mm jih ! Do not thus disgrace my blood. A girl of no birth, an Indian, conse- quently a heathen, a giddy, light-headed creature, whose father is a dry old ape, known by nobody, and perhaps not worth a shilling ! Sam. As to her birth, you know, mother, we pay no great regard to that in England. Mrs. T. Alas ! no. A peer and a porter here enjoy equal privileges. Sam. That she is a heathen Mrs. T. Well, well ; that is not of such material consequence. Sam. Giddy and light-headed ? Answer : She is young. A steady man may convert her into a steady wife. Her father a dry old ape ? To this I naturally answer: Mr. Samuel Traclely would marry the daughter, not the father. I can, therefore, have nothing to do with that. But the most essen- tial point upon which my honoured mamma has touched is the fortune. In order to learn this, I have with proper caution and circumspection sta- tioned spies at different posts. Mrs. T. Ancl were you to find her rich, could you be so ignoble as to form a resolution ? Sam. Resolution ! Hold, I beseech you, for you quite alarm me. I verily believe that if any one were, at this moment, to convince me that the girl was a princess, and her father worth whole tons of 172 THE INDIAN EXILES. gold, I should, nevertheless, tremble at the bare idea of forming a resolution. Mrs. T. You are a fool. [Exit. Sam. A fool ! A fool ! — ( Walks to a looking glass \ and adjusts his cravat.) — Do I look like a fool ? An- swer: No. JLnter Gurli, in a careless English Dress. Her hair fiovos rather wildly over her Shoidders. Gurli. — (Talking to some one as she enters.) — But I won't. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! How strange it is ! The people never asked me, but have put a great round thing upon a tower, and when it grunts many times, Gurli must eat her breakfast ; but Gurli is not hun- gry, and won't eat her breakfast. Sam — (Aside.) — Quite alone! What an admi- rable opportunity to sound her ! — but with caution. — (Aloud.) — Beauteous Gurli, good morning to you. Gurli. Good morning, silly man. Sam. — ( Starts. ) — Silly man ! What can she mean ? Miss Gurli, give me leave to say you are rude. Gurli Oh ! Don't mind that. Gurli means no harm ; but she always laughs when she sees you. Smn. Laugh at me ! I must naturally ask why ? Gurli. That I don't know myself. I think it is because you always look as if the welfare of Bengal rested on your shoulders ; and are as long in step- ping over a little ditch, as if it were the great Ganges. Sam. I perceive that in the East Indies educa- tion is still very much neglected. Children talk of matters which they do not understand. Gurli. But Gurli is not a child. She is soon to be married. Sam. — (Alarmed.) — Married ! Indeed! THE INDIAN EXILES. 173 Gurli. Yes, my father says so. Sain. To whom ? Gurli. That I don't know. Sam. Then your father has not fixed on any one ? Gurli. No. He says I am to fix on one myself. Sam. Indeed ! Is the choice left entirely to your- self? I could almost ask, beauteous Gurli, whether you have yet cast your eye upon any one ? Gurli. I often cast my eye here and there, but my heart moves no more than a bird in its nest. Sam. Charming ! Excellent ! I could almost ask, most lovely Gurli, how you like me ? Gurli. You ! I don't like you at all. Sam. Not so hasty. Why need you tell a person to his face that you don't like him ? Gurli. Because you asked me. Sam. I did, to be sure, but— {Aside.)— I think it will be right to advance a little Gurli. — {Yawning.)— Gurli has not slept enough — Sam — (Aside.) — But with caution, with caution. Gurli. Or silly Samuel tires me. Sam. — ( Aside. ) — How shall I begin now ?— {Aloud.) — Blessed, thrice blessed will be that man, whose happy lot it will be to pluck the sweetest flower which the odoriferous zephyrs ever opened from its bud. Gurli. — (Laughing.) — This is all Sanscrit to Gurli ; and no one understands that except our Bramins. Sam. — {Peevishly.) — I spoke in the Oriental style; but I perceive my language must be plain and simple. Gurli. Yes. Gurli likes that best. Sam. Pity it is that wisdom forbids such lan- guage. _ Gurli. But wisdom does not forbid Gurli to run away when you tire her. LGoing. Q 2 174 THE INDIAN EXILES. Sayn. Stay but one moment, beauteous Gurli. I would willingly speak plainly — express myself more plainly— address you in the plainest manner — did I but know whether your father — whether he stands in need of support ? Gurli. I don't understand you. Sam. I mean 1 only wish to imply that I would willingly render him any assistance if he were unfortunate. Gurli. — (With sudden gravity.) — Unfortunate ! Sam. — [Very inquisitively.) — Yes, unfortunate. I could almost ask whether it is so ? ' Answer me. Gurli. — {Weeping.) — Oh yes! My poor father is unfortunate. Sam. — (Aside.)— There we have it ! Gurli. And you would assist him ? I must kiss you for that. [Kisses him. Sam.— (Much confused.) — Yes. I mean if it be in my power. It is right to assist a neighbour in distress : for no person can say how soon it may be his own lot to want it. Gurli. Oh, you can't help him, and Gurli can't help him. Sam. — ( Aside. ) — Thanks to caution ! How nearly had I coupled myself with a beggar ! — (Aloud.) — Yet I hope his circumstances are not in so despe- rate a state, but that he will be able to discharge the rent of his lodgings for the last week. Not on my own account 1 would do any thing in my power for him but my father is apt to be harsh on such occasions. Gurli. The rent ! Sam. Yes, yes, the rent. Gurli. Are you awake ? Sam. I believe so. Gurli. Ha! Ha! Ha! I'll tell you what. If my father chose to do it, he could pay you the rent of THE INDIAN EXILES. 175 his lodgings, and all the house, twenty times twenty times, foolish man. \_Exit laughing. Sam. Quite a mystery to be sure but I will not relax my vigilance and caution. Foolish too ? Twice to day have I been called a fool, but both times by women. I therefore naturally ask : Ought a wise man to pay any attention thereto ? No. Enler Hurry. Hurry. Glad Pve found you. Glad I've found you. I've ran all the way as quick as thought. Sam. Well, my dear Hurry, have you remem- bered my directions ? Have you been sounding with the necessary care and caution ? Hurry. I have. Pve been scampering swift as lightning into every street. Pve dogged him as quick as thought into every corner, and have gathered not a little intelligence, I promise you. Sam. In the first place, then, with regard to his rank ? Hurry. Of that I must own I can learn nothing. Not a soul knows one syllable respecting it. That he is an East Indian all agree, because he himself avows it ; but whether from the coast of Malabar, or the coast of Coromandel, I have, in the utmost haste, not been able to learn. Thus much is certain, no vessel brought him hither ; and it is the general opinion, that he came by land from Portsmouth. Sam. In the next place, with regard to his fortune ? Hurry. In that respect I shall have the honour as quick as thought to serve you with a clear and circumstantial account. Notwithstanding the humble clothing of this man, and of all his family ; notwith- standing the solitary dish, which daily appears upon his table ; notwithstanding the clear spring-water, 176 THE INDIAN EXILES. act i. which is his only beverage, I pronounce him swift as lightning one of the richest inhabitants of this port. Sam. I must now naturally ask why ? Hurry. Because he throws his money away as quick as thought. Sam. How so ? [lurry. Allow me to relate the particulars with- out delay. Last week the house of Brown and Belton was on the point of stopping payment. It was generally rumoured upon 'Change, and, as usual on such occasions, one said he pitied them, another shrugged his shoulders, a third Sam. Well, well, to the point. Hurry, Instantly Caberdar, whom I followed swift as lightning, went round, and made enquiries among the merchants. They told him that Brown and Belton were good honest people, who had been caught in a snare without deserving it. Quick as thought sits he down, and writes a note to Brown and Belton, containing these words : " If ten thou- sand pounds will save your credit, I will lend you this sum without interest for six months." Brown and Belton, who never saw the man, are astonished and transported, honour their drafts, transact their business swift as heretofore, and revere the East Indian as a saint. Sam. Heavens! what want of caution! He must have a son-in-law to manage his affairs ; a careful, cautious, circumspect, considerate man. But pro- ceed, my dear Hurry. You have, to be sure, proved that this Caberdar was once worth ten thousand pounds ; but at the same time you have proved that he was so great a blockhead as to throw them away. The question therefore is Hurry. Whether he has enough left to deserve the attention of a steady man. In that respect I will as quick as thought have the honour to satisfy act r. THE INDIAN EXILES. 177 you. You know the fine estate called Glenmore Lodge, so capitally stocked with fish, flesh, fowl and fruit, and which also possesses the admirable quali- fication of being only half an hour's ride from the town. The young prodigal who lately succeeded to it, has been obliged to sell it, and swift as lightning- has our East Indian bought it. Sam. How ! Are you sure of this ? Hurry. Ay, and quick as thought has he paid for it. Sam. Hem! This deserves consideration. I must endeavour to gain further intelligence on the sub- ject; and should the report prove true, Gurli will have a fortune which will cast a veil over her nume- rous imperfections. Upon 'Change I may hear more. Have you any thing further to communicate. Hurry ? Hurry. Nothing material. He speaks but little — he chews some Indian herb. He has so great a reverence for cows, that when he sees a herd of them, he bows thrice to the earth. He bathes daily. He distributes alms at new and full moon. Sam. Yes, yes, he wants a son-in-law, indeed. This mist of folly will then be dispersed by the sun of reason. I'll prove to him that a cow has no more right to be revered than an ass. I'll prove to him that neither at new or full moon, does caution allow the distribution of alms. In short, if the purchase of Glenmore Lodge be true, my marriage with Gurli cannot be wrong. Meanwhile, my dear Hurry, farewell Continue to be diligent, observant, un- wearied, and, above all things, cautious. Let your five senses be ever on the watch. The gratitude of my disposition is known to you ; and if it be at any time asked, whether I will with pleasure serve you in return, the answer will always be : Yes. \_Kxit. Hurry. And if it be at any time asked, whether I should like to kick you down stairs as quick as thought, the answer will always be : Yes, After all ITS THE INDIAN EXILES. act u my trouble, to be fobbed off with a few empty words. But thus it is in this world. There is scarcely an honest man in service, that has not a person worse than himself above him. If it be a man's wish to eat his morsel of bread in peace, he must bow to empty heads, and swollen paunches, as Caberdar does to cows and oxen. — (Shrugging his shoulders.) — Well ! Pie is my superior, and sometimes shuts an eye when I open a purse so swift as lightning to serve him again ! — (Creeps to Tradely's door, and puts his ear to the key-hole.) — I hear a noise at a dis- tance. — (Pause.) — Ay, it is old Mrs. Trariely's eternal croak. — (Pause.) — Damn those canary birds! What a noise they make ! Quick ! Quick ! — {Runs to Caberdar's door.)— There all is still as death. — (Pause.) — But no; Gurli is humming a tune.— (Pause.) — I dare say she sings very melodiously ; but it will not satisfy my curiosity. — (Runs again to the opposite door.) — Here they are all as still as mice, for a wonder. — (Pause.) — Now Miss Lydia is begin- ning to talk. — (Pause.) — There, again ! The devil choke those canary birds! If a word be spoken, they are sure to— (Runs again to the other door, but scarcely has he placed his ear at the key-hole, ivhen Ganem opens Lhe door, and almost knocks him down.) Ganem. — (Always speaking with honest dryness.) — What is your will, good friend , ? Do you want me ? Hurry. Not exactly. Ganem. Or my master ? Hurry. I can't say I do. Ganem. Or the daughter of my master ? Hurry. Were I to say so, I should not speak the truth. Ganem. Then must your visit have been intended for this wooden door, for in that room dwell only three persons my master the daughter of my master — j — and I. Hurry. — (Who recovers from his confusion by act t, THE INDIAN EXILES. 179 degrees.) — My real intention was, as quick as thought, to bid you good morning, and ask you how you do. Ganem. Good morning. Hurry. You are quite well, I hope ? Ganem. Quite well. Hurry. In body and mind ? Ganem. In body and mind. Hurry. Understand me properly, my worthy friend. A man may be in perfect health; but what, for instance, avails the wish for sleep, when cares for bare subsistence hang heavy on the soul ? What avails the appetite of health, when there is no bread to satisfy it ? But neither of these, I presume, is your case ? Ganem. Neither. Hurry. You have more than you want . ? Ganem. 1 have. Hurry. Your master is very rich ? Ganem. Brama has been pleased to grant him much. Hurry. — {Very inquisitively.) — Brama! Indeed! Pray who is Mr. Brama ? I never heard his name before. Is he so very generous ? Ganem. To all good men, Brama is very generous. Hurry. Indeed ! Where does he live I that I may hasten quick as thought Ganem. He lives on the banks of the Ganges. Hurry. That is at too great a distance. Your master is probably related to him. Ganem. My master sprung from his right shoulder. Hurry. An odd relation, indeed ! Enter Caberdar. Cab — (Somewhat harshly to Hurry.)— What da you want here I 180 THE INDIAN EXILES. act i. Hurry. Nothing in the world, most honoured Sir. I was hastening past, and just stopped to en- quire as quick as thought after Mr. Ganem's health. Ganem. — (Very dryly.)—He placed his ear to the key-hole to enquire after ray health. Cab. Do you suspect me, or my daughter, or my friend Ganem, to be smugglers ? Hurry. Why, Sir, if you will not be offended, something very like it. Nobody knows who you are, what you are, where you are come from, and what you are come for. In short, you possess all the requisites of smugglers. Cab. Were I in Spain, I might expect such lan- guage from a servant of the inquisition, but in Eng- land I know my privileges — walk out ! Hurry. Walk out ! — By what right f Cab. I pay for these lodgings. Hurry. Yes. But this room is common both to you and the family. I can come hither quick as thought whenever I please, to speak, answer, and relate, converse, consider, and deBate with my wor- thy comptroller, Mr. Samuel Tradely, and no one shall hinder me No even if he be ten times as nearly related to old Brama as yourself. Cab. If you do not intend that I should throw you out of the window, I advise you to go. Hurry. — (Gradually retreating towards the door.) — What ! Throw me out of the window ! Me, the swiftest, alertest, quickest, and most expeditious man in the whole town ! Me, who have devoted my life to the service of Old England, and am always promoting its interest as quick as thought ! Throw such a man out of the window ! Cab. — ( hooking at his watch. J — Yes, unless you disappear within three minutes. Hurry. Zounds ! That's as swift as lightning. I am sorry business requires my immediate departure, act i. THE INDIAN EXILES. 181 or we would have seen, great shoulder of Brama, whether [Caberdar runs towards him. He escapes, and exit. Ganem. He, who was once ruler over thousands, that fruitful tree, beneath whose branches the princes of India reposed, alas, how is he fallen ! A wretch like this dares to insult him. Oh, misery ! Cab. I feel not the insult, Ganem. Does" anger seem to lower upon my brow ? Ganem. No, because anger without power would ill become thee. Thou art no longer Nabob of Mysore. Cab. Still these lamentations ! I own I am no longer Nabob of Mysore — nor do I wish to be so. Ganem. Not wish it ! Cab. Tell me, my faithful friend, didst thou esteem me happy, when Englishmen and Frenchmen were courting my alliance — when I was involved against my inclination in their quarrels — when I served the one from choice, the other from constraint — when I, each moment, was in want of money to satisfy my murmuring troops — when the court of Delhi formed cabals against me, and I was compelled to stoop to little arts, in order to support my dignity— when Eu- ropeans spread destruction through my fcealms- — when, at last, my brothers revolted, and I, over- powered with cares, tossed on my couch so many a sleepless night ? Tell me was I then happy ? Ganem. No, but still the hope of future happi- ness consoled thee. What was lost thou mightest regain. Cab. Can \ not still ? Ganem. No. Unless Brama work a miracle, never wilt thou again be Nabob of Mysore. Cab. Thinks Ganem, then, no joy is to be found upon this spacious earth, but the sceptre of Mysore ? Ganem. Canst thou reanimate the bodies of thy murdered wives and children ? voi*. III. R 182 THE INDIAN EXILES. Cab. Alas! No. Gafiem, Canst thou even find their bodies, that thou mayst sacrifice an heifer on their tombs ? Cab. Alas! No. Woe be on my brothers! Not a single son have they left me. All, all are de- prived of life, perhaps by cruel tortures ! Away with the dreadful recollection ! The sun of those days is set — here will I stand and wait its rising. Ganem. For us it will never rise again. Cab. Why not? If not on the banks of the Ganges, perhaps on the banks of the Thames. Much have I lost, yet much may still be gained. Content and peace were not among the blessings of Mysore. They are a treasure which the Gods have never yet bestowed upon the race of Raja. To you, sweet joys of mediocrity, I descend and ascend. I am not yet old. I may still have sons, the pleasure and the pride of my declining years.. Faithful Ga- nem. I will choose a wife, purchase more estates with the treasures which I rescued, and willingly exchange the throne, surrounded by ten thousand rebellious slaves, for the peaceful society of a few friendly Europeans. Ganem. Choose a wife ! where wilt thou find in England a wife sprung from thy race ? Cab. Wretched prejudice! My native country has renounced me, and I am freed from all her cus- toms. My eye has chosen, my heart has assented, and I wait but for the decision of my reason. Miss Lydia — (Transported.) — Her look is a sun-beam, through which the soul passes into paradise. The gentle wisdom of the Goddess Sawasuadi rests upon her lips ; and virtue, sprung from the right breast of the God of Gods, is enthroned in her heart. Oh Mamnadin, God of Love, take up thy abode there, too. Ganem. Thou art in raptures. Beware ! Thy heart is become a child, which will wantonly elude act i. THE INDIAN EXILES. 185 thy reason, while it creeps afterlhee in the form of a venerable sage. Cab. Right, old man ! I must not be too hasty. With thy unbiassed sight will I observe, with thy cool circumspection will I scrutinize ; and if the event accord with my wishes, surely, surely thou wilt then think me happy. Ganem.— (After a pause.) — No. Alas! there only, where the Ganges winds its course' through fertile fields of rice, there only can happiness be found. Here, in a strange country, where I never meet a friend, to whom I can say, " Dost thou re- member the happy days we spent together twenty years ago, at such a place ? w Here, where no one speaks my language, no one worships my Gods — Oh misery ! Cab. Ganem, thou dost hurt me much. Will the fountain of thy lamentations overflow for ever ? Dost thou repent that thou hast shown such unusual fide- lity ? Dost thou repent that thou wert the only man who did not forsake his master, when desolat- ing lightnings hissed around him ? — ( Seizes his hand.) — I never can repay thee for it. Affection can alone requite affection. In my heart only thou must look for thy reward. Ganem. And have richly found it. Forgive my complaints. Trll death I will remain with thee. Cab. Hold ! I hear Gurli. Enter Gurli. {jurli. — ( Ya-cninfr.) — Father, Gurli is tired. Cab. Have I not shewn you various means to oc- cupy your time ? Sewing— netting— reading. Gurli. Yes, father, and Gurli has tried them all, but Gurli is so stupid that she spoils every thingo When I sew, I either tear my thread or break my 184. THE INDIAN EXILES. act i. needle ; when I net, the meshes drop from my fin- gers ; and when I read I fall asleep. Cab. Then kill the time by talking. Gurli. Talking ! But I do not find any body to talk with. You are seldom at home — Ganem is dumb — the ugly old mother is always scolding — Samuel is silly, and Lydia Cab. — ( Hastily interrupting her.) — Well ! Lydia ! Gurli. Oh ! I love Lydia as much as if she were my sister. She is a much better girl than Gurli. But she dare not talk much to Gurli. Cab. Why not ? Gurli. Because her cross ugly old mother has for- bidden it. *ut even if Gurli were to be all day with Lydia, Gurli would still w ant something. Cab. What ? Gurli. Gurli does not know herself. Cab. But describe it then. Gurli. Father it can't be described. I have some- times thought I wanted a parrot or cat. Cab. Why, you have both. Gurli. Yes, Gurli has both ; but sometimes I feel such anxiety that I take the parrot, and then the cat, and kiss them, and press them to my heart, and love them so dearly — yet still I always feel as if I wanted something. Father, you must buy Gurli another cat. Cab. — (Smiling.*) — Certainly. Gurli. And yesterday, as I was walking in the little wood near the town, a bird sung so sweetly, so movingly ! Only think, father. Gurli could not refrain from tears. I felt so sad, so oppressed — I was continually looking round for something, till at last — I plucked a rose, and kissed it, and kissed it a thousand times, and bathed it with my tears. That was very odd — was it not, father ? Cab. It was. act i. THE INDIAN "EXILES. 185 Gurli. Father, you must buy such a bird for Gurli. Cab. Undoubtedly. Gurli. Oh ! Gurli does not know what she wants. Cab. Be at ease. Your father has more expe- rience, and understands what all this means. Now to another subject. Have you thought of what I lately mentioned ? Gurli. You know, father, I don't think much ; but if you think it right, I'll many. CaL Yes. Your father thinks it necessary that you should fix upon a husband, and the sooner the better. Hav'nt you as yet seen any body, whom you particularly like ? Gurli. No. There's Samuel. He talks a great deal of love, but his love does not please Gurli. Why must it exactly be a man? I'll marry his sister Lydia. Cab.— (Astonished.) — Hew! His sister! Gurli. Yes. Cab. Lydia! Gurli. Yes, yes. Cab. Why, she is a woman. Gurli. What difference does that make ? Cab. — (Smiling.) — No, Gurli, that must not be. It is contrary to the laws of Brama. You are a girl, and must marry a man. Lydia is a girl too, and must also marry a man. Gurli. Well, then, I'll marry Ganem. Ganem. — ( Who has, till now, been standing in deep meditation, arising Jrom his late discourse tvitk Jiis master, recovers, and answers somewhat confused, but with his accustomed dryness.) — Me ! Beauteous Gurli, that cannot be. Gurli.— (Pettishly.)— Again! Why not? You are a man ? Ganem. That I grant. Gurli. Well? Ganem. I am an old man. R 2 18G THE INDIAN EXILES. Gurli. What difference does that make ? Ganem. An old man must not marry a young woman. Gurli. Why not? Ganem. Because that were unmerciful to bury a rose-bud in snow. Mrs, T. — (Within.)— Ignoble every thought ! be- cause you used to deal in soap and herrings, you are for ever instilling into the minds of your children the low born notions of a tradesman. Cab. Heaven have mercy on us! The dragon is approaching ! I am so fond of this room. — (Point- ing to the windoiv.) — on account of the sea-view from it, and this evil spirit always drives me to my lonely chamber. Come. Gurli. Father, Gurli will stay here, and laugh at the old woman. Cab. As you like ; but she is inquisitive. Be- ware lest you betrav the secret of our rank. I wish not to be an object of curiosity or compassion. [Exeunt Caberdar and Ganem. Gurli. Oh, no ! Gurli only wants to hear the old woman talk. She always talks so much nonsense. Enter Mrs. Tradely. Mrs. T. — (Bawling to her husband as she enters.) — Gout ! Pshaw ! A noble spirit would despise the gout. All my ancestors had it in their twenty-fifth year, and none of them made half so much noise about it. — (Espying Gurli.) — Oh, Miss Gurli! — (Makes a deep curtsey. Gurli laughs in her face.) — Now, sur mon honneur such impertinence I never v/itnessed. Gurli. Don't be angry, old mother. Mrs. T. Old mother ! Still better ! Gurli. Gurli likes to laugh. You must not take it ami^s. ACT I. THE INDIAN EXILES. 187 Mrs. T. Man dieu ! How I pity the pauvre crea- ture^ want of education ! No. One of our family is exalted far above any affront. Gurli. What family do you belong to ? Mrs. T. The illustrious race of Quirliquitch. Gurli. Gurli never heard of that race. It must be a new one. Mrs. T.— (Contemptuously.) — New! my good madam ; trace back whole centuries, and you will not have reached its origin. I should like to know whore you had any opportunity of becoming ac- quainted with great families. Gurli. I ! I am sprung from one of the oldest in the whole world. Mrs. 7'.— {Contemptuously.) — You! Ha! Ha! Ha! Gurli. Yes, yes, I. Gurli is sprung from the race of Raja. Mrs. T. Raja ! Raja ! For the joke's sake, I will look in the books of heraldry whether these Rajas ever existed. The house is quite unknown to me. Gurli. It is many thousand years old. Mrs. T. Many thousand years ! Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! You have forgotten that the world is only one thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine years old ! Ha! Ha! Ha! I always thought the girl rather silly, but now I perceive she is quite deranged. — (Makes another disdainjul curtsey, and exit at the middle door.) Gurli. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! The foolish old woman ! How she turns and twists her body, and draws up her head ! Gurli must try to imitate her, for the joke's sake. — (Goes to the looking-glass and mimics Mrs. Tradely's gestures.) — Oh ! I shall die with laughing. Gurli must let her father see it. [Exit* 188 THE INDIAN EXILES. act il ACT THE SECOND. Scene, as before. Enter Caberdar, Cab. My feet for ever bring me against my will into this room ; and when in this room, my eyes are for ever riveted against my will upon that door. I must relieve my heart from this oppression ; but should the trial fail — Oh, dreadful thought ! Recol- lect, Caberdar, thou art not in India, where thou may'st imprison a wife, when she embitters thy do« mestic comfort ; where, without thy permission, she is not even allowed to eat her meals at thy side. Thou art in Europe, where women are not debased to the rank of puppets, where they have themselves a will, and may even think — if they can. But on this girl the Gods bestowed a form, and Virtue a soul ! Yet hold ! Again in raptures ! Do I know her? Have I long enough observed her? Is not her mother a woman begotten by Nirudi, king of the devils? And do roses ever grow on nettles? Ganem is right. The mildness of the eye may be hypo- crisy. I must pry into her heart. Enter Tom, with the Gloves, Tom. I'll not run the soles off my shoes any longer. This is an unlucky day, and I shall not sell them, I'm sure — (Seeing Caberdar.)— I'll make another trial, however. Sir, will you buy a pair of gloves ? Cab. No. Tom. They were made by a pretty girl, I promise you. act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 189 Cab. No matter. Tom. Cheap too : only a crown. Cab. Leave me in peace. I never wear gloves. Tom.— (Peevishly throwing them on the table.) — Then he may wear them that will. — (As he is going.) — You lodge in this house, Sir. Give them to Miss Lydia when she comes. Cab. Miss Lydia ! Hold ! What has Miss Lydia to do with these gloves ? Tom. They belong to her. Cab. — (Astonished.) — To her ! Tom. — (Returning.) — Yes, Sir, she made them. Look at them. Did you ever see a prettier pair in your days ? Buy them, buy them, Sir. They are as cheap as dirt at a crown ; and if you will not be- tray me, I'll tell you a secret. Miss Lydia worked at them for five nights. Cab. Why does she sell them then ? Tom. You ask strange questions, Sir. Because she has no money. Cab. — ( Hastily putting his hand into his pocket.) — How much, said you ? Tom. A crown, Sir ; and for that you have as good a pair of gloves as the Prince of Wales can wear, and Heaven's blessing into the bargain. Cab. There are three guineas. Tom. I said a crown, sir. Cab. Those three guineas take to Miss Lydia ; and here is a crown for yourself, on condition that you do not betray who was the purchaser of the gloves. Should she ask, say you sold them upon 'Change to a stranger, whom you never saw before. Tom. — (Surveying the money, and turning it over with great delight.) — I understand you, Sir; I un- derstand you, and thank you. Cab. — (Aside.) — This is noble in her! Amiable girl ! Not to be ashamed of working for her daily bread. 190 THE INDIAN EXILES. act iu Tom. I never saw so much money together in my life. God bless your honour ! Cab. Where are you going ? Tom. Away. Cab. But the money ? Tom. That I have in my pocket. Cab. Why do you not take it to Miss Lydia ? Tom. Because I have not finished my errand, Sir. •Miss Lydia ordered me, as soon as I had sold the gloves, to buy a pint of Madeira. Cab. How ! does she drink Madeira ? Tom. Not she, poor soul. I believe it is for her father. The poor old gentleman likes a drop in moderation now and then, but his wife and son won't let him have it. Cab.— {Aside.) — Excellent, excellent girl! — (To the boy.) — Go then, go. [Exit Tom. I am resolved. Such a heart must make me happy. W r ere she not beautiful, this filial affection would endow her with celestial charms. Though poor, she can work five nights for a sick father ! I am resolved. Enter Lydia. Ha! She herself! Good morning, Miss Tradely. Lydia. — (Moving to him as she passes.) — Good morning, Sir.— (Goes to the door, looks out; returns; xvalks to the window, and seems to be on every side in search of something.) Cab. Miss Lydia probably expects some one. Lydia.— (Turning.) — Yes, Sir, a boy, whom I sent on a little errand. I fancied a few minutes since that I saw him enter the house, but I must have been mistaken. —(She suddenly espies her gloves in the hands of Caberdar, and starts a little.) Cab. — (As if unconscious of it.)— There has been a boy here ; but probably not the one whom you expect. Look, Ma'am, I have just bought a pair act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 191 of gloves. We men are often imposed upon in such articles. What is your opinion of them ? Lydia. — (confused.) — They are very neat. Cab. How much do you think them worth ? Lydia. A crown, probably. Cab. Yes, Miss Lydia, they are indeed. Would I were possessed of a crown, that I might place it on the head of that incomparable girl ? These gloves, according to the boy's account, have been made by a daughter at the expence of her nightly repose, to support a sick father. Lydia. — ( Much confused. ) — Indeed ! Cab. How much do you now think them worth ? Lydia. As much as a child deserves who fulfils her duty. Cab. Miss Tradely— (Seizing her hand.)— I am an honest man — Will you marry me ? Lydia. — {Surprized beyond all measure.) — Sir — Heavens ! Cab.— (Releasing her hand — in a gentle tone.) — Nay, compose yourself. Why are you alarmed ? It was not my wish to alarm you. Your affections are, perhaps, engaged. Speak openly. It will grieve me, but I shall remain your friend ; I shall, indeed, remain your friend. Lydia.— (Who knotvs not tvhat to say.)— Sir— I have a father and mother. Cab. I must first speak to you — then to your pa- rents. My dear Lydia, I am sorry to see you thus confused. Fancy us two friends who are agreeing about a journey. The one asks, the other answers. Have you room for me ? Are you not capricious, or ill-tempered ? Are you not alarmed at a thunder- storm ? Shall you wish for no other companion till you have reached the end of your journey ? You know me, Miss Lydia. You have observed my actions. As I am to day, I was yesterday ; and as I was yesterday, I shall be to-morrow. 192 THE INDIAN EXILES. act ii. Lydia. But I shall not, Sir. The few charms which have perhaps to-day attracted you, will be to-mor- row faded. Cab. Miss Lydia, the lund which made these gloves will still be dear to me, when wrinkled and disabled ii scarcely can support a crutch. Lydia* You do not yet know me sufficiently ; and allow me, Sir, to avail myself of your open candid style— I do not yet know you sufficiently. Cab. 'Tis well. Examine'me, observe me as often and as long as you please. I never yet shrunk from the eye of virtue. Lydia. In the first place, I am even ignorant who you are. Cab. Oh, I thank you, Miss Lydia, for demeaning yourself so far as to make the enquiry. This proves at least, that the answer to my declaration is still doubtful. You shall learn who 1 am. As yet no heart in England has shared with me the secret of my sufferings. I was born on the banks of the Ganges, in the lap of fortune, and educated by my uncle, the ruler of Mysore, a man of strict integrity, to whose throne and enemies I succeeded. [ was then scarcely sixteen years of age. I had wives ac- cording to the customs of the country, and when little more than twenty years old, I was the father of five sons and a daughter. I was happy, for my subjects loved me. Englishmen and Frenchmen re- vered me ; my enemies and neighbours feared me ; and peace reigned throughout my realms. I was happy, for (thanks be to Providence) man is blind to futurity. That I was cherishing vipers in my bosom, that my own brothers were plotting against my crown and life, were sowing the seeds of rebellion among my subjects, my unsuspecting heart never augured. The conspiracy broke out. In an un- happy night the sceptre of Mysore was wrested from my hands ; and oh ! my wives and children fell a act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 123 prey to my blood-thirsty conquerors. I, my daugh- ter, and an old trusty servant, were lucky enough to reach the sea-shore. There lay two English ves- sels ready to sail, one of which received us, weighed anchor, and brought us to Lydia's native country, where, if she will restore to me what I have lost, this sigh for my past misfortunes is the last. Lydia. — [With dotvncast eyes, after a pause.) — Then you are not a christian ? Cab.— (Starts.) — There is but one way to heaven -—the way of virtue. Lydia. That way leads through the Christian- church. Cab. Our Bramins tell us through the pagod. But be that as it may, I shall, with your hand, not refuse your wish. Well, Miss Lydia — any more ob- jections ? I like to hear, and like to answer them. Lydia. — (Always tvith virgin bashjidness.) — Your wives, you say, fell victims to your enemies ? They are, therefore dead. Cab. Most probably. Lydia. You have no certain account of it I Cab. Hio. Lydia. But if they be still alive ? Cab. Still are they dead to me. Lydia. How ! Could you Cab. Do not, dear Lydia, judge my actions by European laws and customs. My wives were my slaves, whom I could cast from me when I liked. But granting that I loved them as— as I love you, what consolation will my affection and fidelity be to them, at the distance of several thousand miles ? To me my native country is for ever lost. Never shall I again wander in the glad fields of India. Lydia. Do you know, Sir, what inference I may deduce from this avowal ? Cab. Well? vol in. a 194. THE INDIAN EXILES. act n. Lydia. Were you hereafter to forsake England, you would marry another, under the pretext that your affection and fidelity could be of no more ser- vice to me. Cab. You are right ; but one circumstance you have forgotten. I shall vow fidelity to you, and shall never forsake England. Lydia. Who will detain you ? Cab. Love. Lydia. Oh, the poor weak child ! Cab. In our religion this child is a god. Lydia. Your language is good but not convincing. Cab. I wish you would draw this conviction from my heart. Lydia. Can my eye penetrate so far ? Cab. It is swimming in mine. But enough of this. Perhaps other circumstances will more powerfully convince you of my settled intention to end my days in England. All that I was able to rescue from my treasures on the unhappy night I have mentioned to you, was my diamonds — trifleB for a prince, but a considerable property for a private man. I have here converted them into money, and bought estates. Do you know Glenmore Lodge? Lydia. Glenmore Lodge was one of my favourite rides — {With a half sigh.) — when we had a coach. Cab. It will remain with you alone to be there in future as often and as long as you please. You are the unlimited mistress of Glenmore Lodge. I settle it upon you as a jointure. Lydia. No, Sir, that was far from my intention. Were we even to arrive so far as we have not yet done, you never should persuade me to be so unjust towards your daughter. Cab. Be at ease on that subject. My daughter will still possess a considerable dowry. I know my duty as a father, but I also know my duty towards ACT n. THE INDIAN EXILES. 195 myself. W ell, Miss Lydia, have I removed all your scruples ? May I place before your eyes the picture of a life spent in happy retirement — in the full en- joyment of every domestic comfort, at a delightful place like Glenmore Lodge, at the side of your hus- band (who will certainly hereafter obtain your friendship and regard, if not your affection) at the side of my good cheerful Gurli — (With doimcast eyes.) — in the circle of your children, and (what will perhaps be of more value to you than all) in the arms of your father, whom I will take into my house, whose latter days you will sweeten, who will revive at the contemplation of our happiness [Breaks off suddenly, and silently surveys her, Lydia. — ( Is much affected. With tears in her eyes, she turns from Caberdar, clasps her hands, looks to- wards Heaven, and remains some moments in this at- titude. She then turns, and presents to him her hand.) — It is yours. Cab. — (Seizes her handtvith rapture, throtvs his arms round her neck, and kisses her.) — Best of daughters ! Heaven bless our union ! It is formed between two upright hearts. Lydia. It is indeed. Cab. — (Putting his ring on her Jinger.) — Farewell, dear Lydia ; soon, very soon to be my wife. My heart overflows with bliss. I must seek my old com- panion Ganem. He has shared with me my load of sorrow. To-day we will together quaff the cup of joy. Farewell. I shall wear these gloves upon my wedding day. [Exit. Lydia. Have I, then, offered this sacrifice to filial affection, and could I so soon forget poor Fazir ? Let me not indulge in romantic follies. Caberdar is a good man. How absurd were it to refuse him for the sake of a youth whose heart I only know by his eyes ! Surely, of all the follies which a girl commits her first attachment is the greatest. 196 THE INDIAN EXILES. act n. Enter Samuel. Brother, you may wish me joy. Sam. Question: Of what? Lydia. I shall shortly be married. Sam. You ! Lydia. Yes, F. If you will not believe my words, believe your own eyes. [ Holds the ring to his face. Sam. — (Seizes her hand with eagerness.) — Mercy onus! Let me look. To judge by the ring, your Jover must be the first lord of the treasury. Zounds! sister, it is a mighty pretty ring. I really must kiss your hand. Lydia. Well, it is for the first time in your life. What wonders can a sparkling diamond effect ! Sam. But are you sure that your lover that this ring Lydia. Is not stolen ? The ring seemr. to you of greater consequence than the lover himself, for you have not even asked his name. Sam. His name cannot possibly be of so much value as this ring. But now I naturally ask : What is his name ? Lydia. Caberdar. Sa?n.—( Violently.) — Gurli's father! Lydia. Yes. Sam. The blockhead, whose only object ought to be the acquisition of a cautious husband for his harum sea rum daughter ! Lydia. In the Srst place, I beg leave, in the name of my future husband, to decline all titles of distinc- tion. Next, with respect to your careful intentions as to Gurii, you need only give her step-mother a good word, should you wish > Sam. I wish nothing till 1 have scrutinized. Lydia. Still tormenting yourself with your ridi- culous caution. The girl is good, pretty, and rich. act ir, THE INDIAN EXILES. 197 What can you want further — except to be deserv- ing of her. Sam. Good. That question may, for the present, remain unanswered. Pretty ? I answer : Yes. Rich ? There I naturally ask : How do you know that I Lydia. Unaccountable mortal ! I know it from Caberdar's own declaration ; from his generosity to- wards me. Apropos, you used to course. I shall be glad to see you, if you feel disposed to kill a few hares at Glenmore Lodge next autumn. Sam. You glad to see me at Glenmore Lodge ! Lydia. Exactly, brother. Let this be a proof to you of Caberdar's wealth. He, who can settle such an estate on his wife, will scarcely leave his daugh- ter without a dowry. Sam. There we have it ! What a world is this ? Here do I examine with the strictest caution, swal- low all the news I can collect, place myself on my guard, secure myself on this side and that — come home, and find my incautious sister, who is cooped up like a goose, who never gathers a tittle of intel- ligence, sole mistress and inheretrix of Glenmore Lodge ! On this occasion, I beg leave to ask : Fate art thou just ? Lydia. Pshaw ! This is nothing. Caberdar has brought such a store of diamonds with him, that Glenmore Lodge is a mere pebble to them. Sam. If this account be confirmed by more cau- tious and circumspect investigation, it will doubtless endow Gurli with new charms. Lydia. It is most certainly true, brother. How happy shall we be in restoring plenty to our poor parents ! How will my brother Robert rejoice, at his return from the West Indies ! Sam. Be not so hasty, sister. We are not yet arrived so far. Lydia. You are not, to be sure, if Gurli will not have you. s 2 198 THE INDIAN EXILES. act ir. Sam. — (In a tone of derision.) — Not have me! I could almost ask whether Lydia is in her senses ? Lydia. Hold ! She is coming this way. Now you may at once lay siege to her heart. Shall I assist you ? Sam. I want no assistance. Lydia. A corps de reserve may be of use. Sam. I want no corps de reserve. Enter Guri.i. Gurli. My father says that Lydia wants to see me. Good morning, Lydia. Lydia. Good morning. Did your father say no- thing more ? Gurli. No. Lydia. Nothing about my brother ? Gurli. That silly man there. Not a word. If he had told me that your brother was here, Gurli would not have come at all. Sam. I could almost ask : Why ? Gurli. Go away. Gurli wants to talk with Lydia. Lydia. — (To Samuel.) — Shall the corps de reserve advance ? Sam. With caution. Lydia. — (To Gurli. > — Your father says you are soon to be married. Sam. Heavens ! Lydia ! How can you be so abrupt ! Gurli. — (Yaxuning.) — Yes. I am soon to be married. Lydia. To whom ? Sam. Yes, to whom ? Answer. Gurli. Oh, dear Lydia, Gurli does not know that. My father thinks it right, and I think it right ; but it seems to me exactly as if Gurli wanted a pomegranate, and no pomegranates grow in Eng- land. Gurli wanted to marry Lydia, but father THE INDIAN EXILES. 199 said no. Gurli wanted to marry Ganem, but Ganem said no. Lydia. Ganem is too old for you. Gurli. Yes, yes, he said no. Lydia. But there are many young men in the world. [Samuel arranges his dress, Sfc. Gurli. Yes, dear Lydia; but there is another very, very bad thing. My father gays that if I marry, I must live with my husband; so that if my husband lives in Bengal, and my father in the coun- try of the Mahrattas, Gurli must live with her hus- band in Bengal. Lydia. Certainly. Gurli. No. Gurli will never do that. Gurli loves her father so much. — {Weeps.) — No. Gurli can't leave her father. Gurli had rather not marry at all. Lydia. Good girl ! Sam. But one question here naturally arises. Were a certain cautious man to be found who lived in the same country — nay even in the same town as your father Gurli. Ha! Ha! Ha! Yes. That would be de- lightful. Sam. What think you, then, Miss Gurli ? Could you love and marry me ? Gurli. Love ? No. That I could not ; but I'll marry you, if it will oblige Lydia. Lydia. Strange creature! Would you marry without love ? Gurli. Why not ? Must I love the man who is to be my husband ? Lydia. You must respect him, at least. Gurli. I must own, Lydia, that Gurli does not understand what marriage is. Sam. That you will learn in due time. I shall have opportunities in future of giving you a few 200 THE INDIAN EXILES. act it. instructions in it. At present, nothing is requisite but a plain and simple answer to this plain and sim- ple question : Will you marry me ? Gurli (To Lydia.) —Should you like it? Lydia. Why — he is my brother Gurli. Well then, I'll marry you, silly man, on condition that you will always live where my fa- ther lives. Sam. — (Aside.) — Shall I promise that ? Why not ? Just now I may consent to any thing. (Aloud.) — The affection which will soon unite thee, lovely Gurli, to Mr. Samuel Tradely, is more powerful than filial tenderness. — But one question remains to be answered : When arc we to be mar- ried ? Gurli. When you like.— (To Lydia.)— Will it make you happy if it be soon ? Lydia. I can have no objection. Gurli. Then I'll marry you directly. Sam. — (Astonished.) — Directly! No. Iam by no means prepared for such an event. — ( To Lydia.) — The good creature has caught fire, but we must proceed with proper circumspection. Lydia. I think, brother, your wisest plan would be to leave circumspection out of the question, and take her at her word, lest she should change her mind. Sam. All that I can possibly dd, is this. I'll go to a notary, then to another, and order them both to attend here this afternoon. Lydia. Both ! But why two ? Sam. One of them may be taken ill, break a leg, or drink too much at dinner. A thousand hindrances may occur.— (Lydia laughs.)— Laugh as you please. I have only to propose one question. Can these matters be managed too cautiously ? Answer : No. I will go, and order both to bring a contract. I ACT II. THE INDIAN EXILES. 201 will then compare both, amend both, and, with the necessary caution, chuse one of the two. Mean- while, lovely Gurli, I beg the favour of a salute. Gurli. Oh ! nasty man ! Sam.— ( Astonished. ) — How ! Gurli. -(To Lydia.) — Shall I kiss him? Lydia. Undoubtedly. Gurli. Well then, there! — (Kisses him, wipes her mouth, and calls after him.) — But I'll tell you what. If the notaries be handsomer than you, I'll marry thsm both. [Exit Samuel. Lydia. Well, dear Gurli, had you rather be my sister or my daughter ? Gurli. Gurli does not understand you. Lydia. If you marry my brother, we shall be sisters. Gurli. True. Gurli is glad of that. Lydia. .But if I marry your father, you will be my daughter. Gurli — (Looks, for some time, doubtfully at Ly- dia.) — Lydia is joking. Lydia. Who knows ? I shall probably be in ear- nest, if I could only learn who your father exactly is. W T hat think you ? Can you explain the enigma f Gurli. Hist ! Gurli must not mention that. Lydia. Why not ? To me you may. Gurli. Not to my parrot, not to my cat, not to the rose-tree in my chamber. Lydia. But the reason ? Gurli. My father has forbidden it. Lydia. Is your father's prohibition so sacred to you > Gurli. He never forbade any thing before. Lydia. — (Embraces her.) — Good, dear girl ! Gurli. Silly Lydia! Lydia. As you are so mysterious, I must probably .call my guardian spirit to my aid. ^>02 THE INDIAN EXILES. aci if. Gurli. — {Alarmed.) — Spirit ! Have you one ? Oh, Lydia! I am frightened. Lydia. You need not be so ; for he is the friend of all good people. GurH. Is he ? But is Gurli really good ? Lydia. I am sure she is. Gurli. Well ! What says your guardian spirit ? Lydia. — {Appears to be listening to scntoething.) — He says your father was once Nabob of Mysore. Gurli. — {Creeps affrighted toward* Lydia.) — Oh, Lydia ! he is right. Lydia. — {As above.) — He says Gurli will relate the rest. Gurli. Does he ? Then Gurli must. Lydia. Be not alarmed, my dear girl. Gurli. Send him away, and I'll tell you all. Lydia. — {IVaves her hand.) — There! He is gone. Gurli. Are you quite sure of it ? Lydia. Quite sure. Gurli. But Gurli does not understand how to de- scribe any thing. She never knows how to begin, or how to end. My father was Nabob of Mysore. He was just and good. They called him the foun- tain of justice, for he used to punish the great men, if they were wicked, as well as the poor. He paid no regard to riches, — [Weeping) — and yet they drove him from his native country, and killed all his wives and his other children, and only left Gurli alive. Lydia. Who drove him from his native country, and why ? Guru. Well — my father had two brothers, a couple of ugly frightful men. Ha ! 'Ha! Ha! One of them squinted, and had a long nose; and the other had a head like the great hollow things which the jugglers in our country put snakes into. Ha ! Ha! Ha! Well, his head was full of snakes too- act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 203 'The bad man ! Lydia, there are very bad men in 'the world. — [Clinching her Jist and stamping.) — If I had him here, I would twist my nails into his bristly hair. Hewantedto .be Nabob of Mysore too, and so did he with the long nose. Well, there they plotted together, and gained several supporters, and fell upon us all one night. Oh, Lydia ! what cries and shouts, and shrieks, and noises there were ! Hoo ! I shudder when I think of that night. I sprung out of bed ; but I had al- most quite lost my senses. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! I fas- tened my gold necklace round my arm, and tied my apron round my head. — [Weeping.) — My poor father was forced to fly in the dark, and Gurli fled with him. Gurli sat in a palanquin, and Ganem helped to carry the palanquin. — [Laughing.) — But as he was not used to it, he fell in the dirt. At last we reached the sea. My father was grave and sorrowful, and did not say a word, — ( Weeping) — and Gurli cried very much for her mother, and her brothers. We went into an English ship. The English captain was a good-natured droll man. — [Laughing.) — He used to make Gurli laugh very often. We sailed many days and many weeks, one after another. At last Gurli was tired ; and at last — and at last we came here. Now I've told you all. Lydia. I thank you, and will return your confi- dence. But you have not yet answered my first question, whether you would rather be my sister or my daughter. Gurli. Well, Gurli would rather be your sister. Lydia. Why ? Gurli. Because Gurli once had a mother, a good, good mother; Gurli can't wish for a better, but Gurli never had a sister. # Lydia. Then we will live together as sisters, Gurli, I shall shortly be married to your father. THE INDIAN EXILES. act it Gurli. No. Lydia ! don't joke with Gurli in this way. Lydia. I am not joking. He left me but just now,, and Heaven was the witness of our mutual covenant. Gurli. Indeed! Ha! Ha! Ha! — {Skips round the room, snaps her fingers, and sings.) — Oh ! I am glad to hear it ! I am glad to hear it ! How happy I am ! Lydia, I must kiss you. — ( Takes her head between both hands, and kisses her with violejice.) Lydia. Happy girl ! Teach me to remain a child like thee. Gurli. So my father knows you will marry him : Lydia. — (Laughing.) — To be sure he does. . Gurli. That's a pity. I wish he had not known it, that Gurli might have been the first to tell him. Lydia. But he does not know that you will marry my brother. Gurli. Oh, that he will learn soon enough. Enter Jack. Lydia. — {With a cry of astonishment and joy >.) — Ha, Jack ! Where is your master ? Jack. — (Always in a dry honest tone.) — Aboard. We have just steered into harbour. Lydia.— ( Transported beyond herself.) — Gurli! Gurli ! Rejoice with me. Brother Robert is come. Father ! Mother ! My brother Robert is come. [Exit. Gurli. — (Dancing and running up and down the room.) — Delightful ! Delightful ! Brother Robert is come. But tell me — Who is brother Robert ? Jack. Captain Robert and Miss Lydia were launched oft* the same stocks, so they are brother and sister. Gurli. He is her brother then. Delightful ! Ly- dia is so happy ; and Gurli is happy too, when Lydia act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 205 is so. Come here, you ugly man. I must kiss you for the good news. — ( Kisses the astonished sailor, turns, and, as she skips into the next room. J — Brother Robert is come ! Brother h obert is come ! \_Exit. Jack. Damn me if I think that girl is overloaded with sense, however. I reckon no more on all these smooth women's faces than on a rotten cable. I wish we were olF at sea again, for I know no good that we shall do among these land lubbers. The old gentleman is well enough ; but his timbers begia to rail. God knows how long he may drive before the wind. As for the old woman, she is a hurricane, and never blows from one point, but runs all round the compass. (Lydia pushes Tradcly's chair forward.) Trad. Welcome home, honest old Jack. Jack. Thank you, Sir; thank you. How does your honour do ? Trad. Not very well, Jack. Jack. Ay, ay, your old hull begins to crack, I see. You're obliged to be towed by Miss. Trad. But just at present my transport overpowers my pain. How is my son ? Jack. Brave and hearty. He's just astern of me. He'll be here before a body can reef the mizen-top- sail. Trad. Well, honest Jack, give me some account of your voyage in the mean time. You and your messmates shall afterwards have some ale. Jack. Thank your honour. We weighed anchor with clear weather, and a breeze at south-south-east. The wind has been rather hard against us now and then ; but, thank God, we always weathered it hand- somely. Trad. You have not encountered these perils in vain, I hope. Your purses are well lined ? VOL. III. T 206 THE INDIAN EXILES. act ri. Jack, Not they, by my soul, Sir. Trad. But you took a very pretty cargo from home with you. Jack. So we did, Sir, and cleared a good freight by it, too ; but, damn me, if it is not all flown away ! Trad. Impossible ! Can Robert, forgetful of his father's necessities, have squandered all ? Jack. Avast there ! Say not a word against your son, Sir ; for an honester fellow never chewed a quid. You must know, that on our voyage home, as we were steering some two hundred leagues west of the Canaries, we one morning from the mast-head spied a bit of a thing like a sail. Presently after, we heard a couple of guns, and plainly saw some canvas. " Holla !" cries the captain ; " those may be signals of distress," says he ; and by my soul so they were too. We hauled in her top-gallant sails, put her about, and sailed till we came nearer. I have seen cruel things in my time, Sir, — (Wiping his eyes)— but damn me if my bowsprit aloft here is not splashed with salt water whenever I think of it. A little crazy boat — there lay twenty-three people, who for five days had never champed a bit of biscuit between their teeth. Their ship had taken fire at sea ; and they had but just been able to save their lives in the boat, since which they had been driving before the wind, as fortune might direct them. In four-and- twenty hours more, it would have been over with the poor devils. The captain was a Dutchman. He had lost every thing except his life, and a seaman's honour. Near him sat a young woman, with three little children, who had not a morsel to bite or break. When he looked at them, he pumped water out of both liis holds. My master could not stand it. " Friend," says he, " I have neither wife nor child. There's a few hundreds— take them," sa3's he. So we landed the whole crew at the first place we came to. Trad. Did he do this ? Then Heaven bless him ACT II. THE INDIAN EXILES. 207 for it ! I am glad he has brought nothing, and he shall share my last morsel. Lydia. Good brother ! Have I not always told you, Sir, that Robert would be the pride of your de- clining years. Trad. The pride and joy of my declining years. Lydia. Ha ! There he is ! Enter Robert. (Lydia jlies into his arms.) Robert. — (Pressing her to his heart.) — My dear Lydia ! Trad. — (Trying to push his chair Jbrxvard.) — Con- found this gout ! Help me, Jack. Holla, boy ! Your father is here. Robert. — (Embracing him rather roughly.) — Best of fathers ! Trad. Oh! O — h! Zounds! Don't you know I have the gout ? Well, well, it is over. Come hi- ther. This shake of the hand is a proof of my joy at your return, and — [Laying his hand upon him) — be this blessing the reward of your noble action. Robert. What action, my father ? Lydia. Oh, we know all. Robert. — [In a tone of displeasure.) — Has Jack been playing the old woman ? Jack. Don't take it amiss, Sir ; for I really could not help it. My tongue got afloat. Trad. Go in, go in, both of you. Your mother is within, Robert, and will probably for once look pleased. — (Trying to move his chair.) — Away with you all ! Help a poor sinner forward. Jack. I'll drop astern, Sir. \_Pushes offthe chair Manet Lydia. Lydia. How is this? Alas! how strange are my THE INDIAN EXILES. act ii. sensations ! I had not courage to ask where he was. Is he returned, or has he remained in the West In- dies ? Or is he ill — or dead ? Alas ! how does this concern me ? Why should I make these enquiries ? Fate is resolved to try whether I was in earnest, when I made a sacrifice of my first attachment to filial duty. It seemed so easy to me. Alas ! it is not so easy as I thought. Well, so much the more glorious is the conquest. But I may surely remain his friend. I should like to know what is become of him. Such a wish cannot be wrong. When Jack returns, I will enquire. Enter Fazir. Fazir. — ( Flies to Lydia, and seizes he?' hand.)— There she is ! There'she is ! Oh, dear Miss Ly- dia ! Fazir is returned, and is so happy, so happy ! Good, dear Miss Lydia, Fazir cannot express what he feels. Have you always been well ? Have you always been happy ? Have you sometimes bestowed a thought upon Fazir ? Lydia. — {Much confused.) — Very often only not to-day. Fazir. My guardian angel knew it, and filled our canvas with a prosperous breeze. We are arrived ; and now, dear Lydia, you must think of me. But you don't rejoice at my return. I did not expect you to rejoice so much as myself; but yet you might a little ; a very little ; for I am really your friend. Lydia. — (Agitated, gives him her hand.) — I do in- deed rejoice. Fazir. — (Kissing her hand with ardour.) — I really have deserved that you should feel some little regard for me. I have always thought of you,* and of no- thing but you. When the sun rose from the ocean, act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 20: I stretched forth my arms, and prayed. I thought to have prayed for nvyself, and prayed for Lydia. When the surface of the sea was smooth as a mirror, I sought in it the form of Lydia ; and \ found it too ; for I found it wherever I sought it. Oh, I found it without seeking it. Lydia. ( Turns away, andmpes her eyes.) — Thou image of my poor sick father, support me at this hour. Fazir. And when at last the coast of England lay before us in the blue horizon, Oh, Lydia, how great was the rapture of silly Fazir! It was in the even- ing of yesterday. I danced upon the dec: through- out the night ; and When the morning dawned, a bird flew from the shore, and perched upon our mast. I called to it ; I beckoned to it ; I whistled to it ; I could have kissed it. Perhaps, thought I, Lydia was walking yesterday, and this bird sung to her. Lydia. — ( Aside.) — I must put an end to this. It is too much for my poor heart. — {Stammering.') — Do you know Fazir — that I — am shortly to be married ? Fazir. — ( Violently alarmed.) — Indeed ! — (A long pause. Lydia casts her eyes upon the earth. Fazir mournfully offers his hand.) — Farewell, dear Miss L} r dia. Lydia. Where are you going ? Fazir, I — I will away — to sea — into the sea. Fare- well, dear Miss Lydia.— (Holds her hand. Another pause.)— Yes, I will away — But I cannot — Indeed I cannot. Miss Lydia is really soon to be married ? Lydia. Really. Fazir. And will she be happy ? Lydia. She hopes so. Fazir. Well, Fazir will not be happy. But that is nothing, if Lydia be but happy. May I know the man who has gained Miss Lydia's affections ? No, no, I do not wish to know him. I hate no one. He t 2 210 THE INDIAN EXILES. act ii. has done me no injury. Oh, yes, he has done me a very great injury. Lydia. — (Deeply affected, giving him her hand.) — Remain my friend. Fazir. Yes, dear Miss Lydia, Fazir would die for you. Alas ! it is about six weeks since we encoun- tered a dreadful storm. I was afraid of death ; for I wanted so much to see Lydia again. Oh ! I was a fool to be afraid of death It would have been better if I had never seen Lydia again. Lydia. Will you not ask my father and mother how they do ? Fazir. Oh, yes, Miss Lydia, if you desire it. I will do every thing which you desire. Lydia. — (Taking his hand.) — Come, then, come. It is not proper that we should stay here discussing things which cannot now be altered. Friendship must heal the wounds which love inflicts. Enter Mrs. Tradely, Robert, and Jack. Mrs. T. But, mon JU 9 it was by no means noble conduct thus to dissipate the property earned with so much labour. Robert. I beg your pardon, mother, it was, on the contrary, the noblest action of my life. Mrs. T. By what will you now support your rank in the world ? Robert. By my principles. Mrs. T. Right, monjils,. That is a noble senti- ment. — (Espies Fazir.) — Bon jour 9 Monsieur Fazir. Jesuis charmee de vousrevoir en bonne sante. — (Turn- ing again to Robert.) — But the dehors must not be neglected. The sun, it is true, remains the sun, even if it be concealed by a thick fog ; but it only dazzles our eyes when it appears in the full blaze of majesty. What do you think of this allegory. Robert. I dare say it is a very pretty one, mother ; act ii. THE INDIAN EXILES. 211 but I am not a sun, and do not wish to dazzle the eyes of any body. Mrs. T, I wish, then, you had at least borrowed some warmth from its beams. You are not ignorant that poverty reigns in this house, and that we have awaited your return with anxiety. Robert. — (Shrugging his shoulders.) — Upon my soul I am sorry for it ; but had I, at that moment, been possessed of millions, it would have flown out of my pocket to the last shilling. Lydia. Dear mother, our poverty will soon va- nish if you will not deny me your consent and bless- ing. Mrs, T. My blessing you have at all times ; but my consent — to what? If it be compatible with honour Lydia. I think it is. Our lodger has solicited my hand. Mrs. T*—(In a lofty disdainful tone,) — Indeedj Lydia. He is a worthy man. Mrs, T. Indeed ! Li/dia. Rich. Mrs.T. Indeed! Robert. — (Shaking hands xioith Lydia.) — Sister, I wish you joy with all my heart. Fazir. — (With a sigh.) — And I too, Miss Lydia. Jack. — (With a scrape.) — Fair weather and plea- sant breezes on the voyage, Miss. Mrs. T. Be not so hasty, all of you, I beg. — Ly- dia, you know my sentiments. Lydia. I do ; but if I prove to you that his descent is irreproachable, Mrs. T. That would give the affair another tour- nure, Lydia, You will soon learn it from himself. He promised that he would wait on you in a few mi- nutes. Mrs, T, Did he > Then we must make a little 212 THE INDIAN EXILES. act it. preparation for his reception. Come, Lydia, lest he should surprize us here. But I assure you I am a connoisseur in these matters. By the way in which he will conduct an affair of so much delica- tessen I shall easily know how to distinguish the homme de qualite. [Exeunt Mrs. Tradely and Lydia. Robert. She did not even allow me time to ask my sister the name of her future husband. Jack. He will not be ashamed of his flag, I hope. Fazir. He must be a good man, because Lydia loves him. Robert. My brother Samuel, too. is going to thrust his cautious neck into the yoke of matrimony. Hem ! shall I sail through the world alone, then ? What think you, Jack . ? Jack. I think, Sir, you had better keep your- self easy, while you are so. He that takes a wife, anchors on damned bad ground, and can't weigh when he likes for the life of him. A girl nows and thens is well enough; but if you attempt to sail through life's voyage with a wife on board, damn me if you won't founder. Robert. Do you think so too, Fazir ? Fazir. I think it best to die. Robert. To die ! Are you mad ? Jack, what's the matter with our young messmate ? Jack. I think he may perhaps have taken too much love on board. Robert. Is it so, Fazir ? Fazir. It is, indeed, good Robert. Robert, How the deuce can this be ? Why, we have not been in port more than a couple of hours. You are damned quick in catching fire. Fazir. Oh, I loved before we left England. Robert. And never said a word to me about it. Fazir. I loved so secretly, so tenderly— you could not have understood me. Robert. Hark ye, honest messmate : when we ACT IU THE INDIAN EXILES. 213 were lying on the deck in a calm, and enjoying the warm sun -beams, when our vessel seemed to be nailed to the spot, you might, I think, have told me what a tempest was raging in your heart. How is this ? Has not Robert merited your confidence ? Am I not the only one acquainted with the secret of your rank ? Have I ever betrayed you ? Fazir. — [Falling on his neck.) — Forgive me, desrest friend. It is not. ingratitude ; it is not indeed. xou snatched me from death. You rescued me, at the peril of your own life, from my barbarous pursuers. I shall never forget that. In- deed, indeed, I am not ungrateful. Robert. Well, well, enough of this ! I did not wish to force thanks from you. I only require the -confidence of a friend. Who is your girl ? Fazir. My girl! Alas, no. The girl whom I love is Lydia. Robert. Lydia ! Zounds ! My sister ! Fazir. Yes. Robert. Poor fellow ! Now I understand why you want to die. You had probably anticipated great happiness at your return, and find her on the point of being married to another. It is a bad bu- siness I must own ; but let us make the best of it. Matrimony is a wind, which is not favourable to either of us. Let us put to sea again ; and, instead of love, take friendship for our compass. You shall be my foremast, and Jack my mizen. With such tackle I hope to weather many a gale ; but if you forsake me, I must founder. Jack. If ever I forsake you, call me a lubber. Robert.— { To Fazir.) — Cheer up, my honest fel- low, away with all this -whining and blubbering ! Come ! Here at home all is not so cheerful as I wish. Let us step into the next tavern, and crack a bottle to Lydia's health and happiness. Fazir. Yes — to Lydia's health and happiness. [Exeunt. 214 THE INDIAN E£lLE& act in. Act the third. Scene, as before. Staff and Stuff are discovered exchanging Compliments at the Door. Stuff. Unexpected happiness ! Staff. Agreeable surprise ! Stuff. To meet Mr. Staff in my wav ! Staff. To find Mr. Stuff here ! Stuff. Pray walk in. Staff. It cannot be. Stuff Must indeed ! Must indeed ! Staff. I am not so unpolite. I know very well that the first place among the gentlemen of our pro- fession belongs to my worthy friend Mr. Stuff. Stiff. You joke, you joke. But why this cere- mony between two such intimate friends ? [Draws him in. Staff. Ay, two such intimate friends. [ They shake hands. Both. — [Aside, at the same time.) — The devil take him ! Stiff. How are all at home ? Perfectly well, I hope ? Staff. Perfectly, I thank you. Whenever I ap- pear there I am always asked whether I have seen my respected friend, Mr. Stuff. And how are all the good people at your house? How does my little godson Jacob go on ? Stuff He is a droll little fellow, I assure you. I daily place before his eyes his worthy godfather as an example. — [Both bow to each other.) — (Aside.)— What an ass it is ! Staff — (Aside.)— What a porpoise it is act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. Stuff.— {Aside.) — What can he want here ? Staff.— {Aside.)— What the devil has brought him hither ? Stuff. My learned colleague has probably business here ? Staff. Exactly. TJie same is probably the case with my learned friend Mr. Stuff? Stiff. At your service. May one be so bold as to ask what kind of business ? Staff. A trifle. A marriage-contract. Stuff. — {Whose anger is beginning to rise.) — Indeed ! A marriage-contract ! You can scarcely be in earnest. I am come hither on the same business. Staff. Indeed ! Then is this house blessed indeed. Mr. Samuel Tradely, the comptroller of the cus- toms, appointed my attendance here. Stuff. Indeed! The same gentleman appointed mine. Staff. Indeed! Odd enough, and scarcely credible. Stiff. — ( Incensed.) — Credible or incredible, it is true. Staff. You must be mistaken, Sir. Stuff. I am never mistaken, Sir ; and once for all, Sir, let me tell you, Sir, you are a man devoid of conscience, and go about for the purpose of snap- ping the bread from your neighbour's mouth. Staff. What, Sir ! dare you Stuff. Yes, Sir, I dare. Staff. You shall repent it. Stuff. That we will see. Staff. You will do best, Sir, if you return to the place from whence you came. Stiff. And you will do best, if you go to the place of execution — or to the devil. Staff. Then I must go home with you. Stuff. I should be ashamed of appearing in the streets with such a pettyfogging fellow. 216 THE INDIAN EXILES. act in. Staff. The world would be astonished to see you for once in respectable companv. Stuff'. I am always in respectable company when not in yours. Staff. Sir, you are growing insolent. Stuff. And you are so already. Staff. If you do not think proper to keep your tongue within bounds you shall feel the weight of this fist. Stuff. As soon as you like. I have long wished to thresh such a hound. Staff. Come on, then! though I shall gain no great honour by trampling on such a swine. ( Both cast off their coats arid wigs, place themselves in the attitude of two pugilists, and are about to Enter Hurry. Hurry. — {Springs between tjtem.) — Quick! Quick* What the deuce are you about ? Why, gentlemen, I believe you wanted to knock each other's brains out as quick as thought. Stiff.- — {Pointing to Staff.) — You are that fellow 's guardian angel. Staff.— {Pointing to Stuff.)— That fellow is obliged to you for his life. Stuff. But we shall meet again, Mr. Staff. Staff. Yes, we shall meet again, Mr. Stuff. Hurry. Will you have the goodness to inform me, why you were disposed to break each other's bones as quick as lightning ? (Staff and Stuff, both baxd together.} The One. He asserts that Mr. Samuel Tradely appointed him to come hither with a marriage con- tract, whereas he desired me to bring it. The other. He declares that he received orders to prepare a marriage contract for Mr. Samuel act lib THE INDIAN EXILES. 217 Tradely, whereas that gentleman requested me to attend with it. Hurry. - {Covering his ears.) — Hold, I beseech you, gentlemen. Zounds 1 I believe you'll break the drums of my ears. Enter Samuel. Both.— (Running towards him.) — Here is the contract. Sam. Be cautious, gentlemen, be cautious. You'll knock me down. Stiff. Do I not appear here by your desire ? Sam. Certainly. Staff. Did you not appoint me to come hither ? Sam. Certainly. Stuff. Did you not order me to prepare a marriage contract for you ? Sam. Certainly. Staff. Was I not to bring a marriage contract with me ? Sam, Certainly. Stuff. Now Mr. Staff. Stqf. Now Mr. Stuff. Stiff. But dare one ask, Sir, why you have em- ployed two of the most learned and respectable law- yers in the place, about a business which might easily have been managed by half of one ? Sam. Why ? Might not some accident have hap- pened to one of you, and hindered your appearance at the appointed time ? Staff. It was not wise to act thus, Sir. You had nearly been the cause of a bloody quarrel between me and my worthy colleague, Mr. ^tuff. Stuff. It was very inconsiderate indeed, Sir, to cause a dispute on so trifling an occasion between two such intimate friends. vox. lib u 218 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Staff. If we had not so great a regard for each other Stuff. And so great a respect — (They shake hands.) —Ha! Ha! Ha! Staff". Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Our friendship is as firm as a rock. Stiff] In spite of every storm. Hurry. A brisk boxing-match, and a speedy re- conciliation ! This is swift as lightning indeed. Such haste is praiseworthy. Sam. Where are the contracts ? Both. Here. Sam. I request that you will read them deli- berately and audibly. Stuff. Read, Mr. Staff. Staff. I beg you will read, Mr. Stuff. Stiff. Heaven forbid ! I know my duty. Staff. And I mine. Stiff. Why all this ceremony ? Two such cele- brated men can only have one method of drawing up a contract. It is, therefore, immaterial which of the two reads. Staff. For that very reason Stiff. Well, as you are so very pressing — (Puis on his spectacles, and reads.) — " Be it known unto all whom it may concern " Staff. — (Who consults his oivn manuscripts.) — With permission, Sir, it ought to begin : " Know all men by these presents." Stuff. — (Incensed.) — Why so, Sir. Staff. Because it is impossible to know every in- dividual whom it may concern ; but if all are in- formed by the contract, why, you know, of course all are informed. Stiff. — (Contemptuously.) — A very correct de- finition. Staff.— (The same.) — Not calculated for every understanding, to be sure act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 219 Stuff. You are an ignoramus, Sir. Staff. How ! What ! I an ignoramus ! Were I to divide my legal knowledge among ninety-nine people, they would each be as learned as Mr. Stuff. Stuff'. Yes, if they were so before. Sam. I beg your pardon, Mr, Stuff ; but I think Mr. Staff is right. Stuff How ! He right ! Sam, Caution commands the use of the most ex- plicit terms. Stiff You are a fool with your caution. Slqff 9 Sam. and Hurry.— {Together.) — A fool ! A fool ! Impertinent fellow ! Out with him ! Down stairs with him. {They fall upon Mm, and drive him to the door.) Stuff. — (As they drive him out.) — And I say it ought to be : " Be it known unto all whom it may concern." Sam. Now, Mr. Staff, we are quiet, and may examine the contract with the necessary caution. Read. Staff — {Puts on his spectacles and reads.) — " Know all men by these presents." Stuff— (Puts his head in at the door.) — " Be it known unto all whom it may concern." Hurry. — (Driving him. away.) — Quick! Quick! Begone ! Begone ! Begone ! Enter Caberdar from his room. Cab. I can bear it no longer. May I ask, Sir, whether some evil spirit is let loose ? Hurry. We have this instant turned him out as quick as thought. Cab. Whom ? The evil spirit ? Staff. Yes, Sir, the evil spirit, I assure you ; the spiritus infernalis, the cacodcsmon. £20 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Sam. We are here assembled, Sir, to consult on the happiness of your daughter. Cab. How can the happiness of my daughter concern you. Sam. Very nearly, Sir. Miss Gurli feels that she is in want of a cautious companion, who weighs his words, and selects his steps upon the slippery path of life. Her wise, praise-worthy, and irreproachable choice has fallen on me. One only question, there- fore, remains : Has Gurli's father any objection ? Cab. — (Looks at him tcith a scrutinizing eye, shakes his head, turns, opens the door of his room, and calls) Gurli ! Gurli. — (Within.) — Father ! Cab. Come hither. Enter Gurli. Gurli. What do you want father? — (Espies the Notary. )-Ha! Ha! Ha! Cab. Be serious, Gurli. Gurli. — (Stroking his cheek.) — What does my father want ? Cab. — (Pointing to Samuel.) — Will you marry this man ? Gurli. I promised Lydia I would. Cab. Do you love him ? Gurli. I love Lydia. Cab. Lydia will not be your husband, but this man. Gurli. But he is Lydia' s brother. Cab. — (Aside.) — That is his greatest merit. Gurli. And he will always live where you do, father. Gurli will never leave you, and Lydia will live there too. Is not it so, silly Samuel ? Sam. Yes. Cab. You hope, then, to be happy with him ? act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. -221 Gurli. Not with him alone, but with him, with you, and with Lydia. Cab. Well, Heaven bless you ! I can have no ob- jection. — [Embraces his daughter > and afterwards Samuel, ivho assumes an air of great solemnity.) — Sir, you become at once my son and my brother. Sam. Two-fold honour, two-fold happiness, two- fold gratification ! Is it agreeable to hear the con- tract read ? Cab. To me it is immaterial, as it can but concern me in one point — the dowry. Staff. For that we have left room. |_ Shewing him the paper. Cab. Yes, and so much, that one might include in it the title of a great kingdom, with all the pro- vinces, which it does and does not possess. Did you think me so rich ? Sam. Very rich, and very generous. Cab. Indeed ! Then I must be an uncommon man, for rarely have I seen riches and generosity combined. But every virtue may degenerate by being carried to excess ; so may generosity. You know, Sir, I am myself on the point of matrimony, and it is very possible that a dozen more children may have the same claim as Gurli, upon a father's generosity. Sam.— (Confused.) — Yes, yes. Hurry. So ! So ! Staff. Hem! Hem! Cab. How much, therefore, do you think neces- sary, to enable you to live with my daughter, neither in poverty nor affluence, neither penuriously nor prodigally ! Sam. Why, in such cases, it is always better to calculate too high than too low. Cab. Suppose, then, that in the middle path we were to stumble upon ten thousand pounds ? u2 222 THE INDIAN EXILES. act in. Sam. — [Much pleased.)— -\V e should not let them lie. Hurry. — [Apart to Samuel.) — Quick! Conclude the bargain. Quick ! Staff. Shall I insert that sum here ? Sam. Moreover, I flatter myself with a favourable answer to the following question. Should Heaven be pleased to bless our union with children Gurli. Ha! Ha! Ha! Shall we have children, too ? Sam. I hope so. Gurli. Oh ! how Gurli will laugh ; Gurli never had any children yet. Staff. Hora ruit ; that is, time flies away. Is it agreeable to the contracting parties, to give this deed by their respective signatures, its authenticity, suf- ficiency, formality and legality ? Sara. Well said. Go, dear Hurry, and summon all my family. Every individual of it must be pre- sent on this solemn occasion. — {Exit Hurry.) — Have the goodness to allow another question. In what religion are the fruits of this marriage to be edu- cated ? Answer. Cab. — {Rather wtrmly.^ — Educate them to be vir- tuous members of society. In other respects, do what you like with them. Eater Tradely, Mrs. Tradely, Lydia, and Hurry. Hurry. Here they come ! Here they come ! Mrs. T. — {After having made a careless curtsey to the company^ walks directly to her son.) — Mon Jils t you see your mother driven au desespnir. Will you be such a barbarian as to graft a crab upon a peach tree ? Sam.~ (Drawing her towards him.) — There are no roses without thorns. ( They converse apart.) act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 223 Gurli. — (To Lydia.) — Well, sister, are you satisfied with Gurli. Lydia. Gurli is a good girl. Trad. — (To Caberdar.) - -Sir, you have made an old man confused in the philosophy of life. Had I been told that upon a road where thousands daily pass, I should find a treasure, I could sooner have believed it, than that I should meet with a rich man who generously unites himself to a ruined family. Cab. Oh, Sir, what a country is your Europe, if this be true. Our sultry climate does not breed such principles. Trad. Your hand, Sir. I have long wished to grasp the hand of an honest man. You are my physician. You pour fresh strength and life into my feeble frame. Cab. Still am I not disinterested. My reward is a pearl, — (With a tender look towards Lydia) — which neither Ceylon nor Arabia Felix, Japan nor Mar- garita, can produce. — (Converses with Lydia.) Hurry. — (To Staff.) — All this is very well ; but such things should be finished as quick as thought. Staff. True ; and, above all things, the formali- ties should be observed. Love, gratitude, happi- ness, and those little nick-nacks follow of course. Sam. But, dear mother, at this rate we may go to bed hungry every night. Mrs. T. Go, then, I abandon you. All the noble sentiments I have instilled into your mind, are lost upon you. Gurli. — ( Who has crept behind them, puts her head between them.) — What are you talking about so secretly ? Mrs. T. Very polite behaviour, truly ! How can I ever think of introducing such a creature into the brilliant circles of fashion ! Cab.— (Somewhat hurt.)— I hope, Madam, she will 224 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. some day make a better figure in the circle of her children. Mrs. T. — (Contemptuously.) — No doubt a good mother has merit too. Trad. Yes, in every rank of life. Of that our gracious queen is an illustrious example. Sam. We are wasting time. Hurry. Very true ! Very true ! Gurli. Well, then, let us go on. Staff. The contract is ready to be signed. Sam. Very well. Here are pen and ink. — (Laying the paper fiat on the table.) — Here, Miss Gurli will sign her name. Gurli, You think Gurli can't write, perhaps. Give me the pen, silly man. — (Takes it.) Cab. — ( Uneasily.) — Once more, my daughter, re- collect that the happiness of your whole life depends upon a single word. When you have written it, your promise is irrevocable. Gurli. Oh, dear father, Gurli will sign it. Only look, Lydia looks as if she wished it ; and so does that old man. I like that old man — he looks so honest. Cab. Well, it is your own choice. My blessing, and the blessing of the Almighty be upon you. [Gurli is going to sign. Sam. Hold, beauteous Gurli. Stop a single mo- ment. I feel at once so fearful, so alarmed — is nothing forgotten? No explanatory clause? Staff. Nothing whatever. I have provided against every contingency. Trad. Samuel, this conduct betrays but little ten- derness. Mrs. T. Perhaps the spirits of his ancestors are whispering to him at this decisive moment. Sam. Not they indeed, honoured mamma — (To Caberdar.) — The ten thousand pounds, Sir, which act nr. THE INDIAN EXILES. 225 you were so kind as to mention, will, I presume, be paid immediately after the solemnization of marriage ? Cab.— (Very coldly.)— On the very day, Sir. Sam. Sign, then, charming Gurli. - ( She attempts to write.) — But stop. Let me have another moment's consideration. I really feel myself in a very singular situation. One cannot be too cautious. But one more question, bir. Will the ten thousand pounds be paid in bills or cash ? Cab. — (Displeased.) — As you please, Sir, as you please. Sam. In cash, then, if agreeable to you, Sir. Cub. It is perfectly agreeable. Sam. Sign then. Gurli. — (As she is preparing to write.) -—You silly man, you tire me. Sam. Hold, hold, another moment. Lydia. Brother, you are insufferable. Cab. — ( To Lydia.) — You are his guardian angel. Sam. One material question still remains to be answered. Should my dear Gurli's father depart this life without any other issue Cab. Then Gurli will inherit all I possess. Sam. — (Extremely delighted.) — Your most obe- dient servant. All doubts are now at an end ; and Mr. Samuel Tradely boldly enters on the holy state of matrimony. Sign, Gurli. Gurli. Well, I will sign : but if you say hold or stop again, I'll throw the ink-stand at your head. Trad. And you will treat him properly. Sam. Sign, Gurli, sign. (As Gurli dips her pen in the ink) — Enter Robert and Jack. (Gurli lets her hand Jail, and gazes intently at Robert.) Robert. Zounds ! a large assembly ! Jack. Not the right sort for us, Sir. Put about ship. 226 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Robert. Blockhead, I am not a woman-hater. Sam. Brother, you are just come in time to sign your name as a witness to my marriage-contract. Robert. With all my heart ! I wish you joy. Trad. Robert, here stands a worthy man, who will soon belong to our family. Robert. I am glad to hear it. I am not fond of compliments. Your hand, Sir! — {Shakes it.) — If it be true that you are a worthy man, I am your friend. Cab. Friendship is the blossom of a moment, and the fruit of time. Robert. True, very true. What ripens before its proper season is shaken down by the first breeze. Gurli.— (Inquisitively to Lydia.)— Who is that man? Lydia. That is my brother Robert. Gurli. Brother Robert ! I like brother Robert. Robert. Is this the intended bride ? — (Approaches her.) — Allow me a salute, Madam. Gurli. A dozen if you like. — (Kisses him.) Sam. Now, Gurli, sign the deed. Staff. The formalities are protracted to too great an extent. Sam. — (Impatiently to Gurli.) — Is it agreeable to sign the deed. [Gurli shakes her head. Mrs. T. — (Half aside.)— -This is the most tedious scene I ever witnessed. Gurli. Lydia, I'll tell you what. I like brother Robert better than brother Samuel. Lydia. Silly girl ! Cab. Gurii, this is childish. Gurli. Don't be angry, dear father. Gurli may chuse whom she likes, mayn't she ? Cab. Undoubtedly. Gurli. Well then, Lydia, is it the same to you whether Gurli marries brother Samuel or brother Robert ? Lydia.— (Laughing.) — To me it is, dear Gurli, but not to Samuel. act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 227 Gurli. Oh, the silly man ! Who would ask him ? — (Goes to Robert.) —Dear brother Robert, will you be so good as to marry me ? Robert. — ( Very much astonished.) — How ! What ? Staff. A most singular case, this ! Mrs. T. C'est unique. Hurry. Quick as thought ! Sam. I am petrified. Trad. — {With a smile to Caberdar.)— One of my sons will be the happy man. To me it is immaterial which. Cab,— (Significantly.) — To me it is not immaterial. Gurli. Well, you don't answer me. Robert. Zounds! What can I answer ? Gurli. Don't I please you ? Robert. Yes, that you do. Gurli. Well, and you please me. You are such a droll man. I like your laughing eyes. Your eyes speak so, that I feel as if I wanted to answer, and can't tell what. Well ! Robert. Why, Ma'am, I don't know you at all. I never saw you in my life till to-day. Gurli. Nor I you. But Gurli would like to see you alwa)'s. Lydia. Brother, you may venture at my risk. Robert. Zounds ! She really is a pretty girl, but I can't deceive her. Ma'am, I am a poor devil, worth nothing but a ship of twelve hundred tons. If I put to sea to-morrow, I may be at the bottom of it next day. Gurli. You shall not put to sea. You shall stay with Gurli. Robert. And starve with Gurli. Cab. Sir, this circumstance is singular in its way, and must surprise you extremely. This girl is my daughter. She is a good open child of nature, and her fortune is ten thousand pounds. I have nothing further to say. '228 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Robert. Sir, I think no more of ten thousand pounds than of a rotten plank, and should not like to subsist entirely on another's fortune. Gurli. Oh, you dear man, marry me. — ('Strokes his cheek. J — I'll love you so much. Robert. — (Laughing.) — This is a silly business. Well J With all my heart ! Gurli.— (Delighted.) — Thank you. Let me kiss you. Sam, Robert, is it acting like a brother thus to deprive me of my happiness ? Robert. Damnation ! No, no, Ma'am, I can't marry you. Gurli. — (Sorr oaf idly.) — Why not ? Robert. My brother has previous pretentions to you. Gurli. Your brother is a fool. Sam. Softly, Miss Gurli. Have not you pro- mised a hundred times that you would marry me ? Gurli. Whether exactly a hundred times I don't know, but I have promised. Sam. Brother, you hear how the matter stands. Robert. I do. No, Ma'am — I resign. Gurli. But I won't have him ; I won't have him ; I won't have him. You silly Samuel, what do you want with Gurli ? Gurli won't have you. Robert. That is immaterial to me. You may do as you please ; but I am his brother, and the devil take me if I can marry you. Gurlt. Tell me the truth. Do you like me ? Robert. By my soul J do. Gurli. Well, then you must marry me. Lydia, tell him so. Lydia. A sister can but advise and entreat, not command. Gurli. Who can command him, then ? — (To Tradely.) — You are his father, command him to marry me. Trad. Does not Gurli know, from her own father, act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 229 that in such cases children are allowed to follow their inclinations ? Gurli. Then ask him to marry me. When my father asks me to do any thing, I always do it directly. Ask him, dear Sir, ask him. — {As she is dancing round him and stroking his cheeks, she acci- dently hits his gouty leg.) Trad. Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! My leg ! My leg ! Oh ! Gurli. — {Alarmed and grieved.) — Don't be angry. Gurli did not do it on purpose. Trad. Lydia, help me from this croud. I am surrounded by so many people, and nothing will come to a termination. Away with me ! Cab. — {To Lydia.) — Allow me to accompany you. Lydia. With great pleasure. — {They push the chair off.) % Gurli.— {Much afflicted.)—! hit the poor sick old man's leg. I'm sure Gurli did not do it on purpose. Mrs. T. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! The denouement of the scene has amused me a little. Staff. I never witnessed such sponsalia in the whole course of my pra'ctice. Hurry. If other measures be not speedily and rapidly taken Robert. The whole affair will end in nothing. Jack. — {To Robert.) — You have run foul of Mr. Samuel, and spoilt his voyage. Sam. The blood is congealed in my veins. In what a labyrinth have I involved myself by mere caution ! Gurli. — {To Robert.) — Well, sulky man! Have you determined whether you will marry me ? Robert. You seem to be a good girl. You love Lydia as affectionately as if she were your sister — don't you ? Gurli. Yes, that I do. Robert. Let us suppose, then, that Lydia wanted to marry a good honest man, could you take him from her ? VOL. Ill* x 230 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Gurlu No, that I never could - Robert. And yet you require that I should play my brother such a trick. Gurlu Do you love silly Samuel as much as I love Lydia i Robert. — {Hesitating a little.) — He is my own brother. Gurlu Oh, dear, that's a pity. Gurli must cry. — {Weeps.) Jack. There's bad weather brewing. The sea runs damned hollow. Staff. From what has happened, it is natural to infer and conclude, that my presence here is un- necessary. I hasten, threfore Sam. Stay, stay, Mr. Staff. Staff. For what reason? My time is of too much consequence to be lost. I shall place this attendance to your account ; and have the honour to be the company's most obedient servant. [Exit. Mrs. T. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Thus the affair ends, then. Such ever be the fruits of ignoble intentions. lExiU Sam. — {After a pause.) — One question very na- turally occurs on this occasion. What must I do ? Answer : 1 don't know. [ Exit. Jack. The deck clears apace, Sir.— {Pointing to Hurry, who is observing rvkat passes very inquisitively.) — There's one yonder yet Robert. Point the great guns at him. Jack. — {To Hurry.)— My good fellow, hoist sail, and steer out of this room. Hurry. Hold your tongue, if you please. I am here on the duties of my office. Robert. The duties of your office ! How long has my father's house been the custom-house ? Hurry. Understand me properly, Sir. It belongs to the duties of my office to serve my worthy comp- troller Mr Samuel Tradely. As often as I can steal act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 231 a quarter of an hour, or even a minute, or even a second, from the custom-house, quick, quick as thought, I hasten hither. Robert, And now I beg, Sir, that quick, quick as thought you will hasten thither, or to any other place you like. Hurry. But if I might know why Robert. Because I happen to have a damned itching in my finger's ends. Hurry . Then you will probably not be offended if I tak my leave immediately? Robert. Not in the least. The sooner the better. [Exit Hurry. Jack. Now, Sir, what say you ? Won't it be bet- ter, if old Jack casts anchor without, and waits till you give him a signal ? Robert. No, you may stay. — (To Gurli, tvho, during the late conversation, has been standing in a corner and tveeping.) — What do you want, Ma'am ? Gurli. A husband. Robert. Marry my brother Samuel, then. Gurli. I don't like him. I'll have you. Robert. But why exactly me ? Gurli. That I don't know myself. You are a bad man ; for you make me cry ; and yet I love you. For many weeks I have felt as if 1 wanted some- thing, and my father said Gurli was to marry. Well, Gurli wanted to marry too! and then my father asked what man I would have. That was all the same to Gurli ; but since Gurli saw you, it is not all the same to her. Robert. And scarcely to me, I think. Gurli. Oh, marry me. I'll love you more than my parrot or my cat. I'll play with you like my cat, and feed you like my parrot. Robert. To be pleased and fed by you, dear Gurli, is indeed no bad peep into futurity. 232 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Gurli. Oh! how happily we will live together, you and I, father and parrot, Lydia and cat! Robert. Yes, yes, if but — Damnation ! I feel as if 1 were not acting honourably. Your sweet prattle will lull my conscience to sleep. Hark you, Gurli? can you tell a lie ? Gurli. Tell a lie! What's that? Robert. To say one thing, and think another. Gurli. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! No, Gurli can't do that. But if you like, I'll learn. Robert. Heaven forbid ! Tell me honestly, if brother Robert be determined on no account what- ever to marry you, will you take Samuel ? Gurli. No, never. Gurli won't marry silly Samuel. Gurli can't bear him now. Robert. But — damn it — to undermine my brother is too bad. Jack, what think you ? Can an honest fellow take this prize with a good conscience ? Jack. You must know best how much water your frigate draws. But as to your brother, Sir, I should make no more of him than of a mouldy biscuit. He struts on the main deck with a fine coat, and such like ; but damn me if I would advise an honest lass to let him come on board. Robert. 1 think so too, Jack. The poor innocent girl would have but a poor passage through life. Enough, Gurli, I'll marry you. Gurli.— {Falls on his neck.) — Now you are my dear brother Robert. Now Gurli can laugh and skip and dance again. Robert. Stop. You are now engaged to me, and I must give you a ring. It is only plain gold, and not worth much, but it signifies as much as the Pitt in our King's treasury. Gurli. What am I to do with it ? Robert. Put it on your finger. There I that sig- nifies I love you. act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 233 Gurli. Ha! Ha! Ha! You droll man ! I'll fetch you a ring too, and that signifies I love you again. [Exit into her chamber. Robert. Jack, what think you? Am I safely moored, or am I among the rocks ? Jack. Cast the lead into your own heart. Robert. But she's a fine girl, Jack, eh ? How the devil did she contrive to bring me so soon under her stern ? Jack. That I can't tell, Sir. I was not at the helm, and have nought to do with the ship's course. Robert. Nevertheless, honest messmate, I should like to hear the length and breadth of your opinion. We have doubled many a cape, and weathered many a gale together. You know my inside and outside, as well as you know your hammock. You used to carry me in your arms before I could splice a cable. Tell me candidly what you think of this business. The girl is pretty, good, and has ten thousand pounds. Jack. Why yes, she's a tight lass enough, that understands her compass, well rigged aloft, and well planked below, but Robert. But what ? Out with it ! Jack. Why women (God help 'em) are as they are. If I were in your place, Sir, I should say : I see well enough where the land lies, but damn me if I won't sail past the point. Robert. I can't Jack. I have carried away my tackle. Jack. That's a bad job. Robert. I almost fear my keel will turn out of water. Jack. That's a very bad job. Then you are sure to founder. Robert. I trust not, Jack ; I still hope to con- tinue in calm water. The girl carries her soul in her eye, and in her eye is no guile. Her heart is x 2 234 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. in her words and her words are as sweet as the cocoa-nut. Jack. But a wife is no more to be trusted to than a hurricane. At first you may lead a life of fun ; but sail once against her inclinations, and the storm will blow from north, south, east, and west. Then, consider, Sir. Now you govern your own vessel as you like. You weigh anchor when you like, and steer where you like. Do you think, if you take a wife on board, that you will have as much cable as before ? Robert. Silence, honest Jack. I find I was not serious when I asked your advice ; for, in spite of all your objections, I'm resolved to pursue my own course. Jack* Luck be with you ! Enter Fazir. Robert. At last messmate, we are allowed a sight of you again. Where the deuce have you hid your- self since we drank a glass together ? Fazir. I have been on board. I had resolved never to enter this house again, and yet I am here again. I know not how it happens. Robert. You have been on board, have you ? Is the crew merry. Fazir. Too much so. Their merriment drove me away, for I could not join in it. Robert. But why not ? Fazir. How can you ask, Robert ? I have a silly story to tell you. I went and threw myself into my hammock, and tried to find repose; but the rope by which my hammock is suspended from the deck — now, don't laugh at me. Robert. No, no. Go on. Fazir. Well — the knot of the rope has formed an L. It looks like an L, I assure you. act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 235 Robert. Yes, yes. Love is able to make it look like the whole alphabet. Fazir. How did I rejoice, at sea, when on walk- ing I beheld this L! My thoughts wandered further than my eyes, and this L kept me many an hour in bed. Alas ! to-day, for the first time, it has driven me from ray bed. Robert. Poor fellow ! What think you, Jack ? Is there any help for him ? Jack. He is too heavily laden. He must throw love overboard, or he'll sink. Fazir. Robert, shall you sail again soon ? Robert. Why I have not yet begun to deliver my rums and sugars, and afterwards I must procure another freight outwards. Fazir. How long shall you stay here, then ? Robert. Six weeks, at least. Fazir. Six weeks! Oh, Robert! long before that time Fazir will be dead. Why did I not remain in my native land ? There I might at least have pe- rished with my brothers : here I must die alone. There some good soul would have lamented my fate : here, no one will drop a tear upon my grave. Robert. Fazir, you distress me. If it be any con- solation to you that. Lydia's future husband seems to be a very worthy man Fazir. That ought to be some consolation to me, but it is not. Am not I a worthy man ? Robert. But you are not rich. Fazir. Robert, have I not often heard you say that honesty was better than wealth ? Robert. Most certainly it is ; but honesty gnaws at the bones which wealth throws under the table. Fazir. Yet still— still I feel as if I never should have starved at Lydia's side. Do you remember the negro slave whom we saw on our walk at Ja- maica? He was working in a sugar plantation. The sweat ran from his brow — a pitcher of water stood 236 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. near him — and yet he was cheerfully singing. " Good friend," said you to him, " that is hard work." " It is," he replied, and wiped away the sweat with his bare hand. We entered into con- versation, and asked him, among other things, how in his severe situation he could smile with so much satisfaction. He pointed to a bush at the distance of about a hundred paces, under which sat a black woman, with three half-naked children. The young- est lay upon her breast. And when the negro slave pointed thither, he looked so truly happy — such a smile never decked the countenance of a king! Oh, had Lydia been willing, Fazir would have toiled like that slave— and would have smiled like that slave. Robert.— (Much affected.)— Come! Come! Let us drink a bottle of wine together. Fazir. No, I don't like either to eat or drink. I will starve myself to death. Enter GuRLl with a diamond ring. Gurli. Well! here I am! — (Espies Fazir, stands rooted to the spot, and surveys him xvith speechless dread. Fazir is equally alarmed at the sight of her, and rivets his eye upon her with a look qf astonish" ment and terror?) Robert. Well ! What means all this ? Gurli. — (JTrembling.) — Brother Robert, do you see any thing standing there ? Robert. To be sure I do. Gurli. Do you really see it ? Robert. Why, yes. I am not blind. Fazir. Robert, do you see that spirit ? Robert. I see a fool, and you are he. Fazir, Dear Robert, that body once belonged to my sister Gurli. Ask it what soul has taken pos- session of it since her death. act nr. THE INDIAN EXILES. 237 Robert. Your sister ! Gurli. Yes, yes, Robert. That spirit's name was formerly Fazir. He was my brother — Oh, my dear brother ! Robert. I comprehend this. Children keep your five senses together. First such alarm and now such joy ! You are not spirits. Children, I beseech you, don't be ridiculous. Embrace each other ! Brother Fazir and sister Gurli ! Fazir and Gurli.— (Together.) — Not spirits ! (They approach each other with open arms.) Fazir. You are really alive, Gurli ! Gurli. Are you alive, dear Fazir ? Robert. — (Deeply affected.) — What think you, Jack > Jack.— (Wiping aimy a tear.) — Land ! Land ! Robert. Right, Jack. Never have I felt this, when I first espied land after a long and dangerous voyage. Fazir and Gurli. — (Suddenly breaking out into ex- cessive transports.) — He lives! She lives! Sister Gurli ! Brother Fazir ! (Here the author can give no instruction to the actors. They hep, dunce, skip, sing, laugh and cry alter- nately. Joy is always difficult to be acted, but most especially the transports of toco uncorrupted children of nature. Robert and Jack silently sur- vey and feast upon the blissful scene.) Enter Ganem. Ganem. I heard your voice, Gurli— But — what — Fazir. Ganem too ! Ganem. Fazir ! Thou alive ? — (Presses him with fervour to his breast.) — How is this ? Where am I ? My old head— Yes, yes, he is alive.— (Transported.) — We will rejoice, we will rejoice. We will boil rice and milk. — (Raising his clasped hands, and bow- 238 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. ing thrice to the earth.) — Praise be unto Brama ! Praise be unto Brama ! Where is my master r Where is Caberdar ? We will paint the horns of a cow, and decorate them with garlands. Fazir. Caberdar ! What says he ? Gurli, is my father too alive ? Gurli. Alive and well ! Alive and well ! Father ! Father ! Fazir. — {With eager affection.) — Where? Where? Enter Mrs. Thadely, Caberdar, and Tradely, whose chair is pushed in by Samuel. Mrs, T.—{As she enters.) — del et mon Dieu! What a vulgar riot! Cab.— {Espying his son.) — Almighty Powers! What do I see ? Fazir. — {Embracing his knees.) — My father ! Gurli and Ga?iem. — {Dancing around them.) — He is alive ! He is alive ! Cab. — {Embracing his son with ardent affection.) — Thou art alive ! Oh, Brama, canst thou forgive my doubts and my complaints ? My ru st-born is alive ! I clasp him in my arms ! I have my son again ! What can a prince's wealth or a prince's diadem bestow, to be compared with this moment ? Ganem. — {Boui/ig to the earth.)— Praise be unto Brama ! Cab. — {Raising his hands and eyes towards Hea- ven.) — Accept my silent thanksgiving. Trad. What a blissful moment ! It allays my pain. Mrs. T. A romance ; a complete romance. Sam. So it seems to me too. I am still very doubtful whether it be true. Robert. Give yourself no trouble, brother : I will be surety for the truth of it. Cab. Speak my son. By what miracle didst thou escape our butchers ? act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 239 Fazir. I wandered to and fro, but some good an- gel directed my steps. I knew not whither I was going, nor what would become of me. On every sicTe I was pursued without knowing it. On every side I escaped without knowing it. Brama has pre- served me. Ganem. — [Rows to the earth.) — Praise be unto Brama ! Fazir. On the tenth day after my escape from the palace, when hunger and fatigue had almost overpowered me, I with difficulty climbed a hill, and suddenly beheld before me the immeasurable ocean. A vessel had just sailed, and was scarcely a cannon-shot from the shore. Alas, thought I, had I but arrived an hour sooner, this vessel would have rescued me from every danger. I hastily untied my turban, and waved the muslin in the air. I called as loud as I was able, but in vain. A fresh breeze carried the ship away, and left me to despair. Hun- ger led me to the shore, where I sought shell-fish, heedless whether any one discovered me. Suddenly (what a joyful sight !) I espied, behind a rock, an- other vessel lying at anchor, whose commander was this worthy man.— [Pointing to Robert.) — To him I am obliged for the preservation of my life, and for my subsistence to this hour. Ganem. — [Bowing to the earth.) — Praise be unto Brama ! Gurli.—[Runs to Robert, and throws her arms round his neck.) — Oh, you good dear man ! Robert. Pshaw ! Cab., — [Shaking Robert's hand.) — Sir, should you ever be a father, you will then feel that for such a kindness the gratitude of a parent has no words. Robert. By my soul, Sir, I am ashamed. When I received the young man, I neither thought of gra- titude nor recompence. I followed the dictates of my heart, and found I had preserved a friend. 240 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. Trad. Embrace me, my son. Heaven bless you ! Mrs. T. — (Givitig him her hand.) — Monjils, I am enchanted with your noble sentiments. Robert. Dear mother, my sentiments were at that moment so little noble, that I even fear envy and jealousy were among them. On the previous even- ing, three other fugitives had saved their lives in the vessel which lay near me, and by my soul I lamented that accident had led them to my neighbour. Cab. Those three fugitives were we. That wor- thy man saved the father, the daughter, and the friend. This worthy man restores to me my son. Gurli. And Gurli may marry this good man — mayn't she, father ? Cab. If he agree to it, with all my heart ? Gurli. Yes. You'll have me. Won't you, Ro- bert? Robert. — (To Samuel.) — Brother, you must not take it amiss. My generous resignation of her would be of no service to you, for she declares that at all events she will not marry you. Gurli. No, that I won't, silly Samuel ; so go away. Sa?n. One question naturally occurs on this occa- sion: What must Mr. Samuel Tradely do? Hang himself— if caution would allow it. Who knows whether there be not some stiil greater happiness in store for him. YExit. Cab. Every thing conspires to prove that I gained nothing when chance placed in my hand the sceptre of Mysore, and that I lost nothing when chance again wrested it from me. With good children, and worthy friends, what can be wanting to complete my happiness ? A wife. That too 1 have found. Madam, your consent alone is wanting. I love your daughter. I know your sentiments, and your re- spect for ancient families. I hope all your demands in this respect will be satisfied, when I assure you that I was the reigning monarch of Mysore, and act nr. THE INDIAN EXILES. 241 that my forefathers bore arms with honour when Alexander the Great subdued India. Mrs, T. I am astonished. So old a house ! I shall be proud of receiving you into the family with, open arms. Fazir. Alas, my father ! Cab. What now ? Fazir. My dear father ! Cab. What is the matter, my dear son ? Fazir. You have given me life, and are about to rob me of it. Cab. I do not understand you. Fazir. I love Lydia so sincerely. Cab. Indeed ! And Lydia ? Fazir. I have no repose by day or night. Cab. Hear me, my dear boy. Lydia alone can decide this. True it is, you are but twenty years of age, and the fresh bloom of youth adorns your cheek. I, on the contrary, bear on my back the load of thirty-five. Yet, as far as I am able to judge of Lydia's mind, this will scarcely influence her choice. We will summon her, and if her heart de- cide for you, I willingly submit to my fate. Robert. Jack, weigh anchor, and steer to Lydia's room. Tell her we will thank her to sail hither. Jack. I will, Sir. [Exit. Gurli. Father, I can tell you which Lydia will marry. Cah. W T ell > Gurli. My brother Fazir. Cab. How can you know that ? Gurli. He is prettier than you. Cab. My dear girl, Lydia is not a child like you. Robert. I fear, as far as relates to this point, wo- men will be children all their lives. Trad. Happen what may, I shall at least see two happy couples before my end. Mrs, T. True, mon cher. This day reconciles VOL. III. Y 242 THE INDIAN EXILES. act hi. me to fortune, and softly shall I hereafter slumber with my ancestors. I am only grieved for Samuel's fate. Gurli. Poor silly Samuel ! I am really sorry for him. What do you think, Robert ? I'll marry him too. Robert. Two husbands at once ! No, Gurli, I must beg you not to do that. Gurli. Well, as you like. Enter Lydia and Jack. Robert. Sister, I wish you joy of your approach- ing marriage. Lydia. — (Dejected.) — I thank you. Robert. But to whom are you about to be mar- ried ? That is still the question. Lydia. To whom! To this gentleman. — (Point- ing to Caberdar.) Robert. Hold ! Hold ! Not in such haste! Cab. Miss Lydia, I release you from your pro- mise. A father and his son stand before you. Lydia. — (Astonished.) — Father and son ! Cab. Yes. This youth is my son. He loves you. I love you too. Make a free choice. Gurli. Take Fazir. He is prettier than my father. Cab. Your heart must decide. Lydia.— (Mitch confused.) — My heart! Oh ! Fazir.— (With doxvncast eyes.)— Dear Miss Lydia — Robert. Well, sister, what do you say ? Lydia. What can I say ? I have already given my word. Cab. Then if you had not given your word, you would — ( Lydia is silent. ) — I understand you — (Lays her hand in Fazir's.) — God bless you, children ? Fazir. — (Embracing Lydia.) — Dearest Lydia! Ganem. — (Boning to "the earth.)— Praise be unto Brama ! act in. THE INDIAN EXILES. 243 Cab.— (Wipes away a tear.) — A single bitter drop ! It is but just. The cup of joy was too sweet. Robert. Well, Jack ! What think you ? Jack. I think that I must tow my old battered hull round the world alone. Powder and shot are gone. The main-deck is carried away. What can I do? Robert. You shall stay with me ; and as long as I have a biscuit, the half of it is yours, till at length you reach the end of your voyage, and are received among the crew aloft. Jack. I thank you, Sir ; I thank you. Well ! I wish you all good weather, and a fair wind on the passage. THE END FALSE DELICACY. A DRAMA, IN FIVE ACTS. FROM KOTZEBUE. y2 DRAMATIS PERSONA'. MEN. Mr. Dalner. Captain Likdorf. Mr. Kosenberg, a Country Gentleman. Vicomte de Maillac, an Emigrant. Freton, the Viscount's Servant. John, Mr. Dalner's Gardener. WOMEN. Mrs. Dalner, Dalner's second Wife. Sophia, Dalner's Daughter by a former Wife. Emma, Dalner's Foster-child. Mad\me Moreau. FALSE DELICACY. ACT THE FIRST. Scene, Dalner's Garden. Along one Side of the Stage extends a Hedge with an ArboUr ; and on the other are two high Trees, whose Branches unite, and form a Shade over a Seat of Turf. John is discovered upon a Garden- ladder, clipping the Hedge, and singing. At in' tervals, he utters the following Soliloquy. John. Plenty of sprouts and shoots — here and every where else — only not all properly lopped away. Oh, if I might but exercise my sheers where I liked ! — Well! well ! — {He sings — then again pro~ ceeds.) — Ah me ! how every thing is altered ! For- merly joy used to be a perennial in this garden, and bloomed of its own accord in every quarter of it. But now, my good master is surrounded by so thick a hedge, that not a sun-beam can penetrate it ; and — poor man ! — the caterpillars that prey upon him every day increase.— (Sings and works.) Emma crosses the Stage, with her netting Work. Emma.— (As she passes.) —Good morning to you, John. 248 FALSE DELICACY. act i. John. Good morning, Miss Emma. Abroad so soon ! Emma. The sun shone into my room, and invited me into the garden. [ Exit. John. — [Looking cfter her.) — A sweet little flower that, hid among the bushes like a ripe straw- berry. Our Miss Sophy too— if she's not spoiled by her stepmother. — Well ! well ! — (Sings and works.) Enter Frelon. Fre. B 071 jour, Maitre Jean ! — (John stops, looks round, laughs contemptuously, and proceeds in his work. Frelon approaches, and shouts.) — Holla ! John. What do you want ? Fre. I say, bon jour, Maitre Jean. John. And I say, go to the devil. I'm an honest old man, and only understand my native tongue. Fre. Maitre Jean is always so cross. John. Jan! Jan! — My name is John. — (Sings and works.) Fre. But Jean sounds better ; and — avec permis- sion, Maitre Jean — you should not sing — your voice is very bad. John,. Who desires you to stay and hear it ? Fre. My master desire me to stay here till he come. John. Then go and drive the birds from the pease, that you may say you have once in your life been of some use. Fre. Maitre Jean, you be very full of joke. John. He that eats our bread must bear our hu- mours. Fre. — (Farming himself.) — Mon Dieu ! How hot it will be to-day ! John. You may bathe in the pond, then. There's a little water in it — and plenty of mud. Fre, Apropos, the pond must be removed. act u FALSE DELICACY. 249 John. — ( Turning to him.) — What ? Fre. I say— the pond must be removed. — (John looks at him, smiles contemptuously, and proceeds in his work.) — Oui, ouil When the Vicomte marrj' Mademoiselle Sophie — you shall see John. Your master marry Miss Sophy ! Fre. Yes, Monsieur le Vicomte will forget what is due to his illustrious ancestors John. So ! — But Miss Sophy won't forget what is due to herself, I hope. Fre. Be more respectful, Maitre Jean. If I say one vord to my master, you will lose his favour. John. So! Fre. Indeed, I doubt whether his Lordship will keep you in his service at all. John. Sure ! Fre. You no understand the jardin, mon ami.—* Point de-gout ! — We shall send for a Frenchman. — Ah, Maitre Jean ! Un homme delicieux ! He will teach you John. He teach me ! Fre. Oui, mon ami. Un homme char • John. — {Running down the ladder.) — Damn your French palaver! — {Seizes a watering-pot, and be- sprinkles Frelon's legs.) Fre.— (Skipping from side to side, while John fol- lows him.) — Maitre Jean ! Maitre Jean ! Mon Dieu ! Que voulez vous Enter Mr. Dalnee. Dal. John, what are you doing I John. Nothing very good, Sir. I'm watering a weed. Dal. Don't you know in whose service he is ? John.— (Half aside.) — Oh, yes ! Like master like man ! 250 FALSE DELICACY. act i. Fre.— {Wiping his legs with his handkerchief.) — Maitre Jean like a joke. Dal. Where is your master ? Fre. Probablement, at the bal. Dal. — ( Forcing a smile.)— Excellent ! He enters into the very spirit of dancing. Fre. Towards morning he send me home, and told me to wait for him here. Dal. — (Always endeavouring to assume a careless air.)— Of course his Lordship will accompany my wife home. Fre. Certinement. Ah, Monsieur ! Madame Dal- ner dance comme un ange ; and Mademoiselle So- phie skim along comme un zephir. Dal. Was the company numerous ? Fre. Oui, Monsieur. I saw Madame Dalner in a crowd of beau monde. Dal. — (Concealing his displeasure.) — The carriage was sent home some hours ago. How means she to return ? Fre. In Monsieur Rosenberg's carrosse. Dal. Mr. Rosenberg ! Is he in town ? I'm glad to hear it. Fre. He came just in time for the bal. — Ventre — saint— gris! Maitre Jean has so wet me that I must changer my chausseur. [Makes an airy bow, and exit. Dal, John, I am just come from the bason below. Why are all these garlands and festoons of flowers bound to the trees ? John. My mistress ordered that it should be so, Sir. All my stocks, roses, and carnations have been plucked* Dal. But for what reason ? John. Why — she's going to give a thing— Heaven knows what it means. That fool, who was here just now, gave it some French name ; but Musya ACT I* FALSE DELICACY. 251 Rosat, the hair-dresser, translated it for me. They call it a dancing breakfast. The servants have been employed all night in making chocolate and cakes for it. Dal.— {With forced indifference.) — Have they ? John. Oh, Sir, for these last two years, there has been so much bustle in the garden, that the nightingales have quite forsaken it. Dal. Mind not that, good John, if contentment build her nest here. John. But contentment, like the swallow, is a bird of passage, Sir. — (Dalner sighs, and endea- vours to conceal it.) — Don't take it amiss, Sir. I am an old grey-headed servant, who knelt with devo- tion at your baptism. You grew, and seemed to find enjoyment in your own ideas. When the neighbours' children wanted you to play with them, why sometimes, from good will, you would comply with their desire, but even then you looked — just as you look now. Don't be otFended, Sir. * Dal. — (Smiling.) — If I thought that ray neigh- bours' children had any claim on my compliance, surely so good, so excellent a woman as my wife has a far greater. I ought always to remember that she is young, and I above forty. John. I only wish, Sir, that she would leave the garden in peace. Dal. What has she done, to cause that observa- tion, John ? John. Oh, dear Sir ! This garden is my para- dise. My late father first laid it out : and, except when I went to school, and when I was in Holland to improve myself in botany, I have scarce ever set foot out of the door. I remember as mere twigs what I can now scarcely grasp. Yonder, towards the meadow, is a little grass-plot, with some trees round it, under which I smoke my pipe at night. Dal WelU 252 FALSE DELICACY. act i. John. I've sometimes thought, Sir, that you, per- haps, would give me leave to be buried there when I died. Dal. That will I, good John. John. Yes, Sir, but who knows how long the trees will stand ? My mistress says the wall is to be pulled down. Then she will have serpentine walks, and I know not what beside. Perhaps, Sir, my darling trees may be in the way. Dal. No one shall meddle with them. John. Ah, Sir ! Who will defend my favourite trees, when even yours are to be attacked ? Dal. Which? John. — {Pointing to the two trees, whose branches are interwoven.) — Don't you remember them, Sir? You and Miss Amelia planted them on your good mother's birth-day. Dal. Yes, John. I do, indeed, remember them. John. You were then scarce as high as this rose- tree, Sir; and Miss Amelia but a little taller. When you had planted the twigs, you stretched your little hands over them, and kissed each other. Your mother wiped her eyes, and said, " John, take care of these trees." That I have done. There they stand in full pride ; and now I am to fell them. No. That I can't. My hand would tremble if I placed an axe to either of them. Dal. But who requires you to fell them ? John. My mistress says they intercept the pros- pect of the village from the arbour. Dal. That matters not. They are the only re- maining memorials of my dear sister. They shall stand. Remember, John, it is my order. John. That I will, Sir. I believe the French Lord proposed it, Sir. He was here yesterday, hopping from one side to the other, and treading without mercy on my poor strawberries. He seem» a great favourite with my mistress, Sir. ACT U FALSE DELICACY. Dal. — [Checking the sensations inspired by the remark-.) — lie is thought an agreeable companion. John. Yes, he can talk, to be sure. That his fine- coated servant can do too. He has been boasting here of his master's wedding with Miss Sophy. J)al.— {Hastily.)— What >— (Aside .)— Already in the mouths of his servants, it seems. - -{He is about to speak but refrains.) — Enough, John ! I have inter- rupted you in your work. I could not sleep, and expected to have been the first in the garden. John. The first ! Oh no, Sir. Miss Emma was here almost half an hour since. Dal. Emma ! Where is she ? John. I see her, netting, near yon rose-bed, Sir. Dal.— ( Calling to her.) — Good morning, Emma, Enter Emma* {During this scene John recedes with his tools, and disappears in the back-ground. Emma. Good morning, dear father. I thought you were still in bed. Dal. Such was my suspicion as to you, or I need not have glided so softy past the door of your chamber. What will you give me, if I tell you some good news ? Emma. Give ! You must be joking. To give you any thing would be but to return it — for have I not received every thing from you ? Dal. No, my dear girl. To me you are but ob- liged for the roof under which you dwell. All else is paid by my extraordinary friend, from the small income produced by his commission. Emma. Can he pay you too for your parental love ? Dal. For that you yourself richly reward me vol. in, z i>5* FALSE DELICACY. act u You inspire me with the sweet idea that I possess two daughters. In truth, I could almost be jealous, when I reflect that I must to-day share my righ' upon your affection. Emma. Share it ! Dal. Lindorf will be here.- Emma. "Will be here ! — To day ! — My preserver I My, benefactor ! — After eight years absence, will he really come at. last ? Dal. Thus he informs me in his usual way, by a letter, containing three laconic lines. The pleasure is somewhat unexpected, I own ; for at the opening of a campaign, Lindorf was not hitherto in the habit of paying visits. Emma, Scarcely can I recollect his features. Oh that he were already here ! I must fly to meet him, Which way will he come ? Dal. That I know not. Honest Lindorf seldom affixes place or date to his epistles. Here rs hit- tetter : a Inclosed you will receive the usual sum for Emma ; and next Tuesday, myself.". That's the whole. Emma. But a few words, yet they do bear the stamp of benevolence. How can he find time to write, whose moments are so actively employed I He considers every hour as lost, which is not marked with a good deed. Dal. The gentle Emma speaks with warmth. I am glad to see it. Emma. Oh ! when he drew poor Emma from the pile of ruins,, when he shared his pittance with her — I cannot refrain from tears at the remembrance of his goodness. He possesses my sincere affection. Dal. And deserves it. Would that you might be able, my dear girl, to eradicate his hatred of your sex ! And, in truth, the more I behold you, the more reasonable and proper appears my wish. What act i. FALSE DELICACY. 255 think you, Emma ? You already know his heart, and have only forgotten his person. That too is noble. Emma. Nay, dear father, you mock me. But do you know that you might, by such discourse, nourish some romantic notions, which have long haunted my little brain ? Dal. Let me hear them, my dear Emma. Emma. Often, when, invited by the evening, I have stolen from your happy circle into that dark walk — often have I fancied how I would reward my benefactor by enlivening his latter days, by — but you will think me a silly prattling girl. Luckily I espy our friends returning from the ball. Dear father, you have seen my heart undisguised, but those gay beaux shall not surprise it. [Runs avoay. Dal. Here they are, at last. Yet 'tis not I, but the dejeunc dansant, which brings them home. Enter Mr. Rosenberg and Sophia. Sophia. Good morning to you, father. I had rather say good night, and go to bed. Dai. Are you tired ? Sophia. Oh — to death. Dal. Mr. Rosenberg, I am the more rejoiced to see a country neighbour at my house, as I could scarcely have expected his company at this season of the year. Ros. True, Mr. Darner. In spring the country affords so many employments and amusements Sophia. And now, I presume, I am to compliment you upon leaving them all to dance with me ? Ros. If my company be of any value, I flatter myself, I deserve that compliment. Sophia. You must know, father, that this young gentleman, who hitherto always stood in a corner, and surveyed the capers of other people, yesterday 256 FALSE DELICACY. act i. rashly resolved, at my express command, to venture with me as the last couple of a country dance, on condition that he should merely go to the top of the room, and there resign his place, if he found the figure too difficult. I therefore expected that the poor creature would hang upon my hands like lead, and throw the whole set into confusion : instead of which, away he flies with me through the ranks, like a pupil of the celebrated Vestris. Pray, Sir, tell me why you always till now pretended to be lame ?" Ros. Because 1 am not accustomed to dance at public places j and great people in town are so fond of ridiculing us poor country boobies. Dal. False delicacy was always the only fault I could discover in my friend Rosenberg. Sophia. But I have not told you all, father. I sat next him at table, made him fill a few bumpers, and was vastly polite to him. Whether inspired by the wine, or my civility, I know not ; but the mute Mr. Rosenberg began to talk ; nay, talked so sen- sibly, and on such interesting subjects, that I almost forgot I was in the temple of Folly.-- But, may one ask, Sir, why you were hitherto always so sparing of your words ? Ros. Because I am very apt, when in large com- panies, to say silly things. Sophia. So much the better. The very reason why large companies assemble, is that every one may talk nonsense. What is modesty in a smaller circle, would be in high life false delicacy. In pub- lic, dress is admired for its splendor, and conversa- tion for its sound : at home, the one for its con- venience, and the other for its solidity. Dal. — ( Who has several times looked uneasily around.) — What is become of your mother ? Sophia. She expected to find you still in bed, and hastened to wake you with a kiss. Dal. W r as she alone ? act i. FALSE DELICACY. 257 Sophia. Alone ? As if it were possible to dri ve away the Viscount, unless by absolutely telling him to go about his business. Ros. Here they come. (Dalner's countenance brightens, and he hastens to meet his wife.) Enter the Viscount and Mrs. Dalner. Vis. Monsieur Dalner, nous voila. Dal. Good morning, love. Have you been well amused f Mrs. Dal. Tolerably. I met with two friends, whom I have not seen for an age, and was induced to chat and laugh with them so long, that they de- sired to be remembered to you, and begged you would not be angry with them for detaining me. Dal. Angry ! What amuses you makes me happy. Vis. Excellent ! Vivent les maris raisonnables ! Mrs. Dal. Have you felt any want of my society, dear William ? Dal. My heart is never easy in your absence. Vis. Tres galant / Mrs. Dal. For which reason I will te-day stay at home entirely. I have invited a few friends to breakfast with us in the pavilion. Sophia. Well, I must go, and look for Emma ; for the greatest pleasure which a girl feels after a ball, is to talk incessantly of it for a week. [_Exit. Vis. — (Starts, and lays his hand upon his shoidder.) — Mon Dieu ! — Wliat's this I — A drop of rain ! Mrs. Dal. Impossible! The sky is clear, and promises our party much amusement. Vis. Mais — Madame— void /— A spot upon my coat ! Mrs. Dal. The dew may perhaps have fallea from the trees, 22 258 FALSE DELICACY. Vis. Diabfe!—- You promised yesterday, Madame, that these trees should be cut down. DaL My dear Caroline, I sue in their behalf. Mrs. Dal. Are you fond of them > DaL Inexpressibly. Mrs. DaL That 1 did not know. DaL I planted them with my poor sister. Mrs. DaL — {Astonished.) — Your sister! Have you one ? DaL I had. Heaven knows whether she be still alive. Mrs. DaL And never mentioned her to me ! DaL Forgive me. I wished not that my wounds should bleed afresh. Mrs. DaL But I have never heard any one of your family speak of her. DaL My family forbear to mention her through — false delicacy. Contrary to the inclination of her parents, she loved a merchant of Lyons, with whom she eloped. For two and twenty years she lias to. us been dead. Most of my relations have forgotten her, but I never shall. Vis. Lyons ! — I was born in that neighbourhood. — Out — ynon Dim! — the Liomwis are dangerous people. Mrs. DaL — {In a tone of good-humour.) — Well, my dear William, I was about to commit an error ; but it was not exactly right in you to conceal such a secret from me. From this moment I take these trees under my protection, and in their name I beg pardon of your lordship's coat. Vis. Vraimcnt, I shall be obliged to change my dress. Mrs. DaL Well, let us both retire to our toilets, then DaL Take my arm, love. Vis. Fi done, Monsieur Dalner. Permittez mei.—*- {Offers his arm.) ACT I. FALSE DELICACY. 259 Mrs. Dal. My Lord, I have not yet been long enough your pupil, implicitly to follow your direc- tions.— (Takes her husband's arm.) Dal.— ( As he goes.) I'll return directly. [Exeunt Mr. and Mrs. Dalner. Vis, Mon Dicu! What air anecdote at my return ? Ros. I pity the French, my Lord, if such scenes be uncommon among them. Vis. Pity the French !— Diable, Monsieur! Will you insult me ? But — I am a Frenchman — entendez vous? I am a Frenchman — Apropos, Monsieur; you pay attention to Miss Dalner. Ros. Well, Sir ? Vis. Well, Sir ! Par bleu! I mean to marry her. Ros. So do I. Vis. I shall make her la Vicomtesse de Maillac. Ros. I shall make her Mrs. Rosenberg. Vis. Diable! She can't be both. Ros. Perhaps she may be neither. Vis. Mais Monsieur — I tell you / shall marry her. Ros. I beg leave to contend for the prize. Vis. Diable ! I insist upon it. Entendez vous 9 Monsieur. The maniere— the fa g on of my remark will tell you what I mean. Ros. That sounds somewhat dictatorial. But at present you must allow Vis. Non, Monsieur — I allow nothing — nothing at all, Monsieur. Ros. Let Miss Dalner settle the dispute. Vis. Monsieur Rosenberg, le Vicomte de Maillac will allow no lady to settle a dispute while he wears a sword. Ros. My Lord, I hope Vis. You shall not hope any thing. Ros. I beg, my Lord Vis. In vain, Sir. Instantly renounce all preten- sions to Mademoiselle Dalner— or draw your sword. Ros. Well— as your Lordship insists upon it. 260 FALSE DELICACY. Vis. Once more I give you the choice to re- nounce Ros. I cannot renounce my attachment to Miss Dalner. — ( He deliberately draws a pair of gloves from his pocket, and puts them on.) Vis. I consider it my duty as a man of honneur, to inform you, that I was taught to fence by one of the most celebrated masters. I have killed— un — deux Ros. — (Draws his sword.) — Tant pis pour moi. I acknowledge the danger, and tremble. — ( Stands on guard.) Vis. —(Confused and retreating.) — Monsieur Ro- senberg ! Will you seriously Ros. — (Advancing a Jew steps nearer to him.) — Perhaps you were only in jest ? Vis, We forget where we are. Ros. To be sure, it is not a very proper place. Vis, Parbleu, non. Hospitality has made it sa- cred. To the Dorders of the country, Mons-ieur — to the borders ! There I will run my sword through your body, and fly. — (Runs away.) Hos.— (Returns his sword into the scabbard with a smile.) — That such a poltroon should find admittance here! Thus do the ladies endure the society of many a fool, because he can dance well, or is ready with his hands when they want to wind their cotton. How strange that fops and fashions, equally ridi- culous, enjoy equal privileges among the fair sex ! They bear the one, and wear the other ; and, ere a month be elapsed, often laugh at both. [ExiU act ii. FALSE DELICACY. 261 ACT THE SECOND. Scene, a splendid Pavilion in Dalner's Garden, near the Bason. Mr. and Mrs. Dalner, the Vis- count, Sophia, Mr. Rosenberg, and other Guests, are seated at an elegant Breakfast. — Wind Instruments are heard at a distance* Vis. Les liqueurs sont excellens — Mais je snis ras- saviv. Mrs. Dal We all seem much the same, my Lord, So away to the dark walk, for the musicians already summon us to the dance ! [Exeunt. Enter Capt. Lindorf. Lin. Heyday ! they're wonderous merry here. — {Peeps towards the side where the company disap- peared.) — Hats and feathers ! Cards and dancing ! What can all this mean ? Well ! It's out of my way. This, I suppose, they call summer amuse- ment, because they can remove the card-table from the fire-side into the garden. But that my friend should allow such confusion — my worthy prudent Dalner— how am I to account for this? Who knows but it may be his daughter's birth-day ? I wish I could but send some servant to whisper in his ear that I am arrived. Don't I see old John ? — Holla! Enter John. John. Ah, Mr. Lindorf— or, perhaps, by this time, Captain Lindorf. FALSE DELICACY. act ii. Lin. That's immaterial, honest John, if I be but welcome. John. More welcome than an aloe in flower — and almost as rare a guest. How my good master will rejoice ! Lin. Is there then time here to rejoice at the ar- rival of a friend ? John. Oh, we've talked of you every day, Sir. When the trees were in bloom, or the melons ripe, my master was sure to say, " What a pity that Lin- dorf is not here !" Lin. A soldier must attend to the duties of his profession, John. John. Sometimes he used to lament that you wrote so seldom. Lin. Pshaw ! Writing is out of my way. How absurd it is, that friends must every minute be send- ing each other assurances of eternal regard! They know it, without being told it so often : for a friend is not like a girl, whom one adores to-day, and laughs at to-morrow. By the bye — talking of girls — how does Emma go on ? Is she much grown ? John. Yes. She is grown tall, beautiful, and good, Sir. She is a centifoli. Lin. I'm glad to hear it. You have company here, I see. John. Lack-a-day! Yes, Sir. Lin. You don't like it, John ? Eh ? John. I'm not accustomed to it, Sir. Lin. But how happens it that your master is so altered ? It used to be out of his way too. John. His lady Lin. What ! Lady ! He is not married again, I hope ? John. Didn't you know that, Sir ? Why he has been married almost three years. Lin. Indeed ! I'm sorry for it. And has been imposed upon ! Well ! he is rightly served. act H. FALSE DELICACY. 263 John. She's a good woman, but too lively too gay, Sir Lin. Go, and send your master hither. But be sure no one overhears you. John. I understand you, Sir. [Exit. Lin. Matrimony, methinks, bears a strong re- semblance to drunkenness. It causes a head-ache, and nervous uneasiness ; yet scarcely are our facul- ties returned, ere we fly again to the bottle. Well ! I have been guilty of many a silly trick in my life ; but matrimony no that's out of my way. He who stands on the bank, sees others labouring in the current, and yet plunges in, richly deserves to be drowned. Enter Mr. Dalner. Dal.-— (Flies towards him with open arms.) — Lin- dorf ! — ( The two friends embrace each other with fervor.) Lin.-~(Suppressing his emotion.) — My dear Dalner, I'm glad to see you again; — (Shaking his hand.) — heartily glad. — (Surveying him.) — A little thinner, or else just the same. What ! I almost believe you are in tears. Pshaw! for shame! — {Turns away to conceal his own tears.) — How that fly has bitten me ! Dal. Yes, I am in tears ; and thank you, Lindorf, for not having come to the company. There I must have concealed them. Lin. But why do you entertain such company ? Dal. Of that hereafter. Let them dance and play. Eight years have elapsed since we have seen each other. How has my friend fared ? Lin. Well. I have had a company some time, and have just quitted the service. Dal. Why so ? Lin. Because I was tired of it ; and because ai* aunt lias just been wise enough to leave me her fortune. Dal. I'm glad to hear it. Now we shall live to- gether, I hope ? Lin. That was my intention, I own ; but Dal But what I Lin. I hear you are married again. Dal. To aH excellent woman, I assure you. Lin. That may be but this kind of life you know me it's out of my way. Dal. Do you suppose I like it ? Lin. Why do you suffer what you can alter ? Dal. I am twenty years older than my wife. Can I deny her the amusements to which young people are accustomed ? Lin. That you should have considered sooner. Dal. I loved her with such Lin. Oh, damn it, if you talk of love, I've done. Dal. Then nobody has yet been able to make a conquest of you ? Lin. Love is like the small-pox. He who has not had them when young, seldom has them at all. Dal. — {Smiling.) — And if he has them, they are so much the more dangerous. Lin. Then he must be the more cautious of in- fection. Dal. But what could be a wiser plan, in your present situation, than to marry ? Lin. To blow my brains out ; for if a wife be bad, the case is a miserable one ; and if good — ten times worse. Dal. Pshaw ! You are joking. Lin. Not I, indeed. 1 should love a good wife ; and the man who loves his wife, is the slave of his own heart. A single wish, which she may feel, and he cannot gratify, torments him more than her. Dal. But a good wife has no such wishes ACT II. FALSE DELICACY. 265 Lin. Yes, yes. Wishes are like dust, which pene- trates into a closet, though it be locked. Dal. But may be swept away by affection. Lin. He, therefore, who marries, must renounce a hundred little customs, which in ten years hav# become a second nature. For instance, almost every one has his favourite dish, his favourite chair, and so forth. Suddenly appears that domestic legislator a wife, and every thing is altered. The husband likes a plain joint of meat ; but, to oblige his wife, it is metamorphosed into a fricasee. He accompanies her in the carriage, when he had rather take the air on horseback — et cetera, ct cetera. Dal. — (Smiling.) — These are mere trifles. Lin. Then, my wife, herhaps, had a head-ache — I tremble. She can't eat — nor I. She has a fever — I'm terrified ; and, to crown all, at last she lies in. No, no ; — marriage is out of my way. Dal. I see you have no conception of the joys of wedlock. Lin. Perhaps you reckon that tumultuous uproar among them. Dal. — (Sighing.) — That might be otherwise— and perhaps will. Alas ! Lindorf, more than one sorrow preys upon my heart. Lin. I understand you. This mode of life does not suit you. You had rather retire to your estate in the country ? Dal. To oblige my wife, I would remove from one place of amusement to another; but my establish- ment is too great, and my purse will not long sup- port it. Lin. Why don't you tell her this ? Dal. I cannot. She was accustomed to live in this style at home. But a short time previous to our union, she once asked me, with confidential affection, the amount of my income. " I will with pleasure VOL. III. A A L 266 FALSE DELICACY. act ii. limit myself according to it," said she. " Speak frankly." Lin. And you did not ? Dal. I— pardon me, Lindorf— T was ashamed of doing it. " Live as before," 1 answered. " You shall never want money." Lin. And there it rested ? Dal. She wished to know how she should con- duct herself—whether retirement was my wish. " I shall act implicitly according to your directions," said she. Lin. Well, and you—? Dal. I could not prevail upon myself to lay any kind of restraint upon her. 1 wished her as little as possible to feel that she had married a man who was forty years old. Lin. That is, in other words, you were ashamed of your age ? Dal. it may be so. Lin. And wished to appear richer than you were? Dal. It is now too late to recede. Lin. Ileason is a guest who never comes too late, and ought to be welcomed if he claims admittance at midnight. Dal. All this I could easily bear. My heart feels little regret for the decrease of my property, but — Lin. Another but ! Dal. To you, and you alone, I will confess my weakness. I am tormented by the worst of demons —Jealousy. Daily must I behold a swarm of suitors fluttering round her. 'Tis true, they are coxcombs ; but great is his error who imagines that a coxcomb cannot destroy his peace. The want of some amuse- ment, to fill up a vacant hour, has often caused a virtuous woman to debase her honour for the purpose. Lin. Why, haven't you told her this ? Dal. A hundred times has she said to we, " Do act ii. FALSE DELICACY. -267 you ever feel jealous ? Speak but one word, and I'll drive all these creatures away.'' Lin. And an hundred times you have answered — ? Dal. What I always answered before our mar- riage, that my confidence in her knew no bounds. Lin. That is, in other words, you are ashamed of your jealousy ? Dal. Yes, my dear Lindorf. Lin. Now, what a damned thing is this false de- licacy ! There would not be half so much misery in fche world, if every one would but boldly declare the cause of his uneasiness. There stands a man, who has it in his power to be happy, and— won't. His wife only requires his confidence, is willing to follow his directions, is willing to renounce every thing which he dislikes, and he — is silent. Dal. I feel my error, and have not courage to amend it. Lin. Then my stubborn courage must come to your assistance. Never fear. If your wife resem- bles the picture you have drawn, all may yet be well. Leave it to me — it's in my way. And now tell me, how does my daughter by adoption go on ? She's with the company, 1 suppose. Dal. Indeed she is not. Lin. So much the better. Between ourselves, Dalner, as fate threw the poor orphan in my way, and as I have no relations, she shall call me her fa- ther as hitherto, and at my death inherit my fortune. Dal. Have you learnt nothing of her origin ? Lin. Not a word. What signifies that ? i can just as well be her father as any other person. Dal. Why not rather her husband ? Lin. Are you mad ? Dal. No. I assure you she rejoiced at the pros- pect of your visit, as if you had been her lover, Lin. Did she ! Go then, and send her to me. 368 FALSE DELICACY. act ii. Dal. Directly. — (As he is going.) — You have or- dered your trunk to be brought to the house, 1 hope. Lin. Not yet. You know me. I must first see whether all is exactly in my way. Dal. 1 hope, dear Lindorf ■ Lin. Go, go. We shall settle that. [Exit Dal. I must first examine this Mrs. Dalner. Matrimony often administers an opiate, which makes friendship sleep — to wake no more. Love extracts the spirit from the bowl, and leaves for friendship the insipid dregs. Heaven forbid that such should here be the case ! — Poor Dalner ! Thou the champion of wed- lock ! No, no. Sweetly as the bird may lure us, we see full well that it is confined within the cage, and are aware of the lime upon the twigs. Entsr Emma hastily, Emma. — (With open arms.) — My preserver! My benefactor ! Lin. — (Starts back, and in great confusion avoids her caresses.) — What ! — What ! Who are you ? Emma. Have you forgotten your Emma ? Lin. — f Astonished.) — You my Emma ? Emma. Why not ? Lin. The same, who, eight years since, was no higher than my stick, and used to sit upon my knee ! Emma. The same who then could only lisp what now she feels. The same, whom you loaded with kindnesses ; but whose grateful rapture, at beholding you again, you shrink from. Lin. —{Contending between affection and confusion.) — Well — if it be so— I'm heartily glad that — to see — Pshaw ! Come here, and let me kiss you. Emma. That was my father's well-known voice. — (Caresses him.) Lin. — (Kisses her\ and surveys her with rapture.) — act ii. FALSE DELICACY. 269 Emma, you are grown tall and handsome. Your whole appearance charms me. I don't know how people feel who have children, but at this moment I would not give a doit for a daughter of my own. You must not laugh at me, for I feel so oddly, yet so happy Emma. I laugh ! Indeed, Sir, I am too much af- fected. — ( Weeps. ) I.in. In tears, Emma ! I can't bear it. I must be gone. — (Emma instantly tripes her eyes, and looks at kim with an affectionate smile.) — Right, my dear girl ! With that look, you could make a whole re- giment halt at the moment of attack. Emma. Oh, my father ! Lin. Pshaw ? Why must you call me father ? Do I look so old ? I am eight years younger than Dalner. Emma. Your kindnesses Lin. — {Interrupting her in a hasty tone.) — Hark you Emma! — {Mildly.) — My dear Emma, let me hear no more on that subject— it's out of my way ; and as I don't like to be called father, fancy me your brother. You know, I might at any rate be your brother b}' a prior marriage. Emma. My heart needs no tie of blood to love you. But why have you so seldom written to us ? Lin. My master used to strike me on the fingers when I made crooked letters, and I have ever since had an aversion to writing. But you have not been in want of any thing ? Emma. Your goodness Lin. Pshaw ! I was not talking about my good- ness. I have been able to do very little for you, having had nothing but a lieutenant's commission. In future, however, we shall have better times. An old aunt, my dear Emma (Heaven rest her soul) has left us a very pretty fortune. I have resigned, and intended to have made these my quarters. 270 Emma. Oh, delightful ! Lin. Yes, but this kind of life is out of my way. Dainer tells me, Emma, that you too dislike this bustle. Emma. Custom has made retirement dear to me. Lin. Custom only ! Not natural inclination then ! Emma. Do not think worse of me, if my heart has sometimes beat, when I beheld the gay assembly from a distance. Lin. Why, then, did you not mix with them ? Emma. Because it would not become me— be- cause I am a poor orphan, dependant on the charity of others —because Lin. Because — Out with the whole ! Emma. From you I will not conceal my weak- ness. Because I dare not attempt, in the circles of high life, to supply by inward worth my inferiority to those around me in outward ornaments. Lin. That is, in other words, you are ashamed of your wardrobe ? Emma. Not here— not in the society of people like you — but you know upon what grounds the world forms its shallow decision. Lin. Again, false delicacy ! My dear EramU, the girl is elegantly attired, who wears the robe of in- nocence. Yet you must not be in want of any thing. You must always have some trifle to spare. — {Endea- vours, unobserved, to slip a purse into her pocket.) Emma. — (Veri/ much alarmed.) — No, no. For Heaven's sake ! You have misunderstood me — I have more than I want. If }'ou have any regard for me, take the money back. Lin. Well, well! Be easy, only. — {Returns the purse into his pocket.) — I probably managed the mat- ter ill ; but you must excuse it. ,1 am blunt in my manner. The art of giving is one of the fine arts, and unfortunately I do not understand them. Emma. I merely meant to confess my weakness, act n. FALSE DELICACY. 271 not to make an unjustifiable and needless claim upon your generosity. Am I not treated in this family as a daughter and a sister ? How often have attempts been made to force rich clothes and ornaments upon me ! But they become me not. Perhaps I still have parents groaning under poverty — and should I array myself in satin ? Perhaps I am but the daughter of a lowly peasant! and should brilliants sparkle in my ears ? Lin. The daughter of a peasant ? No, that you are not. Emma. — {With eager anxiety.) — Do you know any thing of my birth ? Lin. Nothing, dear Emma. I can but form con- jectures. Emma. Oh, let me share those conjectures. Tell me how you saved me. When you were here eight years ago, I was a child, and did not understand it. Mr. Dalner has, to be sure, often told me what he learnt of you : but he must have forgotten many minute particulars, which would to me be interesting. How often does a trifle lead to discovery ? I can assist you with the dark recollection of my infant year*. I can describe the person of my mother. Perhaps she is still alive. Oh, heavens ! perhaps she is still alive. Lin. *Tis possible, but not probable. Listen to me. Our Hessians one night landed, and surprised Charlestown. They were heated by liquor, and be- came rank incendiaries. The town was in flames at every corner ; and all, who endeavoured to escape, were butchered on the spot. Subordination and command were at an end. I bellowed till I was hoarse ; but even heaven's thunder would not have been heard. The recollection of that night is always hateful to me. At length the morning dawned, and disclosed the scene of horror. Covered with blood and dust, blackened by smoke and coal, our 272 FALSE DELICACY. troops lay sleeping around me. All was silent, dreary desolation. . was making my way over the smoaking ruins, when suddenly I heard a weak moaning voice beneath my feet, I listened — I pushed the still burning b iams aside, when, lo ! — a child sorrowfully gazed at me, and cried, " Mother! Mother !" 'Twas you, dear Emma. Your body was half buried in ruins, and a miracle had saved your life. I removed the rubbish as well as I was able, and released one of your little hands. You availed yourself of it to put it to your mouth, and throw a kiss towards me. Indescribably did this affect me. I beckoned to a centinel, who stood not far off, and we drew you forth. I took you in my arms, and you clung to my neck. " My mother — To my mother," cried you in French— then in English ; at last too in German, because you thought I did not under- stand you. " Who is your mother ?" demanded I. " She lives here in the narrow street, in the white house.' ' Alas ! there was no longer broad or nar- row street, house or mother. All my endeavours to make any discovery were ineffectual. The few who had escaped were concealed within the woods, and we were ordered to embark. What could J do, but bring you with me ? Emma. Alas ! And is this all you know ? Lin. We arrived safely in Europe, and you found an asylum in my friend's house. Emma. Could I not even tell you my name \ Lin. Your christian name you told me, and you bear it now. Your clothes were marked E. M. As you so readily spoke three languages, I am con- vinced that you are not of low extraction. Emma. Oh, that I could but see my parents! Sure, sure I am, that I should know them. My father was a thin brown man ; and my mother's person I shall never forget. She was pale, and often used to weep. Alas ! perhaps she now weeps oftener act ir. FALSE DELICACY. 273 than at that time, and I — I am not allowed to mix my tears with her's (Sobs.) Lin. Compose yourself, dear Emma. I see the party coming this way. Such tears would ill suit creatures who have just danced away the little feel- ing which they had. Emma* I cannot as }^et compose myself. Allow me to retire. [Exit. Lin. A charming girl ! Yet I don't know how it is : I can't speak to her in the same unreserved way, as when she was not so tall and handsome. How- ever, FJl order my trunk to be brought here, at all events. Enter Mrs. Dalner, Sophia, Mr. Rosenberg, and the Viscount. Mrs. Dal. Captain Lindorf, you are sincerely welcome. My husband has just informed me Lin. — (With cold politeness.) — Have I the honour to see Mrs. Dalner ? Mrs. Dal. If it be not a greater pleasure than an honour, I shall have another wish ungratified. Vis. Bravo ! Excellent ! Lin. Your wishes are very humble, Madam. Mrs Dal. We have expected you some time, and I have often made enquiries about your person. Whenever any one is mentioned, who is interesting to me, I form an ideal picture of his appearance, which, nevertheless, proves to bear no resemblance to the original. For instance, I have always fancied you a cheerful man, and would have bet any wager that you had not such gloomy eye-brows. Vis. Ha ! Ha ! Ha ! Bravo ! Lin. A cheerful soul sometimes stations gloomy centinels without, in order to keep those at a dis- tance who otherwise might be too forward. — (Cast- ing a glance towards the Viscount. FALSE DELICACY. act ir. Mrs, Dal. But, Captain, when friendship intends to take a heart by surprise Lin. None hut fools will suffer friendship to take them by surprise. Mrs, Dal. You are right. When friendship then resolves to make a conquest of a heart, it fears not if suspicion be the centinel. In short, I am resolved to be your friend, that I may no longer be your rival. Lin. Rival! Mrs. Dal. Yes, Sir, yes. More than once have I been completely jealous of you. Not a day can pass without my husband speaking- of you in terms of the warmest enthusiasm. Were I inclined to be jealous, I should really suspect you to be a second Chevalier d'Eon. Vis, Ha! Ha] Ha! Bravo! Bravissimo! Mrs. Dal. My Lord, I release you from any obli- gation to applaud every word i say. Sophia, bravo ! Bravissimo ! Captain Lindorf, how do you do ? Lin. Perfectly well, I thank you, Ma'am ; but not having the pleasure of knowing Mrs. Dal. How ! Don't you know your friend's daughter ? Lin. What! Sophia! T beg pardon -Miss Dalner! Sophia. Oh, call me Sophia still, or f shall repent for the first time that 1 am grown so tall. Lin. You are grown tall — and handsome too. Vis. Ah, Monsieur! She is as cruel as handsome l.in. — [To Sophia.) — A lover probably? Sophia. A sort of one. Mrs. Dal. The Viscount de Maillac, a French emigrant. Lin. Sir, your servant. Mrs. Dal. And this is Mr. Rosenberg, a country neighbour. Lin. Then he's more in my way. Sir, I hope we shall be better acquainted. act ill. FALSE DELICACY. Mrs. Dal. At another time, then, if you please. Your arm, Captain Lindorf. Let us go to my hus- band and the company. Lin. To your husband with pleasure, but not to the company. Mrs. Dal. — ( Draws him aiva?/.)— Come, come. [Exeunt Mrs. Dalncr, Captain Lindori', Sophia, Mr. Rosenberg, and the Viscount. ACT THE THIRD. Scene, a private walk in Dalner's garden. Rosenberg and Sophia are discovered seated in a garden chair. Sophia. 'Tis impossible to argue with such an odd being as you. So you won't allow that love is a passion ? Ros. True love is not. It is an attachment, in- terwoven with our nature, to every thing good and beautiful. Sophia. I am sure few women will be satisfied with your definition. We feel a pleasure in rousing your passions, and causing silly disasters. Ros. Will you be so kind as to explain the justice of these feelings ? Sophia. We argue from the heart — you from the head. Ros. The head and heart should visit each other as friends Sophia. Visits are tiresome. Ros. Or should be matrimonially allied. 276 False delicacy. ACT III. Sophia. Matrimonial alliances are still more tire- some. Ros. You mean not what you say. I am con- vinced that at your own marriage Sophia. Oh, good heavens ! when will that be ? Ros. Whenever you say to yourself, my ear shall no longer be closed to a petitioner whom I can make happy. Sophia. Mr. Rosenberg, you rate a woman's heart at too high a value. Ros. I spoke of none but yours. Sophia. Which of course you cannot know. Ros. Not know ! Then far away must have flown the recollection of my happy childhood. Yes. Past is the delightful period, when your father lived in the country, on friendly terms with mine ; when each summer's evening, as I hastened to our village play-fellows, you nodded to me from a distance ; when suddenly the sportive Sophia would sometimes leave her frolics, to raise a fallen child, or share her penny with a beggar. Oh, Sophia ! I not know your heart. Sophia. — (Co)ifused.)— Those were happy times. Ros. Replete with innocence and joy. Sophia. Nothing cah equal the enchantments of childhood. Ros. Except the enchantments of love. Sophia. Which vanish as soon. Ros. A remark deduced from high life, and there only applicable. There all is art. Landscapes are painted upon canvas — health upon the cheek, and love upon the stage. Love in the city is mere pas- time—in the country the enjoyment of this life. In the one, 'tis but a gay flower, opened by the sun of Fortune ; in the other an expanding tree, whose branches are a protection from the rain and heat. Sophia. I begin to be afraid of you. These ro- mantic notions are infectious. ACT III. FALSE DELICACY. 277 Ros. Romantic !-— But, yes. I am accustomed to hear this title bestowed upon the pure conceptions of nature and affection. 'Twas for this reason 1 locked my heart, and cast not the key into the ocean of high life, but kept it as the property of that ideal being, whom my hopes and wishes had depicted. I hoped to find a girl who regarded the man more than his dress f who looked not in a ball-room with a contemptuous sneer upon his homespun manners ; and who would not, in the riot of a banquet, sup- pose him a blockhead, because silent. Alas! I thought that I had found this girl. Sophia. — (Confused, and in a gentle tone.) — And have you been mistaken ? . Ros. — (With enthusiasm.) — No, no, I have not been mistaken. This kind confusion betrays your angelic soul. Yes. With rapture have I often ob- served that, amidst the tumult of high life, irksome- ness and disgust have settled on your brow. Oh, fly these wretched circles, where they esteem each other friends who best assist in murdering time ; where he is reckoned charitable, who on a Satur- day distributes a few pence among the poor: where the honest man, who, in his heart detests the power- ful villain, must cringe and bow to him; where Fear is the father of Dishonesty, and Custom veils the deformity of Vice. Fly from this corrupted atmos- phere ; fly to a rural seat, where every good sensa- tion is awake and active. There Love and Friend- ship are not guests, but inmates. There the poor are relieved, without the ostentatious dross of vanity being mixed with the pure coin of charity. There is pleasure without cards, and conversation without scandal. There we feel not ashamed of relieving honesty in distress, and fear not to proclaim that a villain is a villain. I possess but a small estate ; but ^if to that store, which industry and my own heart have procured me, Sophia wiil a