Our ingenious correspondent, Mr. Higgins, has not been idle. The deserved popularity of the extracts which we have been enabled to give from his two didactic poems, the Progress of Man, and the Loves of the Triangles, has obtained for us the communications of several other works which he has in hand, all framed upon the same principle, and directed to the same end. The propagation of the New System of Philosophy forms, as he has himself candidly avowed to us, the main object of all his writings. A system, comprehending not politics only and religion, but morals and manners, and generally whatever goes to the composition or holding together of human society; in all of which a total change and revolution is absolutely necessary (as he contends) for the advancement of our common nature to its true dignity, and to the summit of that perfection which the combination of matter, called Man, is by its innate energies capable of attaining.

Of this system, while the sublimer and more scientific branches are to be taught by the splendid and striking medium of didactic poetry, or ratiocination in rhyme, illustrated with such paintings and portraitures of essences and their attributes as may lay hold of the imagination while they perplex the judgment;—the more ordinary parts, such as relate to the conduct of common life and the regulation of social feelings, are naturally the subject of a less elevated style of writing; of a style which speaks to the eye as well as to the ear,—in short, of dramatic poetry and scenic representation.

“With this view,” says Mr. Higgins (for we love to quote the very words of this extraordinary and indefatigable writer),—“with this view,” says he, in a letter dated from his study in St. Mary Axe, the window of which looks upon the parish pump,—“with this view I have turned my thoughts more particularly to the German stage, and have composed—in imitation of the most popular pieces of that country, which have already met with so general reception and admiration in this—a Play; which, if it has a proper run, will, I think, do much to unhinge the present notions of men with regard to the obligations of civil society, and to substitute, in lieu of a sober contentment, and regular discharge of the duties incident to each man’s particular situation, a wild desire of undefinable latitude and extravagance,—an aspiration after shapeless somethings that can neither be described nor understood,—a contemptuous disgust at all that is, and a persuasion that nothing is as it ought to be;—to operate, in short, a general discharge of every man (in his own estimation) from every tie which laws, divine or human, which local customs, immemorial habits, and multiplied examples, impose upon him; and to set them about doing what they like, where they like, when they like, and how they like,—without reference to any law but their own will, or to any consideration of how others may be affected by their conduct.

“When this is done, my dear sir,” continues Mr. H. (for he writes very confidentially)—“you see that a great step is gained towards the dissolution of the frame of every existing community. I say nothing of Governments, as their fall is of course implicated in that of the social system;—and you have long known that I hold every Government (that acts by coercion and restriction—by laws made by the few to bind the many) as a malum in se,—an evil to be eradicated,—a nuisance to be abated,—by force, if force be practicable; if not, by the artillery of reason, by pamphlets, speeches, toasts at club-dinners, and though last, not least, by didactic poems.

“But where would be the advantage of the destruction of this or that Government, if the form of Society itself were to be suffered to continue such as that another must necessarily arise out of it and over it?—Society, my dear sir, in its present state, is a hydra. Cut off one head,—another presently sprouts out, and your labour is to begin again. At best you can only hope to find it a polypus;—where, by cutting off the head, you are sometimes fortunate enough to find a tail (which answers all the same purposes) spring up in its place. This, we know, has been the case in France; the only country in which the great experiment of regeneration has been tried with anything like a fair chance of success.

“Destroy the frame of society,—decompose its parts,—and see the elements fighting one against another,—insulated and individual,—every man for himself (stripped of prejudice, of bigotry, and of feeling for others) against the remainder of his species;—and there is then some hope of a totally new order of things,—of a Radical Reform in the present corrupt system of the world.

“The German Theatre appears to proceed on this judicious plan. And I have endeavoured to contribute my mite towards extending its effect and its popularity. There is one obvious advantage attending this mode of teaching;—that it can proportion the infractions of law, religion, or morality, which it recommends, to the capacity of a reader or spectator. If you tell a student, or an apprentice, or a merchant’s clerk, of the virtue of a Brutus, or of the splendour of a La Fayette, you may excite his desire to be equally conspicuous; but how is he to set about it? Where is he to find the tyrant to murder? How is he to provide the monarch to be imprisoned, and the national guards to be reviewed on a white horse?—But paint the beauties of forgery to him in glowing colours;—show him that the presumption of virtue is in favour of rapine and occasional murder on the highway—and he presently understands you. The highway is at hand—the till or the counter is within reach. These haberdashers’ heroics come home to the business and the bosoms of men.—And you may readily make ten footpads, where you would not have materials nor opportunity for a single tyrannicide.

“The subject of the piece which I herewith transmit to you is taken from common or middling life; and its merit is that of teaching the most lofty truths in the most humble style, and deducing them from the most ordinary occurrences. Its moral is obvious and easy; and is one frequently inculcated by the German dramas which I have had the good fortune to see; being no other than ‘the reciprocal duties of one or more husbands to one or more wives, and to the children who may happen to arise out of this complicated and endearing connection’. The plot, indeed, is formed by the combination of the plots of two of the most popular of these plays (in the same way as Terence was wont to combine two stories of Menander’s). The characters are such as the admirers of these plays will recognise for their familiar acquaintances. There are the usual ingredients of imprisonments, post-houses and horns, and appeals to angels and devils. I have omitted only the swearing, to which English ears are not yet sufficiently accustomed.

“I transmit at the same time a Prologue, which in some degree breaks the matter to the audience. About the song of Rogero, at the end of the first Act, I am less anxious than about any other part of the performance, as it is, in fact, literally translated from the composition of a young German friend of mine, an IlluminÉ, of whom I bought the original for three-and-sixpence. It will be a satisfaction to those of your readers who may not at first sight hit upon the tune, to learn that it is setting by a hand of the first eminence.—I send also a rough sketch of the plot, and a few occasional notes.—The geography is by the young gentleman of the Morning Chronicle.”

THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.

Prior of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, very corpulent and cruel.

Rogero, a prisoner in the Abbey, in love with Matilda Pottingen.

Casimere, a Polish emigrant, in Dembrowsky’s legion, married to Cecilia, but having several children by Matilda.

Puddingfield and Beefington, English noblemen, exiled by the tyranny of King John, previous to the signature of Magna Charta.

Roderic, Count of Saxe Weimar, a bloody tyrant, with red hair, and an amorous complexion.

Gaspar, the minister of the Count—author of Rogero’s confinement.

Young Pottingen, brother to Matilda.

Matilda Pottingen, in love with Rogero, and mother to Casimere’s children.

Cecilia MÜckenfeld, wife to Casimere.

Landlady, Waiter, Grenadiers, Troubadours, &c., &c.

Pantalowsky and Britchinda, children of Matilda, by Casimere.

Joachim, Jabel, and Amarantha, children of Matilda, by Rogero.

Children of Casimere and Cecilia, with their respective Nurses.

Several Children—fathers and mothers unknown.

PROLOGUE.^[268]

Flash of lightning.—The ghost of Prologue’s Grandmother by the Father’s side, appears to soft music, in a white tiffany riding-hood. Prologue kneels to receive her blessing, which she gives in a solemn and affecting manner, the audience clapping and crying all the while.—Flash of lightning.—Prologue and his Grandmother sink through the trap-doors.

THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Scene represents a room at an inn, at Weimar—On one side of the stage the bar-room, with jellies, lemons in nets, syllabubs, and part of a cold roast fowl, &c.—On the opposite side, a window looking into the street, through which persons (inhabitants of Weimar) are seen passing to and fro in apparent agitation—Matilda appears in a great coat and riding-habit, seated at the corner of the dinner-table, which is covered with a clean huckaback cloth; plates and napkins, with buck’s-horn-handled knives and forks, are laid as if for four persons.

Mat. Is it impossible for me to have dinner sooner?

Land. Madam, the Brunswick post-waggon is not yet come in, and the ordinary is never before two o’clock.

Mat. [With a look expressive of disappointment, but immediately recomposing herself.] Well, then, I must have patience. [Exit Landlady.] Oh Casimere!—How often have the thoughts of thee served to amuse these moments of expectation!—What a difference, alas!—Dinner—it is taken away as soon as over, and we regret it not!—It returns again with the return of appetite.—The beef of to-morrow will succeed to the mutton of to-day, as the mutton of to-day succeeded to the veal of yesterday. But when once the heart has been occupied by a beloved object, in vain would we attempt to supply the chasm by another. How easily are our desires transferred from dish to dish!—Love only, dear, delusive, delightful love, restrains our wandering appetites, and confines them to a particular gratification!...

Post-horn blows; re-enter Landlady.

Land. Madam, the post-waggon is just come in with only a single gentlewoman.

Mat. Then show her up—and let us have dinner instantly; [Landlady going] and remember—[after a moment’s recollection, and with great earnestness]—remember the toasted cheese.

Mat. Madam, you seem to have had an unpleasant journey, if I may judge from the dust on your riding-habit.

Cec. The way was dusty, madam, but the weather was delightful. It recalled to me those blissful moments when the rays of desire first vibrated through my soul.

Mat. [Aside.] Thank Heaven! I have at last found a heart which is in unison with my own. [To Cecilia]—Yes, I understand you—the first pulsation of sentiment—the silver tones upon the yet unsounded harp....

Cec. The dawn of life—when this blossom [putting her hand upon her heart] first expanded its petals to the penetrating dart of love!

Mat. Yes—the time—the golden time, when the first beams of the morning meet and embrace one another!—The blooming blue upon the yet unplucked plum!...

Cec. Your countenance grows animated, my dear madam.

Mat. And yours too is glowing with illumination.

Cec. I had long been looking out for a congenial spirit!—my heart was withered—but the beams of yours have rekindled it.

Mat. A sudden thought strikes me—Let us swear an eternal friendship.

Cec. Let us agree to live together!

Mat. Willingly.

Cec. Let us embrace.

Mat. Yes; I too have loved!—you, too, like me, have been forsaken.

Cec. Too true!

Both. Ah these men! these men!

Landlady enters, and places a leg of mutton on the table, with sour krout and prune sauce; then a small dish of black puddings—Cecilia and Matilda appear to take no notice of her.

Mat. Oh, Casimere!

Cec. [Aside.] Casimere! that name!—Oh, my heart, how it is distracted with anxiety.

Mat. Heavens! Madam, you turn pale.

Cec. Nothing—a slight megrim—with your leave, I will retire—

Mat. I will attend you.

[Exeunt Matilda and Cecilia; Manent Landlady and Waiter, with the dinner on the table.

Land. Have you carried the dinner to the prisoner in the vaults of the abbey?

Waiter. Yes—Pease soup, as usual—with the scrag end of a neck of mutton. The emissary of the Count was here again this morning, and offered me a large sum of money if I would consent to poison him.

Land. Which you refused?

Waiter. Can you doubt it?

Land. [Recovering herself, and drawing up with an expression of dignity.] The conscience of a poor man is as valuable to him as that of a prince....

Waiter. It ought to be still more so, in proportion as it is generally more pure.

Land. Thou say’st truly, Job.

Waiter. [With enthusiasm.] He who can spurn at wealth when proffered as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.

Post-horn blows.—Enter Casimere (in a travelling dress, a light blue great coat with large metal buttons, his hair in a long queue, but twisted at the end; a large Kevenhuller hat; a cane in his hand).

Cas. Here, Waiter, pull off my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers. [Exit Waiter.] And hark’ye, my lad, a basin of water [rubbing his hands] and a bit of soap. I have not washed since I began my journey.

Waiter. [Answering from behind the door.] Yes, Sir.

Cas. Well, Landlady, what company are we to have?

Land. Only two gentlewomen, Sir.—They are just stept into the next room—they will be back again in a minute.

Cas. Where do they come from?

[All this while the Waiter re-enters with the basin and water; Casimere pulls off his boots, takes a napkin from the table, and washes his face and hands.

Land. There is one of them, I think, comes from Nuremburgh.

Cas. [Aside.] From Nuremburgh! [with eagerness] her name!

Land. Matilda.

Cas. [Aside.] How does this idiot woman torment me!—What else?

Land. I can’t recollect.

Cas. Oh, agony!

Waiter. See here, her name upon the travelling trunk—Matilda Pottingen.

Cas. Ecstasy! ecstasy!

Land. You seem to be acquainted with the lady—shall I call her?

Cas. Instantly—instantly—tell her her loved, her long-lost—tell her——

Land. Shall I tell her dinner is ready?

Cas. Do so—and in the meanwhile I will look after my portmanteau.

Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, with coffins, ’scutcheons, death’s heads and crossbones—toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage.—Rogero appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head—beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns.—Rogero rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded.

Rog. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre—the cruelty of a Minister—the perfidy of a Monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my fellow-men. Soft!—what have we here! [stumbles over a bundle of sticks.] This cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet. Oh—the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? [Takes up the sticks, and turns them over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few minutes, as if absorbed in calculation.]—Eleven years and fifteen days!—Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. It was a summer evening; her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine, as I prest it to my bosom. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which was conveying her away for ever. The tears were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with agony. Anon—I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to diminish every instant; I felt my heart beat against its prison, as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My soul whirled round as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory followed after her, and mingled with the dust; it was the emanation of Divinity, luminous with love and beauty, like the splendour of the setting sun; but it told me that the sun of my joys was sunk for ever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal dungeon, in the nursing cradle of hell, the suburbs of perdition, in a nest of demons, where despair in vain sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope; where agony woos the embrace of death; where patience, beside the bottomless pool of despondency, sits angling for impossibilities. Yet, even here, to behold her, to embrace her! Yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and spiders, or in a royal palace, amidst the more loathsome reptiles of a court, would be indifferent to me; angels would shower down their hymns of gratulation upon our heads, while fiends would envy the eternity of suffering love.... Soft, what air was that? it seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again! [listens attentively for some minutes.] Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. [Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra.

SONG.

[Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds—

[At the repetition of this line Rogero clanks his chains in cadence.

[During the last stanza Rogero dashes his head repeatedly against the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony. The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is wholly fallen.

[The character of Rogero is a quiz upon Sir Robert Adair, who received his education at GÖttingen, and fell in love with his tutor’s daughter. His relative, Lord Albemarle, says in his Reminiscences: “Throughout life my kinsman was an enthusiastic admirer of the fair sex, which he generally ‘loved, not wisely, but too well’”. He married, in 1805, Mdlle. AngÉlique Gabrielle, daughter of the Marquis d’Hazincourt and the Comtesse de Champagne.

Adair was the son of Mr. Robert Adair, sergeant-surgeon to K. George III., by his wife Lady Caroline Keppel, daughter of Wm. Anne, second Earl of Albemarle. He was educated at Westminster School and GÖttingen University; called to the Bar, but never practised. He contested Camelford in 1796; and was M.P. for Appleby, 1799–1802, for Camelford, 1802–1812. He was sent by Fox as Minister Plenipotentiary to Vienna in 1806; and by his old adversary Canning to Constantinople in 1808; and also to Berlin. He was Ambassador to Constantinople, 1809–11, and to Belgium, 1831–5. He was a facile writer, and wrote several spirited pamphlets, including defences of his relatives, Francis, Duke of Bedford, and Admiral Keppel, Fox, and other Whigs. He contributed to the Political Eclogues a poem called Margaret Nicholson, in which George III., Pitt, Jenkinson, &c., were ridiculed, and the Song of Scrutina (on the “Westminster Scrutiny”), in the style of Ossian, in the Probationary Odes for the Laureateship. He was the author also of an account of his Mission to the Court of Vienna; and his Negotiations for the Peace of the Dardanelles: 3 vols., 8vo. For his services in the latter business he was made G.C.B. He was born 24th May, 1763, and died 3rd Oct., 1855.

There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by Canning. Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by Pitt, who was cognisant of the proceedings of the “Anti-Jacobin” writers, he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen and composed the last stanza on the spot.—Ed.]

[This drama was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, July 26, 1811, with alterations and additions, and some introductory matter, which contained smart hits at the Quadrupeds, which then desecrated the stage of Covent Garden Theatre. Liston performed Rogero; Munden, Casimere; Mrs. Glover, Matilda; Mrs. Gibbs, Cecilia. The following Prologue, written by George Colman the younger, in imitation of Pope’s prologue to Cato, was spoken by Elliston:—