June 11, 1798.

We have received, in the course of the last week, several long, and to say the truth, dull letters, from unknown hands, reflecting in very severe terms on Mr. Higgins, for having, as it is affirmed, attempted to pass upon the world, as a faithful sample of the productions of the German theatre, a performance no way resembling any of those pieces which have so late excited, and which bid fair to engross, the admiration of the British public.

As we cannot but consider ourselves as the guardians of Mr. Higgins’s literary reputation, in respect to every work of his which is conveyed to the world through the medium of our paper (though, what we think of the danger of his principles we have already sufficiently explained for ourselves, and have, we trust, succeeded in putting our readers upon their guard against them)—we hold ourselves bound not only to justify the fidelity of the imitation, but (contrary to our original intention) to give a further specimen of it in our present number, in order to bring the question more fairly to issue between our author and his calumniators.

In the first place we are to observe, that Mr. Higgins professes to have taken his notion of German plays wholly from the translations which have appeared in our language. If they are totally dissimilar from the originals, Mr. H. may undoubtedly have been led into error; but the fault is in the translators, not in him. That he does not differ widely from the models which he proposed to himself, we have it in our power to prove satisfactorily, and might have done so in our last number, by subjoining to each particular passage of his play the scene in some one or other of the German plays which he had in view when he wrote it. These parallel passages were faithfully pointed out to us by Mr. H. with that candour which marks his character; and if they were suppressed by us (as in truth they were), on our heads be the blame, whatever it may be. Little, indeed, did we think of the imputation which the omission would bring upon Mr. H., as in fact our principal reason for it was the apprehension that, from the extreme closeness of the imitation in most instances, he would lose in praise for invention more than he would gain in credit for fidelity.

The meeting between Matilda and Cecilia, for example, in the first act of The Rovers, and their sudden intimacy, has been censured as unnatural. Be it so. It is taken, almost word for word, from Stella, a German (or professedly a German) piece now much in vogue; from which also the catastrophe of Mr. Higgins’s play is in part borrowed, so far as relates to the agreement to which the ladies come, as the reader will see by and bye, to share Casimere between them.

The dinner-scene is copied partly from the published translation of The Stranger, and partly from the first scene of Stella. The song of Rogero, with which the first act concludes, is admitted on all hands to be in the very first taste; and if no German original is to be found for it, so much the worse for the credit of German literature.

An objection has been made by one anonymous letter-writer to the names of Puddingfield and Beefington, as little likely to have been assigned to English characters by any author of taste or discernment. In answer to this objection we have, in the first place, to admit, that a small, and we hope not an unwarrantable, alteration has been made by us since the MS. has been in our hands. These names stood originally Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, which sounded to our ears as being liable, especially the latter, to a ridiculous inflection—a difficulty that could only be removed by furnishing them with English terminations. With regard to the more substantial syllables of the names, our author proceeded, in all probability, on the authority of Goldoni, who, though not a German, is an Italian writer of considerable reputation; and who, having heard that the English were distinguished for their love of liberty and beef, has judiciously compounded the two words Runnymede and Beef, and thereby produced an English nobleman, whom he styles Lord Runnybeef.

To dwell no longer on particular passages, the best way perhaps of explaining the whole scope and view of Mr. H.’s imitation will be to transcribe the short sketch of the plot which that gentleman transmitted to us, together with his drama, and which it is perhaps the more necessary to give at length, as, the limits of our paper not allowing of the publication of the whole piece, some general knowledge of its main design may be acceptable to our readers, in order to enable them to judge of the several extracts which we lay before them.

PLOT.

Rogero, son of the late minister of the Count of Saxe Weimar, having while he was at college, fallen desperately in love with Matilda Pottingen, daughter of his tutor, Doctor Engelbertus Pottingen, Professor of Civil Law; and Matilda evidently returning his passion, the Doctor, to prevent ill consequences, sends his daughter on a visit to her aunt in Wetteravia, where she becomes acquainted with Casimere, a Polish Officer, who happens to be quartered near her aunt’s, and has several children by him.

Roderic, Count of Saxe Weimar, a prince of a tyrannical and licentious disposition, has for his Prime Minister and favourite Gaspar, a crafty villain, who had risen to his post by first ruining, and then putting to death, Rogero’s father. Gaspar, apprehensive of the power and popularity which the young Rogero may enjoy at his return to Court, seizes the occasion of his intrigue with Matilda (of which he is apprized officially by Doctor Pottingen) to procure from his master an order for the recall of Rogero from college, and for committing him to the care of the Prior of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, a priest, rapacious, savage, and sensual, and devoted to Gaspar’s interests—sending at the same time private orders to the Prior to confine him in a dungeon.

Here Rogero languishes many years. His daily sustenance is administered to him through a grated opening at the top of a cavern, by the landlady of the Golden Eagle at Weimar, with whom Gaspar contracts, in the prince’s name, for his support; intending, and more than once endeavouring, to corrupt the waiter to mingle poison with the food, in order that he may get rid of Rogero for ever.

In the meantime, Casimere, having been called away from the neighbourhood of Matilda’s residence to other quarters, becomes enamoured of and marries Cecilia, by whom he has a family; and whom he likewise deserts after a few years’ cohabitation, on pretence of business which calls him to Kamtschatka.

Doctor Pottingen, now grown old and infirm, and feeling the want of his daughter’s society, sends young Pottingen in search of her, with strict injunctions not to return without her; and to bring with her either her present lover Casimere, or, should that not be possible, Rogero himself, if he can find him; the Doctor having set his heart upon seeing his children comfortably settled before his death. Matilda, about the same period, quits her aunt’s in search of Casimere; and Cecilia, having been advertised (by an anonymous letter) of the falsehood of his Kamtschatka journey, sets out in the post-waggon on a similar pursuit.

It is at this point of time the Play opens—with the accidental meeting of Cecilia and Matilda at the Inn at Weimar. Casimere arrives there soon after, and falls in first with Matilda, and then with Cecilia. Successive Éclaircissements take place, and an arrangement is finally made, by which the two ladies are to live jointly with Casimere.

Young Pottingen, wearied with a few weeks’ search, during which he has not been able to find either of the objects of it, resolves to stop at Weimar, and wait events there. It so happens that he takes up his lodgings in the same house with Puddingfield and Beefington, two English noblemen, whom the tyranny of King John has obliged to fly from their country; and who, after wandering about the continent for some time, have fixed their residence at Weimar.

The news of the signature of Magna Charta arriving, determines Puddingfield and Beefington to return to England. Young Pottingen opens his case to them, and entreats them to stay to assist him in the object of his search.—This they refuse; but coming to the Inn where they are to set off for Hamburgh, they meet Casimere, from whom they had both received many civilities in Poland.

Casimere, by this time tired of his “Double Arrangement,” and having learnt from the waiter that Rogero is confined in the vaults of the neighbouring abbey for love, resolves to attempt his rescue, and to make over Matilda to him as the price of his deliverance. He communicates his scheme to Puddingfield and Beefington, who agree to assist him; as also does young Pottingen. The Waiter of the Inn, proving to be a Knight Templar in disguise, is appointed leader of the expedition. A band of Troubadours, who happen to be returning from the Crusades, and a company of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers returning from the Seven Years’ War, are engaged as troops.

The attack on the Abbey is made with success. The Count of Weimar and Gaspar, who are feasting with the Prior, are seized and beheaded in the refectory. The Prior is thrown into the dungeon from which Rogero is rescued. Matilda and Cecilia rush in. The former recognises Rogero, and agrees to live with him. The children are produced on all sides—and young Pottingen is commissioned to write to his father, the Doctor, to detail the joyful events which have taken place, and to invite him to Weimar to partake of the general felicity.

THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.

ACT II.

Scene, a Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at Weimar—Puddingfield and Beefington discovered sitting at a small deal table, and playing at All-fours—Young Pottingen, at another table in the corner of the room, with a pipe in his mouth, and a Saxon mug of a singular shape beside him, which he repeatedly applies to his lips, turning back his head, and casting his eyes towards the firmament—at the last trial he holds the mug for some moments in a directly inverted position; then replaces it on the table with an air of dejection, and gradually sinks into a profound slumber—the pipe falls from his hand, and is broken.

Beef. I beg.

Pudd. [Deals three cards to Beefington.] Are you satisfied?

Beef. Enough; what have you?

Pudd. High, low, and the game.

Beef. D——n! ’Tis my deal. [Deals; turns up a knave.] One for his heels!

Pudd. Is king highest?

Beef. No. [Sternly] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.

Pudd. Are knaves so prosperous?

Beef. Aye, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but noddies^[276] to them.

Pudd. Ha! ha! ha! Still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England.

Beef. England! my native land! when shall I revisit thee?

[During this time Puddingfield deals, and begins to arrange his hand.

Beef. [Continues.] Phoo, hang All-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, my Puddingfield! thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—

[Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young Pottingen, awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards Beefington and Puddingfield. The former begins to recover.

Y. Pot. What is the matter, comrades,^[277] you seem agitated. Have you lost or won?

Beef. Lost! I have lost my country.

Y. Pot. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.

Beef. O, England!

Y. Pot. O, Matilda!

Beef. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country.

Y. Pot. Oppressed by the tyranny of an Abbot, persecuted by the jealousy of a Count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in a loathsome captivity; her lover is fled no one knows whither, and I, her brother, am torn from my parental roof, and from my studies in chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I know not how. Comrades, your counsel. My search fruitless—my money gone—my baggage stolen! what am I to do? In yonder Abbey—in these dark, dank vaults, there, my friends, there lies Rogero—there Matilda’s heart.

SCENE II.

Waiter. Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you.

Beef. [Goes to the door and returns with a letter, which he opens. On perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands prodigiously.] Ah, my friend, what joy!

Pudd. What? tell me—let your Puddingfield partake it.

Beef. See here.

Pudd. What?

Beef. [In a significant tone.] A newspaper!

Pudd. Ah, what sayst thou?—A newspaper!

Beef. Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [shows it partially], from England.

Pudd. [With extreme earnestness.] Its name?

Beef. The Daily Advertiser.

Pudd. Oh, ecstasy!

Beef. [With a dignified severity.] Puddingfield, calm yourself—repress those transports—remember that you are a man.

Pudd. [After a pause, with suppressed emotion.] Well, I will be—I am calm—yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news?

Beef. Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield—the Barons are victorious—King John has been defeated—Magna Charta, that venerable immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three weeks, the third of July, Old Style.

Pudd. I can scarce believe my ears—but let me satisfy my eyes—show me the paragraph.

Beef. Here it is, just above the advertisements.

Pudd. [Reads.] “The great demand for Packwood’s Razor Straps”—

Beef. Pshaw!—what, ever blundering!—you drive me from my patience. See here, at the head of the column.

Pudd. [Reads.]

Beef. Yet here again—there are some further particulars [turns to another part of the paper]. “Extract of a letter from Egham—My dear friend, we are all here in high spirits—the interesting event which took place this morning at Runnymede, in the neighbourhood of this town”—

Pudd. Ah, Runnymede! enough—no more—my doubts are vanished—then are we free indeed!

Beef. I have, besides, a letter in my pocket from our friend, the immortal Bacon, who has been appointed Chancellor. Our outlawry is reversed!—What says my friend—shall we return by the next packet?

Pudd. Instantly, instantly!

Both. Liberty! Adelaide! revenge!

[Exeunt—Young Pottingen following and waving his hat, but obviously without much consciousness of the meaning of what has passed.

Scene changes to the outside of the Abbey.—A Summer’s Evening; Moonlight.

Companies of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers march across the stage confusedly, as if returning from the Seven Years War.—Shouts and martial music.

The Abbey Gates are opened; the Monks are seen passing in procession, with the Prior at their head; the choir is heard chanting vespers.—After which a pause; then a bell is heard, as if ringing for supper; soon after, a noise of singing and jollity.

Enter from the Abbey, pushed out of the gates by the Porter, a Troubadour, with a bundle under his cloak, and a Lady under his arm; Troubadour seems much in liquor, but caresses the Female Minstrel.

Fem. Min. Trust me, Gieronimo, thou seemest melancholy. What hast thou got under thy cloak?

Trou. Pshaw! women will be inquiring. Melancholy! not I. I will sing thee a song, and the subject of it shall be the question—“What have I got under my cloak?” It is a riddle, Margaret—I learnt it of an almanac-maker at Gotha—if thou guessest it after the first stanza, thou shalt have never a drop for thy pains. Hear me—and, d’ye mark! twirl thy thingumbob while I sing.

Fem. Min. ’Tis a pretty tune, and hums dolefully.

Trou.

Fem. Min. [Interrupting him.] I’ll be hang’d if you don’t mean the bottle of cherry-brandy that you stole out of the vaults in the abbey cellar.

Trou. I mean!—Peace, wench; thou disturbest the current of my feelings—

[Fem. Min. attempts to lay hold on the bottle; Troubadour pushes her aside, and continues singing without interruption.

Trou.	{ This }	cherry-bounce	{ this }	loved noyau,
F. M.	{ That }		{ that }
Trou.	{ My }	drink for ever be;
F. M.	{ Thy }
Trou. }	But, sweet my love,		{ thy wish forgo!
F. M. }			{ one drop bestow,
Trou.	{ I }	keep it all for	{ me!
F. M.	{ Nor }		{ thee!

[Exeunt struggling for the bottle, but without anger or animosity, the Fem. Min. appearing by degrees to obtain a superiority in the contest.

Act the Third—contains the Éclaircissements and final arrangement between Casimere, Matilda, and Cecilia; which so nearly resemble the concluding act of Stella, that we forbear to lay it before our readers.

ACT IV.

Scene, the Inn door; Diligence drawn up.—Casimere appears superintending the package of his portmanteaus, and giving directions to the Porters.

Pudd. Well, Coachey, have you got two inside places?

Coach. Yes, your Honour.

Pudd. [seems to be struck with Casimere’s appearance. He surveys him earnestly without paying any attention to the Coachman, then doubtingly pronounces] Casimere!

Cas. [turning round rapidly, recognizes Puddingfield, and embraces him.] My Puddingfield!

Pudd. My Casimere!

Cas. What, Beefington too! [discovering him]—then is my joy complete.

Beef. Our fellow-traveller, as it seems!

Cas. Yes, Beefington—but wherefore to Hamburgh?

Beef. Oh, Casimere^[279]—to fly—to fly—to return—England—our country—Magna Charta—it is liberated—a new Æra—House of Commons—Crown and Anchor—Opposition—

Cas. What a contrast! you are flying to liberty and your home—I, driven from my home by tyranny, and exposed to domestic slavery in a foreign country.

Beef. How domestic slavery?

Cas. Too true—two wives—[slowly, and with a dejected air—then after a pause]—you knew my Cecilia?

Pudd. Yes, five years ago.

Cas. Soon after that period I went upon a visit to a lady in Wetteravia—my Matilda was under her protection. Alighting at a peasant’s cabin, I saw her on a charitable visit, spreading bread-and-butter for the children, in a light-blue riding-habit. The simplicity of her appearance—the fineness of the weather—all conspired to interest me—my heart moved to hers—as if by magnetic sympathy. We wept, embraced, and went home together: she became the mother of my Pantalowsky. But five years of enjoyment have not stifled the reproaches of my conscience—her Rogero is languishing in captivity—if I could restore her to him!

Beef. Let us rescue him.

Cas. Will without power^[280] is like children playing at soldiers.

Beef. Courage without power^[281] is like a consumptive running footman.

Cas. Courage without power is a contradiction.^[282] Ten brave men might set all Quedlinburgh at defiance.

Beef. Ten brave men—but where are they to be found?

Cas. I will tell you—marked you the waiter?

Beef. The waiter?

Cas. [in a confidential tone]. No waiter, but a Knight Templar. Returning from the Crusade, he found his Order dissolved, and his person proscribed. He dissembled his rank, and embraced the profession of a waiter. I have made sure of him already. There are, besides, an Austrian, and a Prussian grenadier. I have made them abjure their national enmity, and they have sworn to fight henceforth in the cause of freedom. These with young Pottingen, the waiter, and ourselves, make seven—the Troubadour, with his two attendant minstrels, will complete the ten.

Beef. Now then for the execution.

Pudd. Yes, my boys—for the execution.

Waiter. But hist! we are observed.

Trou. Let us by a song conceal our purposes.

RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.^[283]

Cas. Beef. Pudd. Gren. Trou. Waiter, and Pot. with enthusiasm.

} Let us fly, let us fly, } Let us help, ere he die!

Scene, the Abbey Gate, with Ditches, Drawbridges, and Spikes; Time, about an hour before Sunrise.—The conspirators appear as if in ambuscade, whispering and consulting together, in expectation of the signal for attack.—The Waiter is habited as a Knight Templar, in the dress of his Order, with the Cross on his breast, and the scallop on his shoulder.—Puddingfield and Beefington armed with blunderbusses and pocket-pistols; the Grenadiers in their proper uniforms.—The Troubadour with his attendant minstrels bring up the rear; martial music: the conspirators come forward, and present themselves before the Gate of the Abbey.—Alarum; firing of pistols; the Convent appear in Arms upon the Walls; the Drawbridge is let down; a body of choristers and lay-brothers attempt a sally, but are beaten back, and the Verger killed.—The besieged attempt to raise the Drawbridge; Puddingfield and Beefington press forward with alacrity, throw themselves upon the Drawbridge, and by the exertion of their weight preserve it in a state of depression; the other besiegers join them, and attempt to force the entrance, but without effect.—Puddingfield makes the signal for the battering-ram.—Enter Quintus Curtius and Marcus Curius Dentatus in their military habits, preceded by the Roman Eagle; the rest of their Legion are employed in bringing forward a battering-ram, which plays for a few minutes to slow time, till the entrance is forced.—After a short resistance, the besiegers rush in with shouts of Victory.

Scene changes to the interior of the Abbey.—The inhabitants of the Convent are seen flying in all directions.

The Count of Weimar and the Prior, who had been found feasting in the Refectory, are brought in manacled. The Count appears transported with rage, and gnaws his chains.—The Prior remains insensible, as if stupefied with grief.—Beefington takes the keys of the Dungeon, which are hanging at the Prior’s girdle, and makes a sign for them both to be led away into confinement.—Exeunt Prior and Count, properly guarded.—The rest of the conspirators disperse in search of the Dungeon where Rogero is confined.