——?—— DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. 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. 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. The Scene lies in the Town of Weimar, and the Neighbourhood of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh. Time, from the Twelfth to the present Century. PROLOGUE. (In character.) Too long the triumphs of our early times, With civil discord, and with regal crimes, Have stain'd these boards; while Shakespeare's pen has shown Thoughts, manners, men, to modern days unknown. Too long have Rome and Athens been the rage; [Applause. And classic buskins soil'd a British stage. To-night our bard, who scorns pedantic rules, His plot has borrow'd from the German schools; —The German schools—where no dull maxims bind The bold expansion of the electric mind. Fix'd to no period, circled by no space, He leaps the flaming bounds of time and place: Round the dark confines of the forest raves, With gentle robbers [204] stocks his gloomy caves; Tells how prime ministers [205] are shocking things, And reigning dukes as bad as tyrant kings; How to two swains [206] one nymph her vows may give, And how two damsels with one lover live! Delicious scenes!—such scenes our bard displays, Which, crown'd with German, sue for British, praise. Slow are the steeds, that through Germania's roads With hempen rein the slumbering post-boy goads; Slow is the slumbering post-boy, who proceeds Through deep sands floundering, on those tardy steeds; More slow, more tedious, from his husky throat Twangs through the twisted horn the struggling note. These truths confess'd—Oh! yet, ye travell'd few, Germania's plays with eyes unjaundiced view! View and approve!—though in each passage fine The faint translation [207] mock the genuine line; Though the nice ear the erring sight belie, For U twice dotted is pronounced like I; [Applause. Yet oft the scene shall Nature's fire impart, Warm from the breast, and glowing to the heart! Ye travell'd few, attend! On you our bard Builds his fond hope! Do you his genius guard! [Applause. Nor let succeeding generations say— A British audience damn'd a German play. [Loud and continued applauses. [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-door.
ACT I.—Scene I. 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. Matilda. 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 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 eagerness]—remember the toasted cheese. [Exit Landlady. Cecilia enters, in a brown cloth riding-dress, as if just alighted from the post-waggon. 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 recall'd 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. [With rapidity and earnestness. Cec. Let us embrace. [They embrace. Mat. Yes; I too have loved!—you, too, like me, have been forsaken! [Doubtingly and as if with a desire to be informed. Cec. Too true! Both. Ah, these men! these men! Landlady enters, and places a leg of mut'on 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? [With hesitation and anxiety. Waiter. Can you doubt it? [With indignation. 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 proffer'd 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 of my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers [Exit Waiter.] And heark'ye, my lad, a bason 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 stepp'd 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 bason 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! [In a paroxysm of agitation. Waiter. See here, her name upon the travelling trunk—Matilda Pottingen. Cas. Ecstasy! ecstasy! [Embracing the Waiter. 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. [Exeunt severally. Scene changes to a subterraneous vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, with coffins, 'scutcheous, Death's heads and cross-bones.—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 moments, 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 press'd 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.] [Air, Lanterna Magica.] Song.
BY ROGERO. I. Whene'er with haggard eyes I view This dungeon that I'm rotting in, I think of those companions true Who studied with me at the U— —niversity of Gottingen,— —niversity of Gottingen. [Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes; gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds— II. Sweet kerchief, check'd with heavenly blue, Which once my love sat knotting in!— Alas! Matilda then was true!— At least I thought so at the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen. [At the repetition of this line, Rogero clanks his chains in cadence. III. Barbs! barbs! alas! how swift you flew, Her neat post-waggon trotting in! Ye bore Matilda from my view; Forlorn I languish'd at the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen.
IV. This faded form! this pallid hue! This blood my veins is clotting in, My years are many—they were few When first I entered at the U— —niversity of Gottingon— —niversity of Gottingen. V. There first for thee my passion grew, Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen! Thou wast the daughter of my tu— —tor, Law Professor at the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen. VI. Sun, moon, and thou, vain world, adieu, That kings and priests are plotting in: Here doom'd to starve on water gru— —el, never shall I see the U— —niversity of Gottingen— —niversity of Gottingen. [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.
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 of 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-by, 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 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 apprised 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 lodging in the same house with Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, 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 Puddincrantz and Beefinstern 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 have both received many civilities in Poland. Casimere, by this time tired of his "Double Arrangement," and having learned 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 recognizes 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.
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. Ah! 'tis my deal [deals—turns up a knave.] One
for his heels! [Triumphantly. Pudd. Is king highest? Beef. No [sternly.] The game is mine. The knave gives it me. Pudd. Are knaves so prosperous? Ay, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but noddies[208] 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 heart-ache? Can they sooth banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can all-fours do this? Oh! 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?[209]—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 paternal 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. Enter Waiter. 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.] Hah, my friend, what joy! [Turning to Puddingfield. Pudd. What? tell me—let your Puddingfield partake it. Beef. See here— [Produces a printed paper. Pudd. What? [With impatience. Beef. [in a significant tone.] A newspaper! Pudd. Hah, 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.] "A hireling print, devoted to the Court, Has dared to question our veracity Respecting the events of yesterday; But by to-day's accounts, our information Appears to have been perfectly correct. The charter of our liberties received The royal signature at five o'clock, When messengers were instantly dispatch'd To Cardinal Pandulfo; and their majesties, After partaking of a cold collation, Return'd to Windsor."—I am satisfied. 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. Hah! 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, Gieronymo, 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 thy 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. [ Plays on the balalaika. [210] Troubadour sings. I bear a secret comfort here, [putting his hand on the bundle, but without showing it. A joy I'll ne'er impart; It is not wine, it is not beer, But it consoles my heart. 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 of the bottle. Troubadour pushes her aside, and continues singing without interruption.
This cherry-bounce, this lov'd noyau, My drink for ever be; But, sweet my love, thy wish forego, I'll give no drop to thee! Trou. {This} cherry-bounce {This} lov'd noyau, F. M. {That} {that} Trou. {My } drink for ever be; F. M. {Thy } Trou. } But, sweet my love, {thy wish forego! 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 eclaircissements 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. Enter Beefington and Puddingfield. 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, recognises 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[211]—to fly—to fly—to return—England—our country—Magna Charta—it is liberated—a new era—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—am 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 a 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[212] is like children playing at soldiers. Beef. Courage without power[213] is like a consumptive running footman. Cas. Courage without power is a contradiction.[214] 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? [Doubtingly. 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. [With enthusiasm. Pudd. Yes, my boys—for the execution. [Clapping them on the back. Waiter. But hist! we are observed. Trou. Let us by a song conceal our purposes. RECITATIVE ACCOMPANIED.[215] Cas. Hist! hist! nor let the airs that blow From Night's cold lungs, our purpose know! Pudd. Let Silence, mother of the dumb, Beef. Press on each lip her palsied thumb! Wait. Let privacy, allied to sin, That loves to haunt the tranquil inn— Gren.} And Conscience start, when she shall view, Trou. } The mighty deed we mean to do! GENERAL CHORUS—Con spirito. Then friendship swear, ye faithful bands, Swear to save a shackled hero! See where yon Abbey frowning stands! Rescue, rescue, brave Rogero! Cas. Thrall'd in a Monkish tyrant's fetters, Shall great Rogero hopeless lie? Y. Pot. In my pocket I have letters, Saying, "help me, or I die!" Cas. Beef. Pudd. Gren. Trou. } Let us fly, let us fly, Waiter, and Pot. with enthusiasm } Let us help, ere he die! [Exeunt omnes, waving their hats. 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 proper 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 Prior, who had been 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.
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