ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE, A room inWelling's house, from which are various doors to a dining­room, a study, his daughters' chambers, &c. On one side is a large closet. The furniture is strong. Taste and elegance every where prevail, unmixed with ostentation, but evidently shewing the owner of the house to be in good circumstances.—Paulina andRosa are discovered spinning;Frederick andLewis are engaged in maxing a large net. The clock strikes five.

FIVE o'clock.

They'll soon rise, now.

I heard my father cough.

And I saw my mother throw barley out of the win­dow to the pigeons.

Have you all your presents ready?

Mine is in my pocket.

Mine is under that white cloth.

And mine is in the court.

I alone have nothing to offer.

May one ask what it is?

Can you keep a secret?

Oh yes.

So can I.

Well, I am not so cruel. I have woven some hand­kerchiefs for my mother; and for my father—guess.

It will not be worth while.

Ha! ha! ha! do you hear, Lewis? What think you?

He is probably right.

How modest! But, Frederick, I'll tell you—Lewis has made some verses for me: they are so sweet and affect­ing—

I don't understand verses.

Paulina is so kind as to think them tolerable.

Mr. Ernorf makes verses too, but nobody can un­derstand them.

Hark! They are coming.

No—it was the servant below.

My father and mother must be very happy to-day.

That they always are.

Yes; but only consider, they have been married twenty-five years to-day.

And did you hear what my father said when they went to bed last night? They had not quarrelled, during all that time, for twenty-five minutes.

He had tears in his eyes when he mentioned it.

My mother pressed his hand, too.

And looked as affectionate as a bride.

It is a singular happiness.

They are singular people.

God bless them!

And soon send me a wife!

You have made a choice, I think?

Perhaps I have.

The Forester's daughter?

She is a good girl.

Brother, I wish you joy.

I wish her father may not have higher views.

Well! who knows what may happen?

Hark! Now they are coming.

Oh no—It is Mr. Ernorf.

Only Mr. Ernorf.

Good morning to you, Mr. Ernorf. How happens it that you are abroad so early?

The Muses and Graces awoke me.

The cock awoke us by crowing.

This is Mr. Welling's wedding-day.

Do you mean that for news?

The news is to come. As Miss Paulina yesterday signified that she wished to celebrate the happy event by an ode, I have prepared one.

I am much obliged to you, but it is too late.

Too late!

I am already provided with one.

I should like to know where a poet could be found within many miles, who —

You need not go so far to find him.

Not many steps.

Lewis—

This young man?—Ha! ha!—May one be allowed a sight of the attempt?

Here it is.

Happy pair—knows no care—domestic joy—never cloy—very tolerable, if they had a little energy in them. I always say, that when one reads a solemn poem, the breast ought to be contracted, the breath to fail, the eye to start from the head, and every vein to swell.

Heaven forbid!

I like the poetry which inspires gentle sensibility.

Oh, that was the fashion thirty years ago, when your Yoricks used to take their sentimental trips, but in our days nothing will do but hexameters.

What are those?

You shall hear directly.

Don't be ashamed, young man. Rome was not built in a day.

I thank you, Mr. Ernorf, but if your verses be the best that were ever written, they can't now be of any use to me.

Oh, I beg pardon. Only listen.

"Rise with | splendor a | bove the ho | rizon | hot sweating | Phoe­bus."

Who is that poor fellow?

Pst!—"Look on thy | humble bard | and smile | from thy e | therial coach-box." |

Far too high, Mr. Ernorf.

Be patient. We shall soon descend. "Here see a | couple with | love's wrinkles | like | Phi | lemon and | Baucis."|

Love has no wrinkles.

I almost believe you mean to criticise, sir.

By no means. I beg pardon.

There! You can't support the character you assume, for a critic never begs pardon. You will, therefore, do bet­ter if you employ yourself in procuring a certificate of your birth. The times are dangerous, and our prince will not harbor any—

Speak it boldly—vagrants.

Exactly.

Enough, Mr. Ernorf.

Too much, I think. He, who is treated by my father as his own son, must be a good man, though he may not be able to write hexameters.

I thank you, dear Paulina.

Your father is not in office as I am. He has not such heavy duties upon him. But—I fear—

What?

That some investigation must be made.

Into what?

Into the rank, age, name, origin and employment of this young man—this votary of the muses.

Oh Lewis! It would have been better if you had suffered love to be covered with wrinkles.

He who makes use of his office to revenge a fancied insult—

Is a—

An under-secretary.

My father and mother are coming.

How provoking! Why could they not sleep another hour?

Good morning, dear father! Many more happy years to you, dear mother!

Thank you—thank you, good-children.

Mother,. I have—

Father, here is—

Stop! I am the oldest.

In filial affection age has no claim.

Look here, father.

Come to the window, father.

Read this, father.

Children, one after another. What have you there, Rosa?

A pair of gloves made by myself.

I thank you, my dear girl.

And here are some handkerchiefs for you, mother, spun and made by myself—and a poem for my father.

The sentiments are beautifully expres­sed. I guess who is the author. Lewis, why do you stand in that corner?

I have nothing to give you.

A kind word, at least, I hope—a sincere congra­tulation?

God sees my heart.

Come nearer, then, that I may see it too.

Oh my benefactor! How I wish you could!

I do.

It is swimming in your eye.—Well, Frederick?

To the window, father.

Why?

Do you see what the man is leading across the court?

A handsome horse.

You don't remember it?

No.

Don't you recollect, about three years ago, that you admired our neighbor's foal?

I did, and afterwards heard that it was dead.

That was a deception, for I bought it with my pocket money, and was resolved, when it was in condition, to sur­prise you agreeably with the sight of it.

I thank you, my son.

Dear, good parents, give us your blessing.

Your blessing.

God bless you!

You too, good Lewis!

Then have I again found a father.

As long as I live.

Good morning, Mr. Ernorf. Don't take it amiss that I did not welcome you sooner. The heart has its pri­vileges.

"See, I | come to your | hospita | ble board | con­gratu | lating."

At which I shall be glad to see you.

I will have that pleasure. It is a family jubilee; and perhaps—

Father!

Perhaps, I say—

All our people are assembled in the court.

Perhaps, I say—

They want to congratulate you.

They have all made garlands and wreaths.

Come then, such wreaths are more valuable than crowns, for affection twined them together.

Perhaps, I say — very civil conduct indeed!

You must make some allowances for the bustle of the day.

So it seems your fine verses are liked?

These good people consider my good intention.

You have been at school, then, as you think your­self capable of writing poetry?

I seldom write poetry.

In that you are perfectly right, for your muse would not repay the many obligations which this family—

I often remind myself of those obligations, and should be ashamed if it were necessary for another to do it.

It certainly was a lucky circumstance for you, that Mr. Welling should just happen to enter the inn, as the re­cruiting party was going to take you away.

I acknowledge it.

And that he should be so generous or weak as to pay forty dollars for your discharge.

You, sir, I suppose, only do this in poetry.

What do you mean by that?

It is said that poets are, from the nature of their pro­fession, only capable of describing good actions.

I am much inclined to prove the contrary this very day, by ridding the neighborhood of a conceited fellow.

In that you would be perfectly right.

And this conceited fellow is yourself▪ Dixi.

I do not regard your scornful language, for it cannot disgrace me: but I should like to know by what right —

What! I no right! I, under-secretary to his serene highness, own cousin to the cabinet-president's house-keeper—joint editor of a critical journal!—

For Heaven's sake, what is the cause of all this noise.

Mr. under-secretary Ernorf is just demon­strating to me that he has a right to be rude.

I think no one has that right; especially in a stran­ger's house.

Can I consider this as a stranger's house?

As far as I know, you may.

Not a word, then, of the confidential connection be­tween us?

Between us!—But yes. We stood as godfather and godmother together, about two years ago.

Oh, that is only a spiritual connection.

We will let it rest there, then.

You are joking, fair Paulina; but when I have spo­ken a serious word to your parents, you will joke no more.

That I believe.

Who knows what may happen to-day?

Oh!

This timid sigh assures me that my happiness is not far distant.

I think, Mr. Ernorf, you should have a wife, who understands hexameters better than I do.

Had I but been allowed to proceed—

We had but just left our beds—

—were we so soon again—

Miss Paulina is very witty and sarcastic. The melodious lines of this Arcadian swain probably pleased her better.

Most certainly they did.

But they will probably be the last which he will make in this country.

Well, we can live without verses.

And without the poet, for he will to-morrow be cited to appear, and if he cannot produce the necessary cre­dentials, will be transported beyond the confines. Dixi.

He threatens.

To give satisfaction to his vanity.

But he may involve you in difficulties. It would be better to declare who you are.

Does Paulina wish to know it?

It makes no difference to me. I know you are a good man.

Is not that the best title?

In our house it is.

Your house is my world.

But should my father be compelled to send you away?

Then I'll go.

And will you distress us thus by obstinacy?

You wrong me.

We are all so fond of you.

Paulina too?

I am indeed, and was before you drew the poor child out of the pond, and—

I shall then take your good wishes with me into ba­nishment.

Rather stay and be happy with us.

That I am.

Yet sometimes you seem to forget yourself, and your eyes are full of tears.

I do not complain.

So much the worse, for, if you did, one might re­lieve you.

Alas, no.

But at least console you.

No.

Have you then no hope on earth?

None.

Lewis—you have not committed any crime?

That have I not.

None but the guilty can be quite devoid of hope.

That is a pious falshood.

A good man every where inspires confidence.

I have found it.

And friendship—

Sustains my life.

And love—

Alas! love I must renounce.

Why?

Poor, without a name—

Who falls in love with names?

Without parents, without—

Any more?

Perhaps I have too long remained in a house, where captivating innocence, united with sisterly affection have deceived my heart with lovely visions—where the danger of appearing ungrateful increases every hour, and the pleasure of daily beholding Paulina may at last rob me of my only treasure—a good conscience.

What does he mean?—Is it a sin to love me?—When there was a great fire in our village, and he carried the old man on his back through the flames, did not my father himself allow him to call me sister? "Love him as [Page 13] your brother," he said to us all, "for he deserves it." I have loved him as my brother, and what is the consequence? Mysterious man!

Away, sister!

Why?

My father and mother are coming.

Why should I run away from them?

I have been talking to my mother, about my dear Louisa, and she is going to mention it to my father.

I wish you success, brother.

And Mr. Dalner will soon be here too.

Hark! They are coming.

Go, then, and tell Rosa not to disturb them, while I run to the dove-cot, and watch when Mr. Dalner comes.

Now will he be so violent that he'll spoil a nest or two. The poor pigeons!

Poor Paulina!

I hope you approve of my having sent to invite my poor relations.

Approve! I do indeed, and am angry with myself that it did not occur to me.

The good people come so seldom, and are so re­served on account of their poverty.

For that reason we must give them a more hearty welcome, that they may not reckon us among the creatures, who find delight in ostentatiously exhibiting their wealth to poor relations, and making every morsel nauseous by hu­miliating arrogance.

I may place my old uncle at the top of the table—may I not?

Certainly.

Mr. Dalner won't be offended?

Not he—nor Rehberg.

Oh, I am not afraid of his being so; for he had rather himself belong to the family.

How so?

Have not you perceived that he is fond of Rosa?

The mother is always quicker in discoveries of this kind than the father, but I am glad to hear it.

Yet I don't altogether like it.

Why not? Rehberg is a worthy young man.

The world says a great deal against him.

Scandal.

It is said that he does not strictly conform to the orthodox belief.

His conduct is upright, and I have often before re­marked, that calumny does not attack a man's opinions till his conduct is found to be irreproachable.

His intercourse with the Secretary's daughters appears to many of a suspicious nature.

Because many feel what many would do in Reh­berg's situation.

It is said, too, that he squanders his small for­tune away at cards, when at the Secretary's house.

Ann, you know I hate that term, "It is said," when an honest man's character is concerned. Is he in debt?

Not exactly that, but he had a good library, which he lately sold for a trifle to an antiquarian, who was passing through the place.

What is that to us?

I am sorry for it. The school-master says that when the man took the books away, Rehberg looked out of the window after him, and tears stood in his eyes.

Pshaw! If you will give the school-master a pint of beer, and his wife a cup of coffee, you may hear a hundred such stories. I cannot bear that any one's good name should be destroyed to afford conversation at a tea-table, that the gosling should catch it from the goose, and learn to hiss at every one, who is quietly passing by.

I know this censure was not intended for me.

Heaven forbid! You are a good woman, and I dare be sworn you will receive Rehberg kindly.

That I will.

I would willingly see none but smiling countenances to-day.

Then I fear Frederick must not come to table.

Why not?

He has something on his mind.

Nothing wrong, I hope?

Oh no—he thinks of marrying.

If his choice be proper—

It is.

And the girl likes him—

She does—but her rank is rather above his—Dalner's daughter.

H-m—with all my heart—if the father will give his consent.

There lies the difficulty. He shook his head.

He is a sensible man, and my friend.

He is coming hither to converse with you on the subject.

I am glad of it. Such men as he and I shall soon understand each other.

May I give Frederick any encouragement? I see the poor fellow's stationed at the door.

Frederick, what are you doing there? Do you avoid your father?

Father, Mr. Dalner will be here directly.

Are you afraid of him?

I don't know. I am not timorous in general; but for several weeks I have felt all day, as if there was a storm in the air, and all night as if a fire would break out in the village.

Yes, yes.—But are you thoroughly con­vinced that you will be happy with the girl?

I am indeed.

As happy as your parents?

We love each other as sincerely as they do.

We are not speaking of days but years.

So will I by God's assistance, speak to my son in five and twenty years.

'Tis well. Go with your mother, while I speak to Dalner.

Father—yes, father—you must speak—for I—I can't speak.

Yes. From my heart I wish to bind him to his present rank in life for ever. A good wife will complete what habit and education have founded.—Then I shall die in peace, and he may pry into the secrets of yon closet. What he finds there will not cause him a sleepless night.

Joy be with you neighbor! Your hand!

Understood?

It is the congratulation of an honest man.

Right, by my soul. It comes from the heart. I walked hither, and stumbled so often that I nearly broke my neck two or three times, for I was calling to mind those happy days, when my Maria was alive, and we so often used to spend our Sundays together like good neighbors—

Talking of peace and war—

While our wives talked of pies and puddings—

And our children were playing round us.

Then we used to wander to the tall oak. Neighbor, when I passed that oak to-day, I felt an odd sensation. I could see the church-yard from it—Understood? The trees which I planted there—you know where—are grown large and handsome. I saw them peering above the wall, and my eyes—Understood?

You would have been married almost as long as myself.

True.—When I espied your house, I was well again. It is the house, thought I, of a man, whom I have known for twenty-seven years. I have two things on which I can still rely—my gun and my friend Welling.

Your sincere friend, Welling.

Well, we may perhaps be united still closer, if we do as two young people seem to wish. Understood?

Almost.

Your son has taken a liking to my daughter, and she by no means seems cruel.

So much the better.

Perhaps it may be so, but allow me, neighbor, to ask what your intentions are respecting the young man.

He is my only son, and my heir.

What do you mean to make of him.

A countryman, like his father.

To that I have no objection. Heaven bless all ho­nest countrymen! They are the trees, and all other people the caterpillars, who feast upon their leaves.

'Tis well. If such be your sentiments—

Such are my sentiments, but I have still to ask ano­ther question. Were we not old friends I should be asham­ed of doing it—but you know me. You know I never was tormented by that demon—pride. We have lived on the terms of brothers. I have never asked where you came from, who you are, and so forth.

I have often felt the obligation you conferred upon me by this silence.

Nor should I have ever said a word on that subject, had not this affair of the children—understand me properly, neighbor—not that I have any scruples. No. An honest man is a nobleman. But I have two brothers who are as proud as Lucifer. They are both rich, and my daughter [Page 18] will inherit their property—nota bene, if she marries with their consent.

Poor Frederick!

Why so? You are rich and that goes a great way. But one stone lies in the way—your origin.

Don't be offended.

By no means.

People are fond of talking, and some account of you has reached the ears of my brothers. When you arrived here twenty-seven years ago, and your late father-in-law farmer Wiedeman treated you so kindly, it was said you were a foundling, and when the magistracy insisted on your producing a certificate of your birth—

I appealed to the Prince in person.

Very true. And as the secretary here dropped the subject, nay was afterwards seen to take off his hat as he passed you, it was rumored that he had received orders from court not to molest you.

He probably had.

The wise folks then maintained, that you were cer­tainly the natural son of some distinguished personage.—Understood?

Perfectly.

One of my brothers was then tutor to the pages at court, and stated that your audience with the Prince ex­ceeded an hour.

It did.

The world, therefore, not knowing what to make of the matter—

Made something bad of it. That is natural.

But you see if I could retain the family property for my daughter—but without a mean action—Understood?

Certainly, you would be glad to do it.

You would therefore oblige me, if you would entrust me with a few particulars of your descent.

My dear friend, I will do it with pleasure, for I am sure you will not make a bad use of my confidence. The time too, when this discovery might be attended with dan­ger, is past, for my enemies have forgotten me.—I am, by birth, a nobleman—

A nobleman!

The last branch of the old house of Wellingrode. I was fortunate enough in my youth to become the favorite of a Prince, and unfortunate enough to have none but honest intentions towards him.

I understand. You wanted to introduce truth at court.

The intrigues of an ambitious woman (who wished to raise her husband to the rank of prime-minister in order to govern through him) hurled me from my eminence. I was accused of treason, my property was confiscated and bestowed upon the new favorite. I escaped imprisonment by flight. How I was pursued and what I endured I will relate at another time. At present I will merely confine myself to the lucky turn of my fortunes.

Right—how you were metamorphosed from a noble­man into a peasant?

My late father-in-law had rented a farm on my mo­ther's estate, and I had always heard him mentioned as an upright man.

He was one.

No longer knowing where I could be secure from the spies of my victorious rival, I suddenly remembered this old faithful servant. I clothed myself as a peasant, cut my hair, and on a summer's evening arrived at the house of Hans Wiedeman.

I'll bet a wager you were received with open arms.

Gently rest the ashes of that worthy man!—At first I merely meant to stay with him till the storm was blown over, and I forgotten. That I might not, in the mean time, be without employment, I began to cultivate a part of the [Page 20] garden. My Ann was then but fourteen years of age, and assisted me.

Yes, yes—I understand.

You are mistaken. Much as I admired her, I little thought that we should celebrate a day like this. But the garden soon became too confined for me, and I began to ac­company good Wiedeman to the field. I acquired a love of agriculture. I daily felt fresh air and industry enliven both my body and the mind. I was healthier than before, and I was happier than before.

I can easily conceive it.

One evening, as I was walking alone across the meadows, the idea suddenly struck me—Oh I could shew you the very spot—to forget the distressing vision of my younger days, to renounce the airy phantoms of ambition, and become a quiet peasant.

What thought honest old Wiedeman to this?

He shook his head.

I should have done so, too.

He thought my intention a mere whim, and that, when the times altered, I should repent my resolution. In vain did I represent to him that he was old, that he wanted a hale son-in-law—

He shook his head again, I suppose?

He smiled, wished to convince me I was wrong, and when he found his arguments were ineffectual, he said he would try my resolution for two years. Finding, after the expiration of them, that I thought no more of court, and that his daughter sincerely loved me, he said: "God bless you!"—and God has blessed us.

H-m! — Do your children know—

No.

But your wife—?

Nor she. Her father carried the secret with him to the grave. She is happy in her present situation.

Well, I will say no more to my brothers than is ab­solutely necessary—Understood? But—

Another But!

You injure your son by this connexion.

How so?

My daughter has no ancestors.

And my son is a farmer.

Well, then—if you be so inclined—

I am from my heart.

Let me embrace you, then.—I may call you, as hi­therto friend and neighbor?

Most certainly.

If my good Maria had lived to see this day—or if those above know what passes here below—Understood?

I can restrain him no longer.

Well, Father! You look kind—so does Mr. Dalner.

We are agreed.

Huzza!

Frederick, where are you going?

To Louisa.

Hold! Has your mother consented?

If you have no objection—

Objection! It makes me shed tears of joy.

Now I may—

Stop! Such intelligence as this ought to be convey­ed by the father.

But I may go with you.

Go you may, but instead of going you'll run, and I am not in a hurry to provoke the asthma. No, be patient till evening—then I'll bring my daughter hither. Till then, good bye, neighbors.

Afternoon, instead of evening.

He is in love indeed!

He will be so.

He is so.

Impossible, for real love never exists till after mar­riage. The passion of the youth is only smoke—but the husband's affection is the pure flame, with which he is warmed even in old age.

As is our case.

Yes, good Ann, as is our case. In spite of all our Frederick's warmth, I dare be sworn that I shall be, when sixty years of age, still more in love than he.

You in love! With whom?

Can you ask?

With you, who have for a quarter of a century been my faithful companion—with you, who have so cheerfully, so excel­lently adhered to the duties of a wife and mother.

I have but done my duty.

And always did it cheerfully.

God has rewarded me.

God bless you! Come into my arms!

Good William!

ACT THE SECOND.

Now she may decide. If she likes the under-secre­tary, the man of business—

[Page 23] here he is. If she likes the poet, the author—

here he is. The right pocket will suit the father and mother—the left the daughters—both will, I think, overpower the Arcadian shepherd, Mr. Lewis.—To-day will I bestow this hand, which has written so many a folio—so many a quarto, on — Paulina or Rosa? Immaterial.—

Come in, sir—we are all happy.

It is your father's wedding-day.

Oh yes, but other weddings will soon take place.

Yes, yes, no doubt.

You shall perform the ceremony—

For whom?

Guess.

Perhaps Miss Paulina.

Perhaps.

You are wrong.

Or perhaps Miss Rosa?

Perhaps.

Wrong again.

Then I know nobody—

How! Am I nobody?

You yourself, dear Frederick?

Yes, I myself, and somebody else too—Louisa Dal­ner—eh?—What say you now?

I am really glad to hear it, and as all the family is so happy, I cannot suppose that Miss Rosa will attend to her harpsichord to-day.

I don't know, but I'll call her.

Happy man!

Under the rose, Mr. Rehberg, you will, ere long, have to read the marriage-ceremony for one of his sisters.

Which?

That is not yet determined. Cupid gropes in the dark, as at the rape of the Sabines.

Perhaps you yourself are Cupid.

At your service.

You are about to marry, then?

Prosaically answered: Yes.

Marry without affection!

Who said that? I love—I burn!

Yet you said you had not made a choice.

My heart certainly inclines rather towards Paulina—

Obey the impulse, I beseech you.

But she wants taste. Her sister is, I think, in ma­ny respects superior—and she has so poetical a name—Rosa!

— You have spoken to Mr. Welling, I presume?

Not yet. He is a good honest kind of man.—But—

it grows late, and I must attend to the duties of my office.

This fellow is a silly coxcomb—but can I, for that reason, feel at ease? He is rich, and oh, how many fools, how many villains have I known, who have obtained the most amiable wives, because they were rich! I have hi­therto been silent, but my intentions are upright—why, therefore, should I be ashamed of declaring them?

Good morning, Mr. Rehberg, I was almost afraid you would come.

Afraid!

Because I have been idle. Look, only, what a quan­tity of dust there is upon the harpsichord.

That is indeed unusual.

I have been making a present for my father and mo­ther, on their wedding-day—

You have, then, certainly been far better employed than in attending to music.

Yet I have often been singing; for when I am alone I always sing—and you know my favorite words:

You repeat the last lines as if you were the author of them.

How if I were?

Why, then I would ask who it is for whom your breast would glow?

And I would answer, a cheerful, good, pretty girl.

Do I know her?

Perhaps you do.

She must live in our village, then, for I have scarce­ly been half a mile from it.

Will you say a good word for me?

Why don't you speak to her yourself?

I am afraid of displeasing her.

Well, that is odd. Mr. Ernorf, whom nobody likes, torments every girl in the village with his nonsense, and you, whom we all like—

Mr. Ernorf is rich—I am poor.

But a good man without a dollar is preferable to him and all his riches.

Poverty is oppressive.—

Without affection it is.

Are you in earnest, dear Rosa? Would a good man's poverty not deter you from marrying him?

If I liked him, certainly not.

You are accustomed to affluence.

There you are mistaken. My father is, to be sure, reckoned rich—

He certainly is rich.

Then he has acted very properly in not letting us discover it. We are as industrious and economical as any peasant's family in the village.

What you say makes me truly happy.

Indeed! Why so?

Because it seems not so difficult to gain your affec­tions as I supposed.

Does any one wish to gain them?

What do you mean—am I the You?

Ask your heart.

My heart is a flatterer.

Will you share my fate?

Does that depend on me?

Will you make me happy?

Can I?

A poor mother is my only property.

I should then have two good mothers.

I live in a small hut.

Content is not a friend of palaces.

I live on scanty fare.

And are healthy with it.

May I speak to your father?

My mother must know it, too.

And if they both consent—

I must obey.

Must!

I will most cheerfully.

Thanks, good Rosa, you shall not repent it.

Shall we go to the harpsichord?

You would learn nothing of me to-day.

I'll fetch my notes.

Sweet lovely being! What a friendly look will every thing assume, when you come to inhabit my hut? The coughing old servant will no longer awake me, but Rosa's simple song.—And my mother—my good mother!—On her too I shall bestow comfort in her latter days.—Oh God! bend the hearts of the parents, that when they find I am ho­nest, they may not ask whether I am rich.

Welcome, Mr. Rehberg. I thank you for your well-meant congratulation.

It is indeed well-meant, though you have not allow­ed me time to offer it.

Sincerity is sparing in words. I hope, therefore, you will be silent, and celebrate this happy day by drinking a glass of wine with me.

With great pleasure.

You must play us a good tune—Rosa shall sing, and we will join in chorus. We will pass the bottle round to the health of every honest man, with a wish that after days of toil he may enjoy such happiness as ours.

Alas, Mr. Welling! Such happiness is seldom found.

True, and most seldom among those who are bred to a profession. You waste your best years in study, and are often at last obliged to be satisfied with a single dish upon your table.

But the professional man can also feel the charms of love, and sometimes find a girl, who is willing to share his poverty.

Oh yes, but the girl is, with your permission, a very silly one.

Such sentiments astonish me from your lips.

Love is a pretty flower, but it must grow in the shade of a fruitful tree.

You think, then, that riches only can make the mar­ried state happy.

Heaven forbid that I should have such an idea! There is a pleasant easy track, between the high-road of wealth and the thorny path of penury. I only mean that a man who marries with no other prospect than care and po­verty is either very unwise—or very much in love.

Oh misery!

You would, therefore, not bestow your daughters upon any but men of tolerable means?

I think, at least, that no man of honor would wish to be supported entirely by his wife's means.

Such a declaration would si­lence any one.

Have I at last found you, worthy Mr. Welling.

Mr. Ernorf wishes to have some conversation with you.

Wishes to unburden his over-loaded heart.

How happens it that your heart is over-loaded?

Through the sly manoeuvres of the little god, who tames the lion—through a wanton frolic of the little urchin, who put into the hands of Hercules the distaff of fair Deianira.

Mr. Ernorf, your mode of explaining is original, but unintelligible.

I will assist him, sir. He is in love.

With one of my daughters?

With both.

With both?

Yes. This is a privilege which belongs exclusively to us poets. We may be in love with two or three women at the same time.

And you wish to marry both?

My wishes are more limited. If either of the ladies—

My presence may be unpleasant. Allow me to withdraw.

For what reason?

To make room for a man of property.

So, so!—Understood, as my friend Dalner would say.

Stay! Stay! We shall want a black coat at the wedding.

Are matters advanced so far?

They very soon will be. In the first place it is pro­per that I should ascertain my pedigree.

Here is the testimonial of my matriculations at the university. Here his highness's appointment of me to my present office.

We read that in the newspapers.

Here are some bonds, and—

Enough, enough, Mr. Ernorf!

Yes, enough indeed. I flatter myself there are few sons-in-law, who could produce so much.

The choice of my daughters depends upon their hearts.

Is it to Paulina or to Rosa that your intentions are directed?

That I leave entirely to the decision of the lovely creatures, themselves.

'Tis well. Here come the lovely creatures. Talk to them, yourself; for if I know their dispositions, I may quietly remain a silent spectator.

Children, Mr. Ernorf wishes to marry one of you.

He does us great honor.

He thinks you both so amiable, that he finds it im­possible to make a choice.

He does us great honor.

And leaves you, therefore, to decide.

My sister is the oldest, and has a right to the pre­ference.

But Rosa excels me in accomplishments.

Such modesty deserves to be rewarded.

It is only your modesty, which makes you not feel superior to me.

Ha! ha! ha! What a noble contest!—I perceive I must advance to the aid of their reserve.—

Ac­cept, beauteous Paulina, a heart, which—

I beg your pardon, Mr. Ernorf, but I accept no present, which I cannot return.

In­deed!—Well then, do accept it, fair Rosa—

Indeed, Mr. Ernorf, I cannot.

What!—How!—Both!—How am I to understand this?

My daughters are grateful for the honor you wish to confer upon them.

Yes, we are grateful for the honor.

But do not as yet feel inclined to marry.

Such may be your opinion, Mrs. Welling, but you are much mistaken. The ladies had rather be mar­ried to-day than to-morrow—yes, rather to-day than to-morrow, I say.

How do you know that?

The girls are in love—yes, they are in love, I say.

You seem to be an interpreter of hearts.

And a certain stripling in this house, a shallow poe­taster is a conqueror of hearts.

What do you mean, sir?

A fellow, of whom we know no more than we do of the wind, where he comes from, or is going to?

Mr. Ernorf, I request an explanation.

You shall have it. I came here to make an expla­nation. The dapper spark, Lewis, whose release you thought [Page 31] proper to buy of a recruiting party, has in return enlisted your daughters.

Mr. Ernorf, my daughters are virtuous women.

Virtuous they may be; but they are in love. The whole village, the whole neighborhood, the whole country talks of it. They are in love with a vagrant, who will be cited to appear before the magistracy, to-morrow, and be sent over the boundaries next day.

Sir, can you prove your accusation?

Pshaw! The world seldom requires proofs. The worse any thing appears to be, the readier it is believed.

Alas! True.

I, therefore, advise you as a friend, Mr. Welling, and I advise you, Mrs. Welling, to keep a watchful eye upon these two love-sick damsels, and as to the gentle rhym­ster—to-morrow before the magistracy!—Dixi.

I am not pleased to seeing you laugh.

Dear father, he is only a fool.

How often have I told you that fools do more mis­chief in the world than villains! A villain is generally pos­sessed of sense, and does not deal in defamation, unless he can thereby attain some end, but a fool is continually prat­ing. I, therefore, merely go out of a rascal's road, but I conceal myself from a blockhead. As to what Ernorf said, it cannot be his own invention.

It is indeed. The whole secret is, that Lewis writes better poetry than he does.

Perhaps I have too much relied upon the idea that fraternal intercourse is seldom dangerous to the heart. Per­haps the young man has really made some impression upon you.

How!—Silent!—Have your parents lost your confidence?

Oh no!—I really like Lewis very much—but I don't love him.

And you, Paulina?—You cast down your eyes.

I own, father—that I think Lewis—the most amiable man I ever saw.

You mean, in other words—

I can't express it by words; but I feel that if I were allowed to love him—

I should love him most ardently.

How long have you known this sensation?

I almost feel as if I had been born with it.

Did he himself endeavor to gain your affections?

Never. You know how reserved and bashful he is.

So much the more dangerous is he to a woman's heart.

True, dear mother.

Yes, true indeed.

Do you believe your affection is returned?

I do.

Perhaps because you wish it?

Perhaps.

I see but two modes of settling this. Lewis must either marry you, or leave the house.

Which shall you embrace?

Let us hear your mother's opinion.

Well—Lewis is a good young man—

But poor.

So were you, my dear William.

We don't know who he is.

Nor did we know who you were.

Yes, yes. Your father knew it.

I don't know it to this very hour.

Oh! If I were in twenty-five years to know Lewis as well as you know my father—

Paulina, I can explain no further, but before Lewis can become my son-in-law, I must learn his fortunes, and must be convinced his conduct has always been as praise­worthy as since he lived with us. Go, Rosa, and call him.

Would you just to-day—?

Instantly, or I should not enjoy the pleasures of to-day.

Go, then, Paulina, it is not proper that you should be present on this occasion.

Oh! If it were proper, I am sure I could not stay.

Lewis is become dear to me by his honesty and dili­gence—perhaps still more so, by a certain similarity in our fates. If, therefore, I find every thing accordant to my wishes, and you have no objection—

It would certainly be the best means of silencing the world.

I understand you want me.

Did Rosa tell you for what purpose?

No.

The under-secretary dislikes you.

Because my verses are liked.

He insists upon knowing who you are.

That he will not learn.

If the secretary unites with him—

And you cannot protect me, I will go.

Will that be so easy to you?

No. Very difficult.

You may avoid it.

How?

Tell us your story.

I cannot.

You have lived with us two years. I have observed you narrowly, and am sure you are incapable of a crime.—If you have been guilty of any juvenile indiscretion, avow it. You know my sentiments.

My conscience does not accuse me of a crime, or even levity. I am only unfortunate.

We will assist you in sustaining your misfortunes.

I must sustain them alone; for if I confess them, I shall be acting against a sacred duty.

Enough! Let us drop the subject.

Our intentions were good.

Oh, you have not confined yourselves to intentions. Your house was my asylum, and the small measure of en­joyment, of which my heart was susceptible, you have be­stowed on me.

We would willingly double it by reconciling you to your fate.

Let me then dwell in private as hitherto. Do not, do not rob me of the bliss I feel in calling you my parents.

I would not do it for my own sake, were I not com­pelled to it. When you entered my house, my daughters were still almost children, and we thought not that your presence would ever injure their reputation.

You alarm me.

Do you now perceive why it was necessary we should speak to you.

Oh God! yes.

If you be such a man as I have fancied you, I may at once declare, that not only the reputation, but the peace of one of my daughters depends on your departure.

I will go.

I acted imprudently in having desired Paulina to consider you as her brother, and in having been silent, while her attachment increased.

Oh! I would fall at your feet, and say—"Consider not my poverty, but look at my heart, and let me marry your Paulina,"—but—

You do not love her?

I love her from my soul.

And yet—?

I am already married.

Married!

And have forsaken your wife?

Condemn me not.

Such conduct, Lewis—

Do not reproach him, Ann. If he be guilty, he bears a judge within himself, before whom he cannot be a hypocrite.

Oh! you will send me away far poorer than I was when I came, if my confession has robbed me of your regard.

I do not decide upon it. Two years of upright con­duct are to be placed in competition with this apparently bad action and—I do not decide. But my duty as a father, commands me seriously to repeat that your presence dis­turbs the tranquility of my family.

Shall I depart to-day—immediately?

It will hurt me not to see you sitting to-night among my children—but—act as you think I have deserved.

Oh! Allow me to remain one hour.

Yes, Lewis, he did not mean it in that light. Stay 'till morning.

I will creep into some corner, and not disturb your happiness—

Oh that this should just happen to-day!

Let me but wander once more through the house and garden. When the guests come, I will steal away.

Not without taking leave?

I cannot take leave of you.

Lewis, do you think we wish to turn you out of doors like a dishonest servant? Despair shall not force you to enlist again. I know my husband. He parts with you because he feels he must; but he will not abandon you—I will not abandon you. What he will do for you I don't know, but—

—for my part, my love and blessing shall be a substitute for what is wanting—in the amount.

Wretched outcast that I am! Have I at length found a mo­ther, only to be doomed doubly to feel the loss of her? Have I gained a lovely girl's affections, only to make my chains the heavier?

Guess who it is.

What does this mean? Your eyes are full of tears.

You should not have seen them.

Why are you in tears?

They are the lot of humanity.

What is the matter? What has happened? What have you to do with my mother's purse?

It contains money to defray the ex­penses of my journey.

Are you going to leave us?

I must.

Where are you going?

Any where. The further, the better.

Have you, then, staid too long with us?

Much too long.

I almost think so, myself.

You have always been kind and affectionate towards me.

I am so still.

My father—wanted to speak to you.

He has done it.

And does he approve of your intention?

I go by his desire.

Your answers are enigmas.

My whole being is an enigma, which death alone can solve.—Farewell, Paulina—do not forget me. I have loved all this family—but you particularly.—Wherever I go, [Page 37] your image will accompany me. When you sit under the great lime-tree—think sometimes of me.

Lewis!

Remember me to the old woman, who used to re­ceive your charities through me.

Lewis, what does this mean? If you love me—

My affection for you is a crime—my heart is sinning against a hateful duty.

Oh! Speak more plainly, I beseech you.

Yes, good Paulina, you shall not learn from ano­ther what separates us. It is hard to tell you—but tell you I must, that—I am married.

Married!—That is not true.

Would to God it were not!

Married!—Oh Lewis! Why did you conceal it?

Do not hate me.

Go, go to your wife, and tell her you have robbed Paulina of her peace for ever.

Paulina! Is that your farewell?

ACT THE THIRD.

ACT THE FOURTH.

Welling is discovered, sitting in the middle of the stage, surrounded by his wife and children. On each side of him stand Dalner and Rehberg—the Count is more towards the front of the stage.

Good Ann, be at ease. It is over.

Won't you put on your bed-grown?

I'll go for it.

I'll fetch your slippers.

Will you, then, make me ill by compulsion? I tell you I am well. Give me a glass of wine. That is all I want.

Hold! Why you need not all go for it.

I was the first.

No—I was.

No—I was.

And I am your mother. Where are the keys?

You know, Ann, I don't like you any longer to fa­tigue yourself by going into the cellar.

There—you hear mother—I am to go.

No, it is my week.

You have nothing to do with the cellar. Your week only relates to the kitchen.

But I love my father as much as you do.

Children at this rate, I shall not have any thing. I love you both. Go, both of you.

Neighbor, I am thinking that▪ what is passing round you must revive you more than wine. Understood?

True. If there be any medicine, which can pro­mote long life, it must be affection.

Number 4.

With a black seal.

There is Hochheim upon it.

And 1776.

Fill it.

Sir, I am sorry that, added to your own mis­fortunes, you have been obliged to witness the distress of others.—

—According to the ancient custom of our country I sincerely bid you welcome.

To the health of my worthy bost!—Now, sir, if you really remain true to the customs of our [Page 56] forefathers, I am secure in your house, for we have drank from the same goblet.

Here lurks no traitor.

Spies gain nothing here.

But a drubbing.

And contempt.

If you be weary, sir, I'll conduct you to a re­tired chamber.

You shall sleep on linen which we wove ourselves.

And feathers of our own geese.

Heaven be praised that I again find myself among men! All I see and hear inspires confidence. I should like, good old man, to have a little conversation with you in private.

With all my heart! My friends, and children, you will find employment enough, if you will go into the court, and assist in the preparations for our little country feast.

I sent you a few poles for the occasion, from the forest.

And I made the garlands for them.

Mr. Rehberg will teach us a chorus, in the mean time.

With all my heart.

I can't sing, but I can join with my violin.

You'll not be long before you follow us?

As soon as possible.

Generous man, it is my duty to make a discovery of my rank and situation to you, that you may know you are not harboring a criminal.

Of a crime I hold Count Lohrstein to be incapable.

How! You know me.

Yes, Count, business has sometimes carried me to your Prince's residence, where I have seen you.

Then you are probably not ignorant what rank and honors I possessed but a few days since?

You were your Prince's all-powerful minister.

In reality an office, but all adapted to my inclination. Alas! There was a time, when domestic felicity in the arms of my first consort left me no other wish.—She died.—I for­sook my solitary country dwelling, rushed into the whirlpool of the city to dissipate my grief and to seek another affec­tionate heart; instead of which I found a deceitful and am­bitious woman, who from an admirer of a country life trans­formed me into a courtier, and used me as the tool of her designs.

I know the Countess, too.

By situations for ever new and intricate she kept me remote from nature and affection. By inexhaustible in­trigues and plots she, for a train of years, bound to our house the favor of the court, 'till the old Prince, feeling the ap­proach of death—

He died?

Some months previous to his dissolution, my wife, in combination with an abandoned daughter-in-law, engender­ed new plans. She knew the hereditary Prince disliked me, and that his father's death would be the signal for my dismissal; but she also knew the connection which subsisted between the young Prince and my daughter-in-law. With her, therefore, she began to cabal, finding she could no longer maintain her station by her own devices. Two furies suppressed the hatred which had endured for years, and the snakes from their hair were intertwined.

Oh!

It is to your praise, my lord, that you were not in­vited to share in this coalition.

I was. I had been persuaded to so many things—had so often despotically forced my heart to silence, that, on this occasion too, they thought their game an easy one. Yet although I had breathed none but court-air for seven-and-twenty years, I found it impossible to cringe to a wo­man, who had plunged my son into misery, and branded my [Page 58] name with infamy. I was not even able to suppress some severe remarks occasioned by the abandoned life of my daughter-in-law. She thirsted for revenge, and my wife prudently took the strongest side. The Prince died—

He was a good man, and not formed for the intrigues of a court.

Your opinion is just. How happens it that you—

It was not exactly my opinion. Proceed, my lord.

I was prepared to receive my dismissal, but not to give account of every weakness, which might be laid to my charge during the twenty-seven years of my administration, of every injustice perhaps, to which at the pressing instiga­tion of my wife and her adherents, I had now and then been led. I was not prepared against proofs, which my wife had stolen from my cabinet, and lodged in the hands of my ene­mies.—Her reward was the permission to remain at court, and wander like the ghost of her former greatness, while I was doomed to perpetual imprisonment.

Which you escaped by flight?

Forsaken by all, who had been obliged to me for their situations, I was apprized of the impending danger by an old man, for whom I had done nothing—whom I had always considered as a cypher. Heaven's blessings be shed on honest Zahn!

Zahn!

At the peril of losing his scanty subsistence, he forc­ed his way at midnight to my chamber. "My Lord," said he, "I am under no obligation to you, and I do not like you; but you are about to be ill-treated. Fly, or at break of day you will be imprisoned in the castle."

Such conduct is what I should expect of honest Zahn.

I fled—and was pursued with such alacrity and fu­ry as none but female vengeance could devise. Twice have [Page 59] I been surrounded by hussars. My escape was almost a mi­racle, and who knows whether even here—

Be at ease, my Lord. No force shall intrude upon you here. You are on the borders of a just Prince, and in the house of a man, who honors hospitality.

You engage I am secure?

I do.

And will you allow me to remain with you, 'till a trusty friend, informed of my situation, can assist me in pro­ceeding further?

As long as you please.

For I must confess to you that my sudden flight al­lowed me to rescue but little, and even this little has been stolen by people, on whose fidelity I relied.

Command my purse.

Good man, you carry your generosity too far.

Not so, my lord. I merely pay an old debt.

To me!

I too was once a wretched fugitive, and therefore consider every unfortunate man as a creditor sent by God.

Dear William, I beg pardon for disturbing you, but the people below are talking about soldiers.

What kind of soldiers?

They are listening and looking among the bushes in the wood—they certainly are on no good errand.

Who can know that; for we live peaceably? They are, perhaps, looking for strawberries.

Father, there are hussars belonging to the neighbor­ing Prince in the village.

Oh God!

Well, what is that to us?

They go from house to house, and break open every room that is locked, like robbers.

Then they must be taken into custody, like robbers.

They are in search of somebody.

They have no right to search here.

Father, there are hussars at the gate.

Let the gate be locked.

They have been asking our men whether there was not a stranger in the house.

And what answer was returned?

As you had not forbidden it, the men told the truth.

The truth is never forbidden in my house.

I am lost.

Be at ease. I am surety for your safety.

The whole court is full of hussars.

My dear Ann, these people have had a great deal of trouble to no purpose. Give them a little beer.

They insist with violence on your delivering up a prisoner.

They will be more civil, when they learn my de­termination.

They threaten.

How many of them are there?

About twenty.

Then their threats are ridiculous.

Oh, rather deliver me into their hands. Shall I plunge you too, worthy man, and your whole family into ruin?

Well, my Lord, I have pledged to you my word, that you are in safety. I will abide by it.

The devil has let loose a set of rascals, who act as if they were in an enemy's country.

Paulina, send some one by the back way into the vil­lage, and ask a dozen young fellows to come hither.

How! Would you oppose them?

Be patient. We shall not be obliged to have re­course to extremities.

Hark ye, Rosa. Send a man to my house with or­ders that all the foresters come hither directly with their guns, and hangers. Do you hear?

Oh, sir! Return me the friend, of whom you rob­bed me in the wood.

Be quiet. Not a hair of your head shall be touched, by God. Understood?

Back!

Out of my way, boy!

This is not a pot-house.

Let him come, my son.

Ha! Ha! Have I found you at last? Follow me, my Lord, without opposition.

Sir, the person, in whose hands you are an instru­ment—

I am not an instrument, but a servant of my Prince. Come with me instantly. The carriage waits.

But you must know, sir, that in this country it is not usual for people to break into a house, like a hawk into a lark's nest—understood?—You must know, sir, that we understand a little law, if you do not.

And you must know that the carriage may perhaps wait some time.

Frederick!

Who are you, and what do you mean?

We are people who belong to this place—understood?

Yes, and the word of command is: To the right about face, and ride home again.

Frederick! Frederick!

What! Dare you attempt by abusive language—

Hold, hold! Your pardon, sir. My friend and son are rather incensed at the illegal way in which you have en­tered this house.

Illegal! How do you know that?

How! I am the master of this house, and know my privileges.

I want nothing of you.

But you want to take away one, who is enjoying the rights of hospitality here. You want to do it by compulsion.

I hope you will be rational, and not oblige me to do so.

I beg you will produce your orders.

My orders! I don't know that I am answerable to you for my conduct—but that is of no consequence. Here are my orders.

You are surely joking, lieutenant. These orders are not from my Prince.

But they are from mine.

To whom I owe no obedience.

But I do, and by my soul I have neglected it too long.

I do not perceive one syllable in these orders, which justifies you in disturbing the dominions of a neighboring Prince.

Enough! I know how far I dare proceed.

Has your Prince commanded this?

I am not bound to answer that question.

And will mine submit to it?

With that I have nothing to do. In a word, the Count will please to come with me.

In a word, lieutenant, he shall not.

Shall not!

No.

Sir, I advise you to retract this declaration, or it will be the cause of blood-shed.

Father, there are not twelve, but forty of the villa­gers assembled in the court, and armed with forks.

Do you hear, lieutenant?

We are not afraid of such rabble.

Mr. Dalner, the foresters are running down the hill.

These, sir, are my lads, armed with guns and hang­ers.—Marksmen, sir, who can hit a button. Understood?

You surely do not mean to oppose my orders. Be­ware what you do. The Count is a criminal.

That am I not.

Lieutenant, you and I are no longer young. Let us have a little conversation together, in private. Strange will it be, if men like us, cannot part with each other on friendly terms.

With all my heart.

My dear Ann, take your daughters into another room.

But, dearest husband—

Dear father!

Be at ease. There is no danger. Mr. Rehberg, be kind enough to accompany them. Your assurances of my safety may make them less afraid.

Go you, my friend, with Frederick into the court, and see that our peasants do not begin a quarrel with the hussars.

I will. Not one of them shall move.

But if the hussars behave improperly, I'll not an­swer for them.

I command you to keep them quiet. You, my Lord, will be kind enough to step into the next room.

Hold! I shall not allow my prisoner to be out of sight.

Well, then, he may remain here.—I did not indeed wish—but circumstances make it necessary. He must, however, promise not to interrupt our conversa­tion.

You know that here I must obey, and you, generous man, I willingly obey.

Wave all further preface, for my time is short.

Enough!—Lieutenant, you seem determined ri­gidly to follow your instructions.

I have been thirty years in service, and must know what I have to do.

But I well know, that in the execution of severe or­ders, you have not always been so exact.

Mr. Farmer, or whatever else you may be, this is very presumptuous language to an old officer.

Had you never before any orders of a similar nature?

None that I recollect.

It is, I own, a long time ago, and the circumstances may have escaped your memory. About twenty-seven years since, when Baron Wellingrode fled—

were not you sent in pursuit of him?

How do you know that?

I know still more. You overtook him, made him a prisoner in your own Prince's territories, and yet—allowed him to escape.

H-m—yes—I remember—he escaped.

With your consent.

Who says that?

You ventured it at the risk of being cashiered.

Who can prove that?

You even shared your purse with him.—You were then a youth, whose heart could feel for the misfortunes of another. Has age made it callous?

Well—I own this account is true, but the case was quite different. Baron Wellingrode was rewarded by his Prince with ingratitude, and the people loved him as their father, whereas Count Lohrstein—

Are you appointed his judge, or were you then the Baron's judge?

You strike home to me.—You are right—I ought not to have connived at his escape, but I was under mate­rial obligations to him. He was my benefactor. When I was but a poor orphan, he procured me a situation in the [Page 65] military academy. Through his recommendation I was made a cornet, and had he not fallen, I should long since have had a troop. Never, never can I think of that man without being affected. Gently rest his ashes!

Oh! what a blissful moment!

I undertook to go in pursuit of him only that I might escort him to a place of safety. Sooner should my hand have withered than I would have laid it on my benefactor.

If the memory of this man be so dear to you, give liberty to the Count for his sake.

Why, he it was, who ruined Baron Wellingrode.

Not I—my wife—

Immaterial. If Wellingrode has pardoned him, and taken him under his protection—

Let him go, and throw himself upon his grave. That place of refuge will be more sacred to me than the altar.

Why upon his grave? Let him throw himself into his arms

and find safe­ty on the bosom of [...] reconciled enemy.

Heavens! What is this?

Now, Brave, tear him from your old patron's arms.

What! Can you—you be—

I am Baron Wellingrode.

Yes, it is he—it is my benefactor.—Alas! Have I then found him in this situation?

Content has no peculiar situation; but whether clad in ermine or the peasant's frock, dwells only with affection and domestic comfort. Good Brave, I am truly happy.

That declaration will console me, at my dying hour. Oh thou, whose ashes I so oft have blessed, whom I a thou­sand times have wished back to our world that I might be [Page 66] able to evince my gratitude, tell me, can old Brave do no­thing for you?—I'll inform the Prince you are alive. I'll summon all your friends to appear in your behalf. Oh, how many still remember you, and bless you!

Not so, honest Brave. If I merit any recompence, bestow on me the liberty of this old man, whom the inscru­table ways of Providence have directed to my house—per­haps to try whether I was worthy of my present happiness.

Will you protect this man?

As long as I am able.

You have forgotten—

Every thing.

Revenge is sweet.

Forgiveness sweeter.

Yes. Could I not have called to mind those venerable features, I should have known you by these noble sentiments.—Feel, Count Lohrstein, feel how this man acts.—You are free. My people shall depart im­mediately.

My Lord—

Dear Count, I am no longer accustomed to hear that title.

Your revenge is sweet to your own sensations, but to mine, bitter.

He, who can feel thus deserves no other vengeance to be practised towards him.

To be confounded and ashamed before an enemy is insupportable sensation.

Am I your enemy?

My wife's ambition robbed you of every thing.

And my heart restored to me every thing.

Your estates—

Those you mean I but inherited—those I now pos­sess I have earned. Oh, my Lord, a tree raised by ourselves affords more pleasure than a whole wood planted by chance.

You [...] deprived of your rank.—

I am loved here for my own sake.

The favor of the Prince—

Favor I never aimed at. I only sought friendship in a soil, where it does not grow.

The power of doing good.

That dwells in every one, and may, like air, be compressed into a narrow compass. Even the beggar can purchase, with his farthing, this happy conviction.

You will, perhaps, at last even convince me that I am your benefactor, and—

That you are Count. By the Almighty, that you are, for, had not your power been directed against me, I never should have gained this plea­sing harmony of all my feelings, this perfect satisfaction, this peace, which neither passion nor reproach can disturb. I am healthy, in easy circumstances, and possessed of an af­fectionate wife, and three good children—I am never peevish, never tormented by that demon, ennui—I am fa­miliar with nature, and surrounded by uncorrupted people. I find sincerity in every hut, affection in every eye, and peace in my own breast.—Point out to me the man at court, who, while basking in the sun-shine of favor, can say as much—Yes, Count, you are indeed my benefactor.

Is it not enough to have abashed me? Would you excite my envy too?

Share my happiness by remaining with us.

Alas! it is too late. The art of being happy must, like other arts, be learnt in youth. When old, it can no longer be comprehended.

You are mistaken. The art of being happy, con­sists in seriously wishing to be so.

Yes, if you could raise my first wife from the dead, if you could restore my unhappy son to me—

Father! Father!

What now, my child? Is your mother ill?

No. Lewis—Lewis—

Well?

He is dead.

God forbid! Has he killed himself?

No—the hussars—

Such are the consequences—

What is the matter, Mr. Ernorf? Speak! My poor girl cannot.

Thus it is, when all sorts of people are admitted into a family.

I beseech you, for Heaven's sake to wave your com­ments, and relate what has happened.

Well, then—Mr. Lewis, with his usual forwardness, has thought proper to attack, the hussars, who, in return, have struck off his nose and ears, and split his scull com­pletely asunder.

Is he dead?

He is struggling, as yet—but that will soon be over.

Where is he?

He was carried into the room, where your laborers sit.

He'll not make any more verses now, but I will be so generous as to sketch an elegy for him.

Good lady, who is this Lewis?

Don't you know him?

Perhaps your brother?

Yes—my brother.

Compose yourself. He may still recover.

May he? Are you a surgeon? Oh, save him!

No. dear lady, I am not a surgeon.

Then save him, thou, oh God!

Good father! Where is thy peace and happiness now?

ACT THE FIFTH.

I can no more.—Weary as I am, I can find no rest.

A hot day this, good neighbor—understood?

Alas, Mr. Dalner! What an intermixture of joy and sorrow!

All's well that ends well.

They won't admit me to my Lewis.

He must be kept quite composed.

Have you seen him?

No—nor do I wish it. I don't like even to be pre­sent when a stag is dying.

Oh Heavens! Then you really think he will die?

I can stay no longer with the stranger.

Who sent you to him?

My father wished it. He thought it might dissipate my anxiety, but his conduct is so strange, that he quite alarms me. He walks up and down the room, talking to himself. When I speak to him he smiles, and if he makes any reply, it is quite unintelligible.

His misfortunes may perhaps have—

Understood?

And no one was compassionate enough to bring me any tidings of Lewis. Is he still alive?

Yes, he is.

Will he recover?

The surgeon and your father are with him, but they will not allow any other person to enter the room.

Oh! You won't tell me—but I am sure he is dead.

He is not indeed. A couple of wounds seldom kill a man.

The infernal scoundrels have better horses than our's.

Where have you been? You seem quite heated.

Your foresters, Mr. Dalner, and I, and a dozen of the villagers, followed the hussars as long as we could see the dust, but we couldn't keep pace with them.

Well, and suppose you had overtaken them?

Then, as I hope to be saved, they should have paid dearly for every drop of blood, which Lewis has shed.

I thank you, brother.

And if they had wounded you in the same way?

What a hot-headed stripling! How do you know whether Lewis was not guilty of the first provocation?

I am sure he was not.

If he attacked them, I am sure he had good reason for it.

Does nobody yet know how the quarrel arose?

How can any body know it? Lewis is unable to speak, and the hussars have run away.

Were none of our people concerned, then?

Not one.

Well, father?

How go matters on?

Is Lewis better?

Will he recover?

He is out of danger.

Heaven be praised!

I am glad to hear it.

I must go to him.

Hold, Frederick! The surgeon has prescribed quiet as the most effectual medicine. His wounds have been ex­amined. [Page 71] That in the head is of no consequence—the one in his arm is larger, but not dangerous. It was only the loss of blood which overpowered him, and he is come to himself again.

You know, then, what has happened?

No. He was going to tell me, but the surgeon would not allow him to speak, and desired us to leave the room, as repose was absolutely necessary. Nobody but Mr. Rehberg remained with him.

He is not in want of any thing, I hope?

I have provided every thing necessary.

Are you sure of that, father? If you would allow me—if I might—

Paulina?

You are right. It is improper.

Lewis insists on speaking to you.

I will come to him, when he has slept awhile.

He says he cannot sleep, be easy, or recover, 'till he has had some conversation with you.

If the surgeon will allow it—

The surgeon thinks composure of mind still more ne­cessary than sleep, and I too am of opinion, that if his soul be wounded, you may effect more than the whole faculty.

Enough! I hasten to him.

Oh! There he is.

Lewis!

Brave lad!

Lewis, can you, when scarcely recovering from a swoon, thus creep up stairs again?

Oh, I am not ill—I was only stunned.

I was just coming to you.

My impatience and anxiety have driven me hither. Allow me a few words without a witness.

Be seated, then. Go, friends. Neighbor, I know you will not take it amiss.

Not another word. Come, neighbor Rehberg.

Lewis, I have such a regard for you, that I have not thought of Louisa before. I'll away to meet her.

Oh Lewis! How pale you look!

Don't let him talk too much, good William, lest he should irritate his wounds.

Be not afraid, dear mother. He will heal my deep­est wound.

Now, Lewis, we are alone.

Father, I am obliged to you for inestimable kind­nesses, and beg to-day a greater than any of them.

You know me. Speak.

You must have been surprised on hearing that I at­tacked the hussars.

I was, indeed, for I have always thought you of a peaceable disposition.

When I left you, I intended to travel a few miles before sun-set, but my heart was so heavy, that my feet could not support me. I went to the little inn, which was full of hussars. I left them—wandered into the garden, and seated myself under an elm, where I indulged myself in a flood of tears. Ere long two of the hussars joined me. They laughed at me for my effeminacy—as they called it—but I paid no regard to them. At length they ceased their taunts, and began to converse about their own concerns—in which, alas, I was too nearly concerned.

You!

They spoke in opprobrious terms of my father.

Your father!

They called him a villain, and by the Almighty that he is not.

Who is your father?

A weak, but a good man. He was high in office—Heaven knows what has lately happened to him! He must have fled, and these hussars, as far as I can learn, are in pur­suit of him.—The two I mentioned, having spoken of him in terms the most abusive, I could no longer refrain—I con­sidered not that I alone was opposing twenty—I considered nothing but my father's honor, and struck the villain, whose language had been most opprobrious, to the earth. Of course, I immediately became the victim of my rashness.

Lewis!—Is it possible?—Who are you?

Oh!

You are in search of one Count Lohrstein?

He it is.

He is your father!

Yes.

Oh God, what bliss hast thou reserved for me on this day!

Speak, worthy youth! Let me have all your confidence. Let not two fathers be too many for you. Relate to me the mysterious particulars of your fate.

My first education and my heart destined me to act a happy, but not a brilliant part in the world. My mother was formed for domestic comfort, and formed me for the en­joyment of domestic comfort. She died. An ambitious de­ceitful woman succeeded to my father's affections. Through her, he became minister—through her I too was to make my fortune (as it is called) at court. I was married to a wo­man, whom I knew not, but whom I discovered, when too late, to be the Prince's mistress. Yes. Then I might have raised myself, from step to step, in splendid infamy, and bending under the load of turpitude, might have climbed to the summit of courtly favor. But, thanks to Heaven, the sentiments, which she, who now enjoys celestial bliss, had graven in my mind, could not be eradicated by my step-mo­ther. Soon as I discovered the labyrinth, in which they had involved my inexperience, my resolution was irrevocably [Page 74] formed. I fled. From a delicacy, which was, perhaps car­ried to too great an excess, I took nothing with me. Beg I could not—I knew not how to work, so that at last, driven by hunger and despair, I accepted the offers of the recruit­ing party, with which you found me.

Now, all is plain—and how do I rejoice to find it thus! How Willingly do I request your pardon for the sus­picion, which to-day I could not quite suppress!

My character must have appeared dubious to you, and alas! that alone made my separation from you so painful.

Why did you not sooner discover yourself?

Could I accuse my father—or could I assist him? Even now, I would not have broken my silence, had not anxiety for his safety compelled me to do it. He is pursued and suspected to be in this neighborhood. I am, at present incapable of assisting him; for my arm is maimed, and the loss of blood has so much reduced me, that I cannot even go in search of him, to give him notice that he is pursued. Oh, I beseech you, kind, benevolent, generous man, I beseech you, send all your people through the wood, the roads, the hills, and if they find him—have compassion on his age—on his misfortunes.

I engage that he shall find beneath my roof a safe retreat. But at present attend to the wounds, which reflect so much honor upon you, and quietly await the issue. Will you do this?

Quietly! Oh!

Go into my study. Throw yourself upon the couch, and sleep if you can.

Bring me some account of my father. 'Till then I cannot sleep.

Indeed! — God has been pleased to place in my hands the means of re­warding thy virtue, noble youth. To release thee from bondage so unworthy of thy heart is my lot.

Paulina!

My father!

Lewis is in my study.

Not ill again?

Not ill, but alone, and that he dislikes. Go, and keep him company.

How, my father?

Have you not understood me? I wish you to keep Lewis company. Is that so difficult to you?

Oh no—I do not understand it—but I obey most willingly.

What extatic moments now await me!—Yes, good Brave, you are right: Such revenge is sweet — But they are both weak, and exausted.—How shall I prepare them for the interview? I must consult my Ann.

Unannounced, but not I hope unwelcome—

Heavens! What do I see? Zahn! My honest Zahn!

Will your Excellency allow a faithful old servant—

Silence! Silence! No Excellency dwells here. Come into my arms, thou honest man, thou only friend, from whom misfortune has not severed me.

An honor—as well as a pleasure — Oh that I should live to enjoy this hour in my old age!

What, for Heaven's sake, has brought you to my peaceful retreat?

His Serene Highness has been pleased to command—had he been pleased to appoint me one of his Privy Council, he would not have so highly honored me—

What is your business, then, dear Zahn? I see tears in your eyes.

I humbly beg pardon—but just at this moment I can­not suppress them.

Fifty years has he lived at court, yet has it had no influence but on his manners.

I hear the old Prince is dead?

Yes, it has pleased the Highest to take him home, and what I prophesied twenty-seven years ago has happened. The prayers of the poor and for­saken, whose father you always were, have been heard, and his Serene Highness restores to you all your former offices, estates, and dignities.

How could the Prince learn—

Pardon me, my Lord. When his Highness was pleased to manifest his sentiments, I found it impossible to keep silence any longer. I therefore announced myself, ob­tained an audience, and reported what I knew.

Your intentions were good, but—

His Highness was highly delighted. "Such a man," he was pleased to observe, "is wanting both for me and my subjects. Haste, and invite him to court."

I again appear at court!

Yes, I, old as I am, shall have the honor of again serving in the administration of your Excellency. I own I cannot proceed with the same facility as twenty-seven years ago, but the pleasure of doing my duty under my old wor­thy director, will make me young again.

No, dear Zahn. To court I shall not return. I am not disposed again to encounter the cabals of Countess Lohrstein.

No, my Lord. The Countess has finished her ca­bals, and at present is a prisoner in the castle.

How! Was she not closely allied to the Prince's fe­male friend?

Ladies, who are allied in that way, seldom hold their post ad dies vitae. The order of the privy council was indeed issued at the instigation of the Countess Lohrstein's late daughter-in-law.

Late!—How so?

His Serene Highness has been pleased to declare the marriage null and void.

Indeed!

On account of her having been shamefully forsaken by her husband.

Oh, my friend! This in­telligence is more welcome to me than the restoration of my estates and rank.

I do not exactly comprehend—

You soon will. You soon shall share with me the enjoyment of this evening.

It is his Highness's wish that you should return with me immediately.

No, dear Zahn, I shall not return with you.

This most gracious invitation is written by his own hand.

Most kind, most gra­cious, and I could almost say, most sincere—but I shall not go.

I am astonished.

Sit but one evening at my frugal board, and you will no longer be astonished.

Look, dear Zahn, this key is rusty.

It will scarcely do its duty.

Here are the insignia of the order to which I belonged—my di­ploma—and all the remains of my former greatness. I pledge to you my word, that this closet has not been opened during five-and-twenty years.

Your Excellency opens it to-day for the good of your country.

Can my country be so devoid of honest men, as to make this necessary? No. Virtue will appear at court, as soon as the court will respect her.

For the good of your family—

Enough, my family shall decide the matter. 'Till then, good Zahn, I claim your secrecy.

I know how to obey.

Let me but have time to recollect myself; occur­rences have followed each other so rapidly to-day, that I feel I am appointed by Heaven to make many people happy, yet know not how to begin. Come, honest Zahn!

Walk into this room—we shall soon see each other again.

Neighbor, I send another friend to you, and put him under your protection, 'till I have finished some business, which just now engages me.

Understood. Come in.

Mr. Rehberg, I wish to have a little conversation with you.

Here I am.

You wish to marry my daughter Rosa, I presume?

What a question!

She is your's.

Mr. Welling!—Why this sudden alteration in your sentiments? I am as poor as I was!

But I am not so pertinacious as I was.

If you be not in earnest—this is cruel.

If you any longer doubt it, you will hurt me.

Oh, worthy mysterious man!

As to the mysterious part of my character, it will soon be explained. Have the goodness, my son, to assem­ble my whole family, and all my friends in this room imme­diately. You will find Paulina there. I wish to converse on a subject, which relates to us all, and on the decision of which, each shall have a vote.

Ha!—Just at the right time.

God bless you!

What does this mean?

That Rosa is mine.

How! — I must rub my eyes to be certain that I am not dreaming.—Have you obtained a living?

No.

Oh, I don't ask on my own account, for I am really glad you are poor. I always think one can't convince a rich man, how much one loves him.

Whom do you call a rich man? Oh, I am rich in­deed.

Rosa, remember that you are still a great dis­tance from the altar.

No. We have reached it, if your blessing be our conductor.

How am I to understand this?

My father has consented.

Indeed!

And if his parental blessing be echoed from your lips—

With all my heart—although I do not compre­hend—

He will soon be here again. My transport had al­most made me forget what he desired. All, who are united to him by affection or by friendship are to assemble in this room.

Mr. Dalner—sir—we request your company here.

Mother, this gentleman is one of my father's friends.

You are welcome, sir.

Mr. Zahn, this is the lady of the house.

Accept, madam, the assurances of my respect and—

No more, I beg sir. You are among [...]imple country people.

By order of your father, dear Paulina, I invite you hither—as well as Lewis, if strength with allow it.

How, Paulina!—You in that room!

My [...]ther himself sent me to keep Lewis company.

Well, for the first time in my life I cannot disco­ver the motives for your father's conduct.

I should know that young man.

Heavens! What can this man want here?

Dear husband, what means this?

Father, is it you?

Neighbor, are we going to have a masquerade?

I suspect a secret, here.

Brother, what is all this?

Don't you see I am as much astonished as yourself?

That is the order to which my father be­longed.

I alone have the key to this enigma.

You seem as if you think me little better than a lu­natic?—Be patient. In one moment the mystery will be solved—but let me not be interrupted. Lewis, how do you feel? Have you sufficient strength to receive from me a pre­sent, which your filial affection has obtained from fate?

Father, I do not comprehend you.

Has your heart no presages?

Were it so—if my heart de­ceive me not—oh, do not keep me in suspence.

Paulina, go for our guest.

Guest!—And these mysterious words—may I accompany Paulina?

Stay Where you are. I have said enough. Doubt—hope—think of your wounds—and moderate your rapture.

I have given this man my promise, dear wife, that he shall have Rosa.

I could scarcely believe it for [...]ording to our conversation yesterday—

He was first to obtain a benefice—and he has ob­tained one. My son, I congratulate you on your appoint­ment to the living of Birkendorf.

Birkendorf!—Dear sir—how can you—

Be so forward as to promise what—

The gentleman may be at ease.

But explain to us—

In truth, neighbor—

I hear footsteps.

Make room for him, children. He has been long enough deprived of his father.

His father!

What phantom do I behold?—Wert thou slain, bloody form, and comest thou to demand revenge?

Forgive your son.

Forgive!—I, thee!—Oh, if I be not wrong in think­ing thee a spirit—come into my arms.

—What is this?—I again feel a heart beating against mine—I feel a warm tear upon my cheek.—Am I, then, still beloved by any one on earth? Lewis, dost thou still love me?

Spare him, my Lord. That he loves you these wounds declare, which he received to-day in defence of your honor.

And thou kneel'st to me!—Let me—let me kneel.

Fa­ther!

What have I lost? I hear a voice, which calls me father.

Wealth and dignity divided us—poverty and lowli­ness restore us to each other.

Where was I? What apathy had crept around my heart?—Forgive me, Lewis, for thy mother's sake.

I have not been in distress—thanks to this worthy man, who received me as his son.

How! Has he been thy benefactor too?—Could you consider the son of your enemy as your own son?

His enemy!

I guess how this is.

Oh my Lord!

Lord!

What revenge is this!

The only revenge which becomes me.

What means this?

My friends, it is time that I solve this enigma. Will you pardon me, my dearest Ann, if I have concealed this only secret from you? You will, I am certain, when I tell you I was obliged to promise inviolable secrecy to your fa­ther on his death-bed.

Are you really a Lord, then?

I am Baron Wellingrode, formerly the favorite of a Prince and not happy—now an honest farmer, and the hap­piest man on earth.

This let­ter from a good Prince restores to me my rank, estates, and former office. This man is come to conduct me to court.

To court!

The hand, which has here so long held the plough has forgotten how to guide the rudder of a state. Never­theless, if you, my dear wife and children, think this altera­tion in our fortunes enviable, I will comply with your wishes.

Oh no!

No, no!

Consider well. What thousands sigh for, in vain, is offered you by chance.

What do we want?

We are accustomed to our present situation.

What can we do at court?

You may hereafter repent—

Never! Never!

Is this your firm desire?

It is! It is!

Come, then, to my heart.

What now? Are you afraid of me?

Oh no—but the star—

The ribband—

You are grown a Baron so suddenly—

My dear Ann, you seem to keep at a distance, too.

My dear William, I am sorry to do it—but you appear almost a stranger to me—

And shall I return to a situation, which causes a distance between me and my family? Shall I wear a star, which withholds my wife and children from my bosom.

Take it—take it—release me from this gew-gaw.

There!—Now you are our father again.

Now we know you.

Now we love you.

And you, good Ann?

Thus you offered me your hand twenty-five years ago.

You see, dear Zahn—

I do, and wish his Serene High­ness had seen it also.

To court I'll go, but only to thank the Prince, and petition for the pardon of this man.

You destroy me.

How? By acting a self-interested part? I shall only be promoting the happiness of our son.—Lewis, the Prince has declared your marriage void.

Count, the young people like each other. Will you seal our reconciliation?

Will I! How can you ask?

Oh God!

Now we are all happy.

All.

All.

And through me.—My children I have doubled, and I have found a brother.

Two brothers, neighbor—understood?

Come then to me, all. Come into the arms of the happiest man on earth. Are you still afraid of me? No star now hides my heart. Let me press you all to it.