SCENE I.
_Inside of the Cottage (as in Act II)._
AGATHA, COTTAGER, _and his_ WIFE _discovered_.
AGATHA.
Pray look and see if he is coming.
COTTAGER.
It is of no use. I have been in the road; have looked up and down; but
neither see nor hear any thing of him.
WIFE.
Have a little patience.
AGATHA.
I wish you would step out once more—I think he cannot be far off.
COTTAGER.
I will; I will go. [_Exit_.
WIFE.
If your son knew what heaven had sent you, he would be here very soon.
AGATHA.
I feel so anxious——
WIFE.
But why? I should think a purse of gold, such as you have received,
would make any body easy.
AGATHA.
Where can he be so long? He has been gone four hours. Some ill must
have befallen him.
WIFE.
It is still broad day-light—don’t think of any danger.—This evening we
must all be merry. I’ll prepare the supper. What a good gentleman our
Baron must be! I am sorry I ever spoke a word against him.
AGATHA.
How did he know I was here?
WIFE.
Heaven only can tell. The servant that brought the money was very
secret.
AGATHA.
[_to herself_]. I am astonished! I wonder! Oh! surely he has been
informed—Why else should he have sent so much money?
_Re-enter_ Cottager.
AGATHA.
Well!—not yet!
COTTAGER.
I might look till I am blind for him—but I saw our new Rector coming
along the road; he calls in sometimes. May be, he will this evening.
WIFE.
He is a very good gentleman; pays great attention to his parishioners;
and where he can assist the poor, he is always ready.
_Enter Mr._ ANHALT.
MR. ANHALT.
Good evening, friends.
BOTH.
Thank you, reverend Sir.
[_They both run to fetch him a chair_].
MR. ANHALT.
I thank you, good people—I see you have a stranger here.
COTTAGER.
Yes, your Reverence; it is a poor sick woman, whom I took in doors.
MR. ANHALT.
You will be rewarded for it. [_to_ Agatha.] May I beg leave to ask your
name?
AGATHA.
Ah! If we were alone——
MR. ANHALT.
Good neighbours, will you leave us alone for a few minutes? I have
something to say to this poor woman.
COTTAGER.
Wife, do you hear? Come along with me. [_Exeunt_ Cottager _and his_
Wife.]
MR. ANHALT.
Now——
AGATHA.
Before I tell you who I am, what I am, and what I was——I must beg to
ask—Are you of this country?
MR. ANHALT.
No—I was born in Alsace.
AGATHA.
Did you know the late rector personally, whom you have succeeded?
MR. ANHALT.
No.
AGATHA.
Then you are not acquainted with my narrative?
MR. ANHALT.
Should I find you to be the person whom I have long been in search of,
your history is not altogether unknown to me.
AGATHA.
“That you have been in search of!” Who gave you such a commission?
MR. ANHALT.
A man, who, if it so prove, is much concerned for your misfortunes.
AGATHA.
How? Oh, Sir! tell me quickly—Whom do you think to find in me?
MR. ANHALT.
Agatha Friburg.
AGATHA.
Yes, I am that unfortunate woman; and the man who pretends to take
concern in my misfortunes is——Baron Wildenhaim——he who betrayed me,
abandoned me and my child, and killed my parents.—He would now repair
our sufferings with this purse of gold. [_Takes out the purse_.]
Whatever may be your errand, Sir, whether to humble, or to protect me,
it is alike indifferent. I therefore request you to take this money to
him who sent it. Tell him, my honour has never been saleable. Tell him,
destitute as I am, even indigence will not tempt me to accept charity
from my seducer. He despised my heart—I despise his gold.—He has
trampled on me—I trample on his representative. [_Throws the purse on
the ground_.]
MR. ANHALT.
Be patient—I give you my word, that when the Baron sent this present to
an unfortunate woman, for whom her son had supplicated, he did not know
that woman was Agatha.
AGATHA.
My son? what of my son?
MR. ANHALT.
Do not be alarmed—The Baron met with an affectionate son, who begged
for his sick mother, and it affected him.
AGATHA.
Begged of the Baron! of his father!
MR. ANHALT.
Yes; but they did not know each other; and the mother received the
present on the son’s account.
AGATHA.
Did not know each other? Where is my son?
MR. ANHALT.
At the Castle.
AGATHA.
And still unknown?
MR. ANHALT.
Now he is known—an explanation has taken place;—and I am sent here by
the Baron, not to a stranger, but to Agatha Friburg—not with gold! his
commission was—“do what your heart directs you.”
AGATHA.
How is my Frederick? How did the Baron receive him?
MR. ANHALT.
I left him just in the moment the discovery was made. By this time your
son is, perhaps, in the arms of his father.
AGATHA.
Oh! is it possible that a man, who has been twenty years deaf to the
voice of nature, should change so suddenly?
MR. ANHALT.
I do not mean to justify the Baron, but—he has loved you—and fear of
his noble kindred alone caused his breach of faith to you.
AGATHA.
But to desert me wholly and wed another—
MR. ANHALT.
War called him away—Wounded in the field, he was taken to the adjacent
seat of a nobleman, whose only daughter, by anxious attention to his
recovery, won his gratitude; and, influenced by the will of his worldly
friends, he married. But no sooner was I received into the family, and
admitted to his confidence, than he related to me your story; and at
times would exclaim in anguish—“The proud imperious Baroness avenges
the wrongs of my deserted Agatha.” Again, when he presented me this
living, and I left France to take possession of it, his last words
before we parted, were—“The moment you arrive at Wildenhaim, make all
enquiries to find out my poor Agatha.” Every letter from him contained
“Still, still, no tidings of my Agatha.” And fate ordained it should be
so, till this fortunate day.
AGATHA.
What you have said has made my heart overflow—where will this end?
MR. ANHALT.
I know not yet the Baron’s intentions: but your sufferings demand
immediate remedy: and one way only is left—Come with me to the castle.
Do not start—you shall be concealed in my apartments till you are
called for.
AGATHA.
I go to the Baron’s?—No.
MR. ANHALT.
Go for the sake of your son—reflect, that his fortunes may depend upon
your presence.
AGATHA.
And he is the only branch on which my hope still blossoms: the rest are
withered.—I will forget my wrongs as a woman, if the Baron will atone
to the mother—he shall have the woman’s pardon, if he will merit the
mother’s thanks—[_after a struggle_]—I _will_ go to the castle—for the
sake of my Frederick, go even to his father. But where are my good host
and hostess, that I may take leave, and thank them for their kindness?
MR. ANHALT.
[taking up the purse which Agatha had thrown down]. Here, good friend!
Good woman!
_Enter the_ COTTAGER _and his_ WIFE.
WIFE.
Yes, yes, here I am.
MR. ANHALT.
Good people, I will take your guest with me. You have acted an honest
part, and therefore receive this reward for your trouble. [_He offers
the purse to the_ Cottager, _who puts it by, and turns away_].
MR. ANHALT.
[_to the_ Wife]. Do _you_ take it.
WIFE.
I always obey my pastor. [_taking it_].
AGATHA.
Good bye. [_shaking hands with the Cottagers_.] For your hospitality to
me, may ye enjoy continued happiness.
COTTAGER.
Fare you well—fare you well.
WIFE.
If you find friends and get health, we won’t trouble you to call on us
again: but if you should fall sick or be in poverty, we shall take it
very unkind if we don’t see you.
[_Exeunt_ Agatha _and_ Anhalt _on one side_, Cottager _and his_ Wife on
the other].
SCENE II.
_A Room in the Castle._
BARON _sitting upon a sopha_.—FREDERICK _standing near him, with one
hand pressed between his—the_ Baron _rises_.
BARON.
Been in battle too!—I am glad to hear it. You have known hard services,
but now they are over, and joy and happiness will succeed.—The reproach
of your birth shall be removed, for I will acknowledge you my son, and
heir to my estate.
FREDERICK.
And my mother——
BARON.
She shall live in peace and affluence. Do you think I would leave your
mother unprovided, unprotected? No! About a mile from this castle I
have an estate called Weldendorf—there she shall live, and call her own
whatever it produces. There she shall reign, and be sole mistress of
the little paradise. There her past sufferings shall be changed to
peace and tranquility. On a summer’s morning, we, my son, will ride to
visit her; pass a day, a week with her; and in this social intercourse
time will glide pleasantly.
FREDERICK.
And, pray, my Lord—under what name is my mother to live then?
BARON.
[_confused_]. How?
FREDERICK.
In what capacity?—As your domestic—or as——
BARON.
That we will settle afterwards.
FREDERICK.
Will you allow me, Sir, to leave the room a little while, that you may
have leisure to consider _now_?
BARON.
I do not know how to explain myself in respect to your mother more than
I have done already.
FREDERICK.
My fate, whatever it may be, shall never part me from her. This is my
firm resolution, upon which I call Heaven to witness! My Lord, it must
be Frederick of Wildenhaim, and Agatha of Wildenhaim—or Agatha Friburg,
and Frederick Friburg. [_Exit_.
BARON.
Young man! Frederick!—[_calling after him_.] Hasty indeed! would make
conditions with his father. No, no, that must not be. I just now
thought how well I had arranged my plans—had relieved my heart of every
burden, when, a second time, he throws a mountain upon it. Stop, friend
conscience, why do you take his part?—For twenty years thus you have
used me, and been my torture.
_Enter Mr_. ANHALT.
Ah! Anhalt, I am glad you are come. My conscience and myself are at
variance.
MR. ANHALT.
Your conscience is in the right.
BARON.
You don’t know yet what the quarrel is.
MR. ANHALT.
Conscience is always right—because it never speaks unless it _is_ so.
BARON.
Ay, a man of your order can more easily attend to its whispers, than an
old warrior. The sound of cannon has made him hard of hearing.—I have
found my son again, Mr. Anhalt, a fine, brave young man—I mean to make
him my heir—Am I in the right?
MR. ANHALT.
Perfectly.
BARON.
And his mother shall live in happiness—My estate, Weldendorf, shall be
hers—I’ll give it to her, and she shall make it her residence. Don’t I
do right?
MR. ANHALT.
No.
BARON.
[_surprized_]. No? And what else should I do?
MR. ANHALT.
[_forcibly_]. Marry her.
BARON.
[_starting_]. I marry her!
MR. ANHALT.
Baron Wildenhaim is a man who will not act inconsistently.—As this is
my opinion, I expect your reasons, if you do not.
BARON.
Would you have me marry a beggar?
MR. ANHALT.
[_after a pause_]. Is that your only objection?
BARON.
[_confused_]. I have more—many more.
MR. ANHALT.
May I beg to know them likewise?
BARON.
My birth!
MR. ANHALT.
Go on.
BARON.
My relations would despise me.
MR. ANHALT.
Go on.
BARON.
[_in anger_]. ’Sdeath! are not these reasons enough?—I know no other.
MR. ANHALT.
Now, then, it is my turn to state mine for the advice I have given you.
But first, I must presume to ask a few questions.—Did Agatha, through
artful insinuation, gain your affection? or did she give you cause to
suppose her inconstant?
BARON.
Neither—but for me, she was always virtuous and good.
MR. ANHALT.
Did it cost you trouble and earnest entreaty to make her otherwise?
BARON.
[_angrily_]. Yes.
MR. ANHALT.
You pledged your honour?
BARON.
[_confused_]. Yes.
MR. ANHALT.
Called God to witness?
BARON.
[_more confused_]. Yes.
MR. ANHALT.
The witness you called at that time was the Being who sees you now.
What you gave in pledge was your honour, which you must redeem.
Therefore thank Heaven that it is in your _power_ to redeem it. By
marrying Agatha the ransom’s made: and she brings a dower greater than
any princess can bestow—peace to your conscience. If you then esteem
the value of this portion, you will not hesitate a moment to
exclaim,—Friends, wish me joy, I will marry Agatha.
[_Baron, in great agitation, walks backwards and forwards, then takes_
Anhalt _by the hand_.]
BARON.
“Friend, wish me joy—I will _marry_ Agatha.”
MR. ANHALT.
I do wish you joy.
BARON.
Where is she?
MR. ANHALT.
In the castle—in my apartments here—I conducted her through the garden,
to avoid curiosity.
BARON.
Well, then, this is the wedding-day. This very evening you shall give
us your blessing.
MR. ANHALT.
Not so soon, not so private. The whole village was witness of Agatha’s
shame—the whole village must be witness of Agatha’s re-established
honour. Do you consent to this?
BARON.
I do.
MR. ANHALT.
Now the quarrel is decided. Now is your conscience quiet?
BARON.
As quiet as an infant’s. I only wish the first interview was over.
MR. ANHALT.
Compose yourself. Agatha’s heart is to be your judge.
_Enter_ AMELIA.
BARON.
Amelia, you have a brother.
AMELIA.
I have just heard so, my Lord; and rejoice to find the news confirmed
by you.
BARON.
I know, my dear Amelia, I can repay you for the loss of Count Cassel;
but what return can I make to you for the loss of half your fortune?
AMELIA.
My brother’s love will be ample recompense.
BARON.
I will reward you better. Mr. Anhalt, the battle I have just fought, I
owe to myself: the victory I gained, I owe to you. A man of your
principles, at once a teacher and an example of virtue, exalts his rank
in life to a level with the noblest family—and I shall be proud to
receive you as my son.
MR. ANHALT.
[_falling on his knees, and taking the_ Baron’s _hand_]. My Lord, you
overwhelm me with confusion, as well as with joy.
BARON.
My obligations to you are infinite—Amelia shall pay the debt. [_Gives
her to him_.]
AMELIA.
Oh, my dear father! [_embracing the_ Baron] what blessings have you
bestowed on me in one day. [_to_ Anhalt.] I will be your scholar still,
and use more diligence than ever to please my _master_.
MR. ANHALT.
His present happiness admits of no addition.
BARON.
Nor does mine—And yet there is another task to perform that will
require more fortitude, more courage, than this has done! A trial
that!—[_bursts into tears_]—I cannot prevent them—Let me—let me—A few
minutes will bring me to myself—Where is Agatha?
MR. ANHALT.
I will go, and fetch her. [_Exit Anhalt at an upper entrance_.]
BARON.
Stop! Let me first recover a little. [_Walks up and down, sighing
bitterly—looks at the door through which_ Anhalt _left the room_.] That
door she will come from—That was once the dressing-room of my
mother—From that door I have seen her come many times—have been
delighted with her lovely smiles—How shall I now behold her altered
looks! Frederick must be my mediator.—Where is he? Where is my son?—Now
I am ready—my heart is prepared to receive her—Haste! haste! Bring her
in.
[_He looks stedfastly at the door_—Anhalt _leads on_ Agatha—_The_ Baron
_runs and clasps her in his arms—Supported by him, she sinks on a chair
which_ Amelia _places in the middle of the stage—The_ Baron _kneels by
her side, holding her hand_.]
BARON.
Agatha, Agatha, do you know this voice?
AGATHA.
Wildenhaim.
BARON.
Can you forgive me?
AGATHA.
I forgive you. [_embracing him_].
FREDERICK.
[_as he enters_]. I hear the voice of my mother!—Ha! mother! father!
[Frederick _throws himself on his knees by the other side of his
mother—She clasps him in her arms_.—Amelia _is placed on the side of
her father attentively viewing_ Agatha—Anhalt _stands on the side of_
Frederick _with his hands gratefully raised to Heaven_.]——_The curtain
slowly drops_.
END.
EPILOGUE.
WRITTEN BY THOMAS PALMER, ESQ.
OF THE TEMPLE.
SPOKEN BY MR. MUNDEN.
Our drama now ended, I’ll take up your time
Just a moment or two in defence of my _rhime_—
* “Tho’ I hope that among you are _some_ who _admir’d_
“What I’ve hitherto said, dare I hope none are tir’d?
“But whether ye have, or have not heard enough,
“Or whether nice critics will think it all stuff;
“To myself _rhime_ has ever appear’d, I must own,
“In its nature a sort of _philosopher’s stone_;
“And if Chymists wou’d use it, they’d not make a pother,
“And puzzle their brains to find out any other.”
Indeed ’tis most strange and surprising to me
That all folks in _rhiming_ their int’rest can’t see;
For I’m sure if its use were quite common with men,
The world would roll on just as pleasant again.
“’Tis said, that while ORPHEUS was striking his lyre,
“Trees and brutes danc’d along to the sound of the wire;
“That AMPHION to walls soon converted the glebes,
“And they rose, as he sung, to a city call’d Thebes;
“I suppose _they_ were _Butlers_ (like me) of that time,
“And the tale shows our sires knew the wonders of _rhime_.”
From time immemorial, your lovers, we find,
When their mistresses’ hearts have been proud and unkind,
Have resorted to _rhime_; and indeed it appears
That a _rhime_ would do more than a bucket of tears.
Of love, from experience, I speak—odds my life!
I shall never forget how I courted my wife:
She had offers in plenty; but always stood neuter,
Till I, with my pen, started forth as a suitor;
Yet I made no mean present of _ribband_ or _bonnet_,
_My_ present was caught from the stars—’twas a _sonnet_.
“And now you know this, sure ’tis needless to say,
“That prose was neglected, and _rhime_ won the day—
“But its potent effects you as well may discover
“In the _husband_ and _wife_, as in _mistress_ and _lover_;
“There are some of ye here, who, like me, I conjecture.
“Have been lull’d into sleep by a good _curtain lecture_.
“But that’s a mere trifle; you’ll ne’er come to blows,
“If you’ll only avoid that dull enemy, _prose_.
“Adopt, then, my plan, and the very next time,
“That in words you fall out, let them fall into _rhime_;
“Thus your sharpest disputes will conclude very soon,
“And from jangling to jingling you’ll chime into _tune_.
“If my wife were to call me a _drunken old sot_,
“I shou’d merely just ask her, what Butler is not?
“And bid her take care that she don’t go to pot.
“So our squabbles continue a very short season,
“If she yields to my _rhime_—I allow she has reason.”
Independent of this I conceive _rhime_ has weight
In the higher employments of church and of state,
And would in my mind such advantages draw,
’Tis a pity that _rhime_ is not sanctioned by law;
“For ’twould _really_ be serving us all, to impose
“A capital fine on a man who spoke prose.”
Mark the pleader who clacks, in his client’s behalf,
His technical stuff for three hours and a half;
Or the fellow who tells you a long stupid story,
And over and over the same lays before ye;
Or the member who raves till the whole house are dosing
What d’ye say of such men? Why you say they are prosing.
So, of course, then, if _prose_ is so tedious a _crime_,
It of consequence follows, there’s _virtue_ in _rhime_.
The best piece of prose that I’ve heard a long while,
Is what gallant Nelson has sent from THE NILE.
And had he but told us the story in _rhime_,
What a thing ’twou’d be; but, perhaps, he’d no time.
So, I’ll do it myself—Oh! ’tis glorious news!
Nine _sail_ of the line! Just a ship for each Muse.
As I live, there’s an end of the French and their navy—
Sir John Warren has sent the Brest fleet to Old Davy.
’Tis in the Gazette, and that, every one knows,
Is sure to be truth, tho’ ’tis written in prose.
* The lines between inverted commas are not spoken.