_Scene represents a room at an inn, at Weimar—On one side of the stage
the bar-room, with jellies, lemons in nets, syllabubs_, _and part of
a cold roast fowl, &c.—On the opposite side, a window looking into
the street, through which persons (inhabitants of Weimar) are seen
passing to and fro in apparent agitation_—MATILDA _appears in a
great coat and riding-habit, seated at the corner of the
dinner-table, which is covered with a clean huckaback cloth; plates
and napkins, with buck’s-horn-handled knives and forks, are laid as
if for four persons._
MAT. Is it impossible for me to have dinner sooner?
LAND. Madam, the Brunswick post-waggon is not yet come in, and the
ordinary is never before two o’clock.
MAT. [_With a look expressive of disappointment, but immediately
recomposing herself._] Well, then, I must have patience. [_Exit
Landlady._] Oh Casimere!—How often have the thoughts of thee served to
amuse these moments of expectation!—What a difference, alas!—Dinner—it
is taken away as soon as over, and we regret it not!—It returns again
with the return of appetite.—The beef of to-morrow will succeed to the
mutton of to-day, as the mutton of to-day succeeded to the veal of
yesterday. But when once the heart has been occupied by a beloved
object, in vain would we attempt to supply the chasm by another. How
easily are our desires transferred from dish to dish!—Love only, dear,
delusive, delightful love, restrains our wandering appetites, and
confines them to a particular gratification!...
_Post-horn blows; re-enter_ LANDLADY.
LAND. Madam, the post-waggon is just come in with only a single
gentlewoman.
MAT. Then show her up—and let us have dinner instantly; [_Landlady
going_] and remember—[_after a moment’s recollection, and with great
earnestness_]—remember the toasted cheese.
[_Exit Landlady._
CECILIA _enters, in a brown cloth riding-dress, as if just alighted from
the post-waggon._
MAT. Madam, you seem to have had an unpleasant journey, if I may judge
from the dust on your riding-habit.
CEC. The way was dusty, madam, but the weather was delightful. It
recalled to me those blissful moments when the rays of desire first
vibrated through my soul.
MAT. [_Aside._] Thank Heaven! I have at last found a heart which is in
unison with my own. [_To Cecilia_]—Yes, I understand you—the first
pulsation of sentiment—the silver tones upon the yet unsounded harp....
CEC. The dawn of life—when this blossom [_putting her hand upon her
heart_] first expanded its petals to the penetrating dart of love!
MAT. Yes—the time—the golden time, when the first beams of the morning
meet and embrace one another!—The blooming blue upon the yet unplucked
plum!...
CEC. Your countenance grows animated, my dear madam.
MAT. And yours too is glowing with illumination.
CEC. I had long been looking out for a congenial spirit!—my heart was
withered—but the beams of yours have rekindled it.
MAT. A sudden thought strikes me—Let us swear an eternal friendship.
CEC. Let us agree to live together!
MAT. Willingly.
[_With rapidity and earnestness._
CEC. Let us embrace.
[_They embrace._
MAT. Yes; I too have loved!—you, too, like me, have been forsaken.
[_Doubtingly, and as if with a desire to be informed._
CEC. Too true!
BOTH. Ah these men! these men!
LANDLADY _enters, and places a leg of mutton on the table, with sour
krout and prune sauce; then a small dish of black puddings_—CECILIA
_and_ MATILDA _appear to take no notice of her._
MAT. Oh, Casimere!
CEC. [_Aside._] Casimere! that name!—Oh, my heart, how it is distracted
with anxiety.
MAT. Heavens! Madam, you turn pale.
CEC. Nothing—a slight megrim—with your leave, I will retire—
MAT. I will attend you.
[_Exeunt_ MATILDA _and_ CECILIA; _Manent_ LANDLADY _and_ WAITER, _with
the dinner on the table._
LAND. Have you carried the dinner to the prisoner in the vaults of the
abbey?
WAITER. Yes—Pease soup, as usual—with the scrag end of a neck of mutton.
The emissary of the Count was here again this morning, and offered me a
large sum of money if I would consent to poison him.
LAND. Which you refused?
[_With hesitation and anxiety._
WAITER. Can you doubt it?
[_With indignation._
LAND. [_Recovering herself, and drawing up with an expression of
dignity._] The conscience of a poor man is as valuable to him as that of
a prince....
WAITER. It ought to be still more so, in proportion as it is generally
more pure.
LAND. Thou say’st truly, Job.
WAITER. [_With enthusiasm._] He who can spurn at wealth when proffered
as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.
_Post-horn blows.—Enter_ CASIMERE _(in a travelling dress, a light
blue great coat with large metal buttons, his hair in a long queue,
but twisted at the end; a large Kevenhuller hat; a cane in his
hand)._
CAS. Here, Waiter, pull off my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers.
[_Exit Waiter._] And hark’ye, my lad, a basin of water [_rubbing his
hands_] and a bit of soap. I have not washed since I began my journey.
WAITER. [_Answering from behind the door._] Yes, Sir.
CAS. Well, Landlady, what company are we to have?
LAND. Only two gentlewomen, Sir.—They are just stept into the next
room—they will be back again in a minute.
CAS. Where do they come from?
[_All this while the_ WAITER _re-enters with the basin and water;_
CASIMERE _pulls off his boots, takes a napkin from the table, and
washes his face and hands._
LAND. There is one of them, I think, comes from Nuremburgh.
CAS. [_Aside._] From Nuremburgh! [_with eagerness_] her name!
LAND. Matilda.
CAS. [_Aside._] How does this idiot woman torment me!—What else?
LAND. I can’t recollect.
CAS. Oh, agony!
[_In a paroxysm of agitation._
WAITER. See here, her name upon the travelling trunk—Matilda Pottingen.
CAS. Ecstasy! ecstasy!
[_Embracing the Waiter._
LAND. You seem to be acquainted with the lady—shall I call her?
CAS. Instantly—instantly—tell her her loved, her long-lost—tell her——
LAND. Shall I tell her dinner is ready?
CAS. Do so—and in the meanwhile I will look after my portmanteau.
[_Exeunt severally._
_Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh,
with coffins, ’scutcheons, death’s heads and crossbones—toads and
other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of
the stage._—ROGERO _appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour,
with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his
head—beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily
allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is
heard to whistle through the caverns._—ROGERO _rises, and comes
slowly forward, with his arms folded._
ROG. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first
immured in this living sepulchre—the cruelty of a Minister—the
perfidy of a Monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the
dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my
fellow-men. Soft!—what have we here! [_stumbles over a bundle of
sticks._] This cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish
the objects under my feet. Oh—the register of my captivity. Let me
see; how stands the account? [_Takes up the sticks, and turns them
over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few minutes,
as if absorbed in calculation._]—Eleven years and fifteen
days!—Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection
of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last
leave of my Matilda. It was a summer evening; her melting hand
seemed to dissolve in mine, as I prest it to my bosom. Some demon
whispered me that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on
the hated vehicle which was conveying her away for ever. The tears
were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with
agony. Anon—I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to
diminish every instant; I felt my heart beat against its prison,
as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My soul whirled round
as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of
glory followed after her, and mingled with the dust; it was the
emanation of Divinity, luminous with love and beauty, like the
splendour of the setting sun; but it told me that the sun of my
joys was sunk for ever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal
dungeon, in the nursing cradle of hell, the suburbs of perdition,
in a nest of demons, where despair in vain sits brooding over the
putrid eggs of hope; where agony woos the embrace of death; where
patience, beside the bottomless pool of despondency, sits angling
for impossibilities. Yet, even _here_, to behold her, to embrace
her! Yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and
spiders, or in a royal palace, amidst the more loathsome reptiles
of a court, would be indifferent to me; angels would shower down
their hymns of gratulation upon our heads, while fiends would envy
the eternity of suffering love.... Soft, what air was that? it
seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again! [_listens
attentively for some minutes._] Only the wind; it is well,
however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often
solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of
this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. [_Takes his guitar,
tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment
of violins from the orchestra._
[_Air, Lanterna Magica._]
SONG.
BY ROGERO.
I.
Whene’er with haggard eyes I view
This dungeon that I’m rotting in,
I think of those companions true
Who studied with me at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[_Weeps, and pulls out a blue kerchief, with which he wipes his eyes;
gazing tenderly at it, he proceeds_—
II.
Sweet kerchief, check’d with heavenly blue,
Which once my love sat knotting in!—
Alas! Matilda _then_ was true!
At least I thought so at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[_At the repetition of this line_ ROGERO _clanks his chains in
cadence._
III.
Barbs! Barbs! alas! how swift you flew
Her neat post-waggon trotting in!
Ye bore Matilda from my view;
Forlorn I languish’d at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
IV.
This faded form! this pallid hue!
This blood my veins is clotting in,
My years are many—they were few
When first I entered at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
V.
There first for thee my passion grew,
Sweet! sweet Matilda Pottingen!
Thou wast the daughter of my tu—
—tor, law professor at the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
VI.
Sun, moon, and thou vain world, adieu,
That kings and priests are plotting in:
Here doomed to starve on water gru—
—el,[273] never shall I see the U—
—niversity of Gottingen—
—niversity of Gottingen.
[_During the last stanza_ ROGERO _dashes his head repeatedly against
the walls of his prison; and, finally, so hard as to produce a
visible contusion; he then throws himself on the floor in an agony.
The curtain drops; the music still continuing to play till it is
wholly fallen._
[The character of ROGERO is a quiz upon SIR ROBERT ADAIR, who
received his education at Göttingen, and fell in love with his
tutor’s daughter. His relative, LORD ALBEMARLE, says in his
_Reminiscences_: “Throughout life my kinsman was an enthusiastic
admirer of the fair sex, which he generally ‘loved, not wisely, but
too well’”. He married, in 1805, Mdlle. Angélique Gabrielle,
daughter of the Marquis d’Hazincourt and the Comtesse de Champagne.
ADAIR was the son of Mr. Robert Adair, sergeant-surgeon to K. George
III., by his wife LADY CAROLINE KEPPEL, daughter of Wm. Anne, second
Earl of Albemarle. He was educated at Westminster School and
Göttingen University; called to the Bar, but never practised. He
contested Camelford in 1796; and was M.P. for Appleby, 1799–1802,
for Camelford, 1802–1812. He was sent by FOX as Minister
Plenipotentiary to Vienna in 1806; and by his old adversary CANNING
to Constantinople in 1808; and also to Berlin. He was Ambassador to
Constantinople, 1809–11, and to Belgium, 1831–5. He was a facile
writer, and wrote several spirited pamphlets, including defences of
his relatives, Francis, Duke of Bedford, and Admiral Keppel, Fox,
and other Whigs. He contributed to the _Political Eclogues_ a poem
called _Margaret Nicholson_, in which George III., Pitt, Jenkinson,
&c., were ridiculed, and the _Song of Scrutina_ (on the “Westminster
Scrutiny”), in the style of Ossian, in the _Probationary Odes for
the Laureateship_. He was the author also of an account of his
_Mission to the Court of Vienna_; and his _Negotiations for the
Peace of the Dardanelles_: 3 vols., 8vo. For his services in the
latter business he was made G.C.B. He was born 24th May, 1763, and
died 3rd Oct., 1855.
There is a curious circumstance connected with the composition of
this song, the first five stanzas of which were written by CANNING.
Having been accidentally seen, previous to its publication, by PITT,
who was cognisant of the proceedings of the “Anti-Jacobin” writers,
he was so amused with it, that he took up a pen and composed the
last stanza on the spot.—ED.]
[This drama was produced at the Haymarket Theatre, July 26, 1811,
with alterations and additions, and some introductory matter, which
contained smart hits at the Quadrupeds, which then desecrated the
stage of Covent Garden Theatre. Liston performed _Rogero_; Munden,
_Casimere_; Mrs. Glover, _Matilda_; Mrs. Gibbs, _Cecilia_. The
following Prologue, written by George Colman the younger, in
imitation of Pope’s prologue to _Cato_, was spoken by Elliston:—
To lull the soul by spurious strokes of art,
To warp the genius, and mislead the heart;
To make mankind revere wives gone astray,[274]
Love pious sons who rob on the highway;[275]
For this the foreign muses trod our stage
Commanding _German schools_ to be the rage.
Hail to such schools! Oh, fine _false feeling_, hail!
Thou badst _non-natural nature_ to prevail;
Through thee, _soft super-sentiment_ arose,
Musk to the mind like civet to the nose;
Till fainting taste (as invalids do wrong),
Snuff’d the sick perfume, and grew weakly strong.
Dear Johnny Bull! you boast much resolution,
With, thanks to Heaven! a glorious Constitution:
Your taste, recovered half from foreign quacks,
Takes airings, now, on English horses’ backs;
While every modern bard may raise his name,
If not on _lasting praise_, on _stable fame_.
Think that to Germans you have given no check,
Think how each actor hors’d has risk’d his neck;
You’ve shewn them favour: Oh, then, once more shew it
To this night’s _Anglo-German, Horse-Play_ Poet!—ED.]
[Illustration]
No. XXXI.
June 11, 1798.
We have received, in the course of the last week, several long, and
to say the truth, dull letters, from unknown hands, reflecting in
very severe terms on MR. HIGGINS, for having, as it is affirmed,
attempted to pass upon the world, as a faithful sample of the
productions of the German theatre, a performance no way resembling
any of those pieces which have so late excited, and which bid fair
to engross, the admiration of the British public.
As we cannot but consider ourselves as the guardians of MR.
HIGGINS’S literary reputation, in respect to every work of his which
is conveyed to the world through the medium of our paper (though,
what we think of the danger of his principles we have already
sufficiently explained for ourselves, and have, we trust, succeeded
in putting our readers upon their guard against them)—we hold
ourselves bound not only to justify the fidelity of the imitation,
but (contrary to our original intention) to give a further specimen
of it in our present number, in order to bring the question more
fairly to issue between our author and his calumniators.
In the first place we are to observe, that MR. HIGGINS professes to
have taken his notion of German plays wholly from the translations
which have appeared in our language. If _they_ are totally
dissimilar from the originals, Mr. H. may undoubtedly have been led
into error; but the fault is in the translators, not in him. That he
does not differ widely from the models which he proposed to himself,
we have it in our power to prove satisfactorily, and might have done
so in our last number, by subjoining to each particular passage of
his play the scene in some one or other of the German plays which he
had in view when he wrote it. These parallel passages were
faithfully pointed out to us by Mr. H. with that candour which marks
his character; and if they were suppressed by us (as in truth they
were), on our heads be the blame, whatever it may be. Little,
indeed, did we think of the imputation which the omission would
bring upon Mr. H., as in fact our principal reason for it was the
apprehension that, from the extreme closeness of the imitation in
most instances, he would lose in praise for invention more than he
would gain in credit for fidelity.
The meeting between Matilda and Cecilia, for example, in the first
act of _The Rovers_, and their sudden intimacy, has been censured as
unnatural. Be it so. It is taken, _almost word for word_, from
_Stella_, a German (or professedly a German) piece now much in
vogue; from which also the catastrophe of MR. HIGGINS’S play is in
part borrowed, so far as relates to the agreement to which the
ladies come, as the reader will see by and bye, to share Casimere
between them.
The dinner-scene is copied partly from the published translation of
_The Stranger_, and partly from the first scene of _Stella_. The
song of Rogero, with which the first act concludes, is admitted on
all hands to be in the very first taste; and if no German original
is to be found for it, so much the worse for the credit of German
literature.
An objection has been made by one anonymous letter-writer to the
names of Puddingfield and Beefington, as little likely to have been
assigned to English characters by any author of taste or
discernment. In answer to this objection we have, in the first
place, to admit, that a small, and we hope not an unwarrantable,
alteration has been made by us since the MS. has been in our hands.
These names stood originally Puddincrantz and Beefinstern, which
sounded to our ears as being liable, especially the latter, to a
ridiculous inflection—a difficulty that could only be removed by
furnishing them with English terminations. With regard to the more
substantial syllables of the names, our author proceeded, in all
probability, on the authority of Goldoni, who, though not a German,
is an Italian writer of considerable reputation; and who, having
heard that the English were distinguished for their love of liberty
and beef, has judiciously compounded the two words _Runnymede_ and
_Beef_, and thereby produced an English nobleman, whom he styles
_Lord Runnybeef_.
To dwell no longer on particular passages, the best way perhaps of
explaining the whole scope and view of Mr. H.’s imitation will be to
transcribe the short sketch of the plot which that gentleman
transmitted to us, together with his drama, and which it is perhaps
the more necessary to give at length, as, the limits of our paper
not allowing of the publication of the whole piece, some general
knowledge of its main design may be acceptable to our readers, in
order to enable them to judge of the several extracts which we lay
before them.
PLOT.
Rogero, son of the late minister of the Count of Saxe Weimar, having
while he was at college, fallen desperately in love with Matilda
Pottingen, daughter of his tutor, Doctor Engelbertus Pottingen,
Professor of Civil Law; and Matilda evidently returning his passion,
the Doctor, to prevent ill consequences, sends his daughter on a
visit to her aunt in Wetteravia, where she becomes acquainted with
Casimere, a Polish Officer, who happens to be quartered near her
aunt’s, and has several children by him.
Roderic, Count of Saxe Weimar, a prince of a tyrannical and
licentious disposition, has for his Prime Minister and favourite
Gaspar, a crafty villain, who had risen to his post by first
ruining, and then putting to death, Rogero’s father. Gaspar,
apprehensive of the power and popularity which the young Rogero may
enjoy at his return to Court, seizes the occasion of his intrigue
with Matilda (of which he is apprized officially by Doctor
Pottingen) to procure from his master an order for the recall of
Rogero from college, and for committing him to the care of the Prior
of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, a priest, rapacious, savage, and
sensual, and devoted to Gaspar’s interests—sending at the same time
private orders to the Prior to confine him in a dungeon.
Here Rogero languishes many years. His daily sustenance is
administered to him through a grated opening at the top of a cavern,
by the landlady of the Golden Eagle at Weimar, with whom Gaspar
contracts, in the prince’s name, for his support; intending, and
more than once endeavouring, to corrupt the waiter to mingle poison
with the food, in order that he may get rid of Rogero for ever.
In the meantime, Casimere, having been called away from the
neighbourhood of Matilda’s residence to other quarters, becomes
enamoured of and marries Cecilia, by whom he has a family; and whom
he likewise deserts after a few years’ cohabitation, on pretence of
business which calls him to Kamtschatka.
Doctor Pottingen, now grown old and infirm, and feeling the want of
his daughter’s society, sends young Pottingen in search of her, with
strict injunctions not to return without her; and to bring with her
either her present lover Casimere, or, should that not be possible,
Rogero himself, if he can find him; the Doctor having set his heart
upon seeing his children comfortably settled before his death.
Matilda, about the same period, quits her aunt’s in search of
Casimere; and Cecilia, having been advertised (by an anonymous
letter) of the falsehood of his Kamtschatka journey, sets out in the
post-waggon on a similar pursuit.
It is at this point of time the Play opens—with the accidental
meeting of Cecilia and Matilda at the Inn at Weimar. Casimere
arrives there soon after, and falls in first with Matilda, and then
with Cecilia. Successive _éclaircissements_ take place, and an
arrangement is finally made, by which the two ladies are to live
jointly with Casimere.
Young Pottingen, wearied with a few weeks’ search, during which he
has not been able to find either of the objects of it, resolves to
stop at Weimar, and wait events there. It so happens that he takes
up his lodgings in the same house with Puddingfield and Beefington,
two English noblemen, whom the tyranny of King John has obliged to
fly from their country; and who, after wandering about the continent
for some time, have fixed their residence at Weimar.
The news of the signature of Magna Charta arriving, determines
Puddingfield and Beefington to return to England. Young Pottingen
opens his case to them, and entreats them to stay to assist him in
the object of his search.—This they refuse; but coming to the Inn
where they are to set off for Hamburgh, they meet Casimere, from
whom they had both received many civilities in Poland.
Casimere, by this time tired of his “DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT,” and having
learnt from the waiter that Rogero is confined in the vaults of the
neighbouring abbey _for love_, resolves to attempt his rescue, and
to make over Matilda to him as the price of his deliverance. He
communicates his scheme to Puddingfield and Beefington, who agree to
assist him; as also does young Pottingen. The Waiter of the Inn,
proving to be a _Knight Templar_ in disguise, is appointed leader of
the expedition. A band of Troubadours, who happen to be returning
from the Crusades, and a company of Austrian and Prussian Grenadiers
returning from the Seven Years’ War, are engaged as troops.
The attack on the Abbey is made with success. The Count of Weimar
and Gaspar, who are feasting with the Prior, are seized and beheaded
in the refectory. The Prior is thrown into the dungeon from which
Rogero is rescued. Matilda and Cecilia rush in. The former
recognises Rogero, and agrees to live with him. The children are
produced on all sides—and young Pottingen is commissioned to write
to his father, the Doctor, to detail the joyful events which have
taken place, and to invite him to Weimar to partake of the general
felicity.
THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.