$ 
 
 V 
 
SELECT PLAYS 
 
 CEJ^EI 
 
 PERFORMED AT THE 
 
 PRINCIPAL THEATRES 
 
 Winitttj States of America. 
 
 VOLUME SECOND. 
 
 CONTAINING, 
 
 ROBBERS, 
 FIESCO, 
 
 cabal and LOVE. 
 
 Baltimore % 
 
 Printed and Sold, by 
 
 WARNER Sc HANNA, 
 
A. TRAGEDY, 
 
 BY FREDERICK SCHILLER. 
 
Count Moor. 
 Charles, | ^ $ 
 Francis, 3 
 Spiegelberg, 
 Schweitaer, I 
 Grimm, I 
 
 Schufterle, > Libert'mes, ixho become Robbers 
 Roller, 
 Razman, 
 
 Kosinski, 
 
 Herman, the natural Son of a Nobleman. 
 Daniel, an old Servant of Count Moor. 
 Commissary. 
 
 Amelia, Niece of the Count. 
 
 Robbers, Servatits, iS'c. 
 
THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Scene — An Apartment in the Castle of Count 
 Moor. 
 
 Enter Count and Francis. 
 
 Fra. -BuT are you well, my father?- — you 
 look so pale — 
 
 Cou. Quite well} my son. What tidings do 
 you bring ? 
 
 Fra. The post is arrived.-— A letter from Our 
 correspondent at Leipzig — 
 
 Cou. (With eager anxiety,) Does it contain any 
 account of my son Charles ? 
 
 Fra. It does ; but I fear, if you be ill — if you 
 feel in the smallest degree disordered, allow me 
 I will communicate the matter to you at a 
 more proper time. ( Half aside. J This intelligence 
 is ill adapted to the ear of a feeble, sickly father. 
 
 Cou. Heavens ! What can he mean ? 
 
 Fra. First let me step aside, and drop a tear 
 of pity for my poor lost brother. I ought to be 
 mute — for he is your son. I ought to conceal 
 his disgrace — for he is my brother : but to obey 
 you is my first duty, and by this mournful duty 
 I am bound to speak — therefore forgive me. 
 
 Cou. Oh Charles, Charles ! didst thou but know 
 how thy conduct, tortures thy father ; — didst thou 
 but know that happy tidings of thee would add ten- 
 years to my existence — whereas, all I have lately 
 heard has led me, with rapid strides, to the grave* 
 A 2 
 
6 
 
 THE R0E3ERS. 
 
 Act /. 
 
 Fra. If my father's life be dependent on hap- 
 py tidings from my brother, I must go. Were 
 I to state all I know, we should, even to-day, tear 
 our hair over your corpse. 
 
 Cou. Stay.— -The step to the grave is but short. 
 —Be it so. (Seats himself.) The sins of the fa- 
 ther are visited even unto the third and fourth ge- 
 neration. Be it so. 
 
 Fra. ( Draws a tetter from his pocket.) You 
 know our correspondent. I would forfeit this fin- 
 ger if I could say he lied. Collect yourself. For- 
 give me, if I do not allow jou to read this letter : 
 you must not know all. 
 
 Cou. As you will. My son, you are the prop 
 of my declining years. 
 
 Fra. (Reads.) " Leipzig, 1st of TV! ay. Your 
 brother seems, at length, to have filled the mea- 
 sure of his infamy, unless his genius, in this re- 
 spect, soars above every thing I can comprehend. 
 After having contracted debts to the amount of 
 forty thousand dollars," — a decent sum, Sir — "af- 
 ter having seduced the daughter of a rich banker, 
 and, mortally wounded her lover in a duel, he, 
 last night, with seven of his dissipated compani- 
 ons, escaped the arm of justice by flight." — Fa- 
 ther ! for heaven's sake, father — how do you feel ? 
 
 C<m. Enough, my son ; read no further. 
 
 Fra. I pity you sincerely* " Warrants have 
 been issued against him ; the injured cry aloud 
 for redress, and a reward is offered for his appre- 
 hension. The name of Moor" — No, my lips shall 
 not destroy my father. (Tears the letter.) Do not 
 believe it, Sir. Do not believe one syllable of it. 
 
 Cou. ( Overpowered with sorrow.) My name — . 
 my honourable name— 
 
 Fra. Oh that he did not bear the name of Moor ! 
 Oh that my heart did not feel such warm affec- 
 tion for him 1 It is an affection which I cannot 
 
 4 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 7 
 
 eradicate, though I feel that the Eternal Judge 
 will hereafter condemn it. 
 Cou. Oh my prospects — my enchanting visions ! 
 
 Fra. Yes, yes, " That ardent spirit," you were 
 wont to say, 44 which already appears in my boy 
 Charles, which already makes him feel the force 
 of every thing sublime and beautiful. That can- 
 dour which beams in his eye — that sensibility— 
 that manly courage — that juvenile ambition — that 
 unconquerable perseverance, and all those shining 
 virtues which adorn my son, will one day make 
 him a sincere friend, a worthy citizen, an illus- 
 trious hero." How gloriously is your prophecy 
 fulfilled ! The ardent spirit has shewn itself, and 
 admirable, indeed, are its achievements. The 
 candour is transformed to impudence, the sensi- 
 bility is shewn by attachment to every wanton 
 Phryne. Can the pleasures of six years have 
 burnt away the oil of this illustrious fiery genius ? 
 Yes — so completely, that, as he passes through 
 the streets, the passers-by exclaim- — " C'est l'a- 
 mour qui a fait ca" The illustrious hero has, in- 
 deed, achieved exploits beyond his years, and 
 when he has attained the age of maturity, what 
 may we not expe6t ? Perhaps, father, you may 
 live to enjoy the happiness of beholding him at 
 the head of a troop, which takes its station in the 
 sacred recesses of the woods, in order to ease the 
 weary traveller of his burden. Perhaps, ere you 
 die, you may behold the monument erected for 
 him between heaven and earth. Perhaps — Oh my 
 father ! seek, seek another name ; lest the boys, 
 who have seen the effigy of your son in the mar- 
 ket-place of Leipzig, should point the finger of 
 derision at you. 
 
 Cou, Must you, too, torment me thus ? How 
 do my children lacerate my heart. 
 
 Fra. You perceive that I have a spirit, too ; 
 but 'tis a scorpion's spirit. " Yes," you were 
 
8 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act L 
 
 vont to say, " that poor puppet Francis, that weak 
 creature" — with twenty other titles, pointing out 
 the difference between me and Charles, as he sat 
 upon your knee, and pinched your cheek — "that 
 inanimate dolt will die, decay, and be forgotten, 
 while his brother's fame will fly from pole to pole." 
 Yes, with uplifted hands I thank thee, heaven, 
 for having made the poor puppet Francis unlike 
 his brother. 
 
 Con. Pardon me, my son ; — rail not against 
 your father, when he owns himself deceived. The 
 God who doomed that Charles should cause these 
 tears, will wipe them from my eyes, through thee, 
 my Francis. 
 
 Fra. Yes, dear father; Francis will wipe them 
 from your eyes : Francis will employ his life in 
 prolonging yours. You shall be the oracle which 
 guides his actions — the mirror in which he sur- 
 veys his every project. No duty shall be too sa- 
 cred to be broken, when your precious life de- 
 pends on the transgression. 
 
 Cou. I thank you, my son. Heaven reward 
 you for what you have done, and will do, for me 1 
 
 Fra. Confess to me, then, that you would be 
 a happy man, if you were not obliged to own my 
 brother as your son. 
 
 Con. Hold, oh hold I Avhen the nurse first 
 brought him to me, I raised him in my arms to- 
 wards heaven, and cried : " I am most happy. " 
 
 Fra. And feel you happy now ? No, you envy 
 the condition of your meanest vassal. Charles is 
 the cause of your sorrow ; as long as he remains 
 your son, this sorrow will increase, and at last 
 prove fatal. 
 
 Cou. True ! True ! 
 
 Fra. Well, then, disinherit this son. 
 
 Cou. (Starts. J Francis! Francis! what say 
 you ? Wish you that I should curse my son ? 
 
Jet. I. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Fra. That do I not. But whom do you call 
 your son? That man, to whom you have given 
 life, and whose constant endeavour is to shorten 
 your's ? 
 
 Con, I own his conduct is unnatural — but still, 
 still he is my child. 
 
 Fra. An amiable child truly, whose constant 
 study is to put and end to his father's life. Oh 
 that you could view his conduct in a proper light i 
 Oh that the scales would fall from your eyes ! But 
 no : your indulgence confirms him in his dissolute 
 pursuits — your supplies of money justify his con- 
 duel. True it is that you thus remove the curse 
 of heaven from him, but on you father, on you 
 will it fall with tenfold vengeance. 
 
 Cou. It is just— most just. Mine, mine is all 
 the guilt. 
 
 Fra. How many thousands, after having drench- 
 ed the voluptuous bowl of libertinism, have re- 
 claimed by suffering ? Is not the corporal pain, 
 which succeeds every excess, a proof of heavenly 
 interference ? Shall man dare to avert this by im- 
 pious affection ? Shall the father dare to destroy, 
 by ill-timed tenderness, the pledge entrusted to 
 his care ? Consider, sir— if you doom him to un- 
 dergo, for a short time, the misery he has pre- 
 pared for himself, must he not reform ? In the 
 other case, must he not become habituated to 
 vice ? — Then woe be to the father, who, by coun- 
 tenancing the crimes of his son, has destroyed the 
 intentions of a higher Power. 
 
 Cou. I'll write to him — I'll tell him that I aban- 
 don him for ever. 
 
 Fra. Such conduct will be wise. 
 
 Cou. I'll forbid him to appear again before me. 
 
 Fra. That will have a wholesome effect upon, 
 him. 
 
10 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 Cou. (In a tone of affection.) Till he reforms. 
 
 Fra. Right, sir. But may he not come with 
 the mask of a hypocrite ; sue for your compas- 
 sion ; with tears implore your pardon ; and, after 
 having obtained it, may he not depart, and, in 
 the arms of his harlots, laugh at his old father's 
 weakness ? — No, sir ; believe me he will, of his 
 own accord, return as soon as his conscience has 
 acquitted him. 
 
 Cou. I must write to him without delay. ( Go- 
 ing.) ■ 
 
 Fra. Hold 1 another word, my father. Your 
 anger may, I fear, dictate to your pen expressi- 
 ons which may drive him to despair ; and, on the 
 other hand — will he not deem a letter written by 
 yourself to be a token of forgivness ? It will, there- 
 fore, be better if you allow me to write the letter. 
 
 Cou. Do so, Francis. Alas 1 It would have 
 broken my heart. Tell him — 
 
 Fra. ( Eagerly.) You wish me to write, then ? 
 
 Cou. Yes. Tell him that he has made me 
 shed a thousand tears of blood — that he has made 
 me toss upon my couch a thousand sleepless nights 
 —but he is my son — do not drive him to despair. 
 
 Fra. Retire to bed, dear father. You are much 
 agitated. 
 
 Cou. Tell him that his father's bosom — but do 
 not, do not drive him to despair. (Exit. 
 
 Fra. ( looks after him with derision.) Yes. Con- 
 sole thyself, poor dotard, for his loss. Thou shalt 
 never clasp him in thy arms. The gulph between 
 thee and thy darling son is as wide as that which 
 separates heaven from hell. He was torn from 
 thy arms, ere thou hadst determined that it was 
 thy will. I must collect these scraps. How easily 
 might any one recognize my hand 1 (Gathers the 
 pieces of the letter which he had torn.) What a 
 wretched bungler should I be, had I not yet dis 
 
Ac* I. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 1 1 
 
 covered the means of alienating a father from his 
 son ; even were they bound by chains of iron 
 to each other. Yes, honoured father, I have 
 drawn a magic circle round thee, which thy darling 
 cannot overstep. Sorrow will soon do its duty, 
 and close thy mortal career. From her heart too 
 I must tear this Charles, even if half her life de- 
 pended on it. (Walks to and fro with rapid strides. J 
 Nature, I have great right to hate thee, and, by 
 my soul, I'll be revenged. Why hast thou loaded 
 me with such a burden of deformity ? Why me 
 alone of all that bear the name of Moor ? Hell 
 and furies, why me alone ? But 'tis well. Thou 
 didst damn me while I was begotten — and, in re- 
 turn, I vow eternal hatred against thee. I see no 
 other human being like me — therefore will I blast 
 thy works. The sweet fraternity of souls I can- 
 not know — the soft persuasive eloquence of love I 
 cant use. Force, therefore, — force, and cunning 
 must assist me. With them I'll crush each crea- 
 ture that opposes me, 'till I have gained the height 
 of my ambition. 
 
 Enter Amelia slowly. 
 
 She comes. — Ha! I perceive, by her step, that 
 the medicine takes effect. — I do not love her ; but 
 I am resolved that no one else shall revel in her 
 charms. In my arms shall they wither, untasted, 
 
 unenjoyed by man Ha ! What is she doing 
 
 now? (Amelia, without perceiving Fva.Yic\s, destroys 
 a nosegay, and tramples on it. Francis approaches 
 with a malicious mine.) What crime have these 
 poor violets committed ? 
 
 Ayne. — ( Starts and measures him with a long look.) 
 —You here ! 'Tis as I wished. You alone, of all 
 mankind, did I wish to see. 
 
 F rcu Transcendent bliss ! me alone of all man- 
 kind! 
 
13 
 
 THE ROBEKRS. 
 
 Ad I, 
 
 Am?* Yes : I have panted for this moment, 
 and will enjoy it. Stay, I conjure you — stay, that 
 I may — curse thee, villain. 
 
 Fra, What ! Treat me thus ! You have mis- 
 taken the object of your hate. Go to my father. 
 
 Ame, Father ! — true. A father who dooms his. 
 son to eat the food of sorrow and depair, while he 
 regales himself with dainties, quaffs delicious 
 wines, and rests, his palsied frame on beds of 
 down. Shame on you, monster — shame on you, 
 brutal wretches ! How could a father be persuad- 
 ed thus to treat his only son ! 
 
 Fra, His only son ! I thought that he had two. 
 
 Ame, Yes, he deserves such sons as thou art. 
 When stretched upon the bed of death, in vain 
 will he stretch forth his withered hand, in hopes 
 to feel the hand of Charles. With horror will he 
 shrink from the icy touch of Francis. Yes, wretch, 
 one transport still awaits thee — a dying father's 
 curse. 
 
 Fra, Your mind is disordered, dear Amelia. 
 I lament your fate. 
 
 Ame, Dost thou lament thy brother's fate ? 
 No : monster, thou hatest him. I hope thou hat- 
 est me too. 
 
 Fra, Oh, Amelia ! I love you more than life. 
 
 Ame. If this be true, you surely cannot deny 
 me one request. 
 
 Fra. Never, never ! ask any thing. 
 
 Ame, The boon is small. — ( With dignity ) — All 
 I require is, that thou wilt hate me. Shame 
 would overpower me, were I to know that, while 
 I thought of Charles, thou didst not hate me. Give 
 me thy promise, and begone. 
 
 Fra, Lovely enthusiast ? Flow does that firm,' 
 immutable affection charm me ! — ( Placing his 
 hand on Amelia's heart,) — Here, here reigned mr 
 brother. Charles was the god of this temple.— In 
 
Act 1. 
 
 THE ROBEERS. 
 
 13 
 
 ■motion, or on her pillow, Charles was the idol of 
 Amelia's fancy. In Charles creation seemed to 
 be concentrated. — 
 
 Ame, — (Much agitated.) — 'Tis true — I own it. 
 Yes, in defiance of you, barbarous wretches as 
 you are, I'll tell it to the world — I love him. 
 m Fra, Inhuman villain, thus to reward her ten- 
 der passion — to forget her ! 
 
 Ame, What ? Forget me ! 
 
 Fra. Did you not place a ring upon his finger 
 — A diamond ring, as a pledge of your fidelity ? 
 But what youth can resist the fascinating arts of 
 a wanton? Who can blame him? He had no mo- 
 ney — and she rewarded him, no doubt, for his 
 liberality, by many a warm embrace. 
 
 Ame. — ( Incensed. ) — My ring to a wanton ! 
 
 Fra, $hame overtake him I Yes. 
 
 Ame, — (Violently.) — My ring I 
 
 Fra. No other, Amelia. Oh, had you placed 
 such a jewel on my finger, death himself should 
 not have robbed me of the treasure. 'Tis not the 
 sparkling diamond, nor the costly workmanship, 
 but love, which gives value to the present. — You 
 are in tears, sweet girl. Damned be the wretch 
 who made them How. Alas 1 did you know all ; 
 were you to see him in his present state ? 
 
 Ame, Monster ! In what state ? 
 
 Fra, Dear Amelia, do not ask me. — (As if 
 aside, but audibly, ) — Well would it be for the li- 
 bertine and the debauchee could he conceal his 
 crimes from the world's observation : but they are 
 horribly betrayed by the dim, livid eye, the death- 
 like features, faltering voice, projecting bones, 
 and tottering frame. The poison pierces to the 
 
 very marrow, and disgusting dreadful 
 
 thought , .—r-( Turns towards her,) — Amelia, you 
 recollecT the wretch who expired in our hospital. 
 You once looked at him, but modestv forbade that 
 (vol. ii.) B 
 
the look should be more than momentary. Recal 
 the image of that wretch to your mind, and think 
 you see — my brother Charles. Yes, such is he. 
 His kisses are infectious — poison is on his lips. 
 Ame. Infamous slanderer ! — (Tarns aivqy.J 
 Fra, Does this weak description fill you with 
 horror? Go then — behold himself — behold yow 
 amiable, angelic Charles — go — inhale the balsam 
 of his breath — feast on the ambrosial air which 
 issues from his lips — (Amelia conceals her face.) 
 
 ] low voluptuous to embrace him! But is it 
 
 not unjust to condemn a person on account of his 
 external appearance ? — May not a great soul beam 
 from a miserable cripple, like a diamond from 
 
 a dung-hill ! {With a malicious smile.) True 
 
 it is, if debauchery undermines the firmness of 
 character, if virtue makes her escape when mo» 
 desty is banished, as the perfume leaves the wi- 
 thered rose — if the mind becomes a cripple with 
 the body — 
 
 Ante, — (Transported.) Ha! Charles ! now I know 
 thee again. Thou art still the same. Villain, 
 it cannot be. Thy tale is false. — (Francis stands 
 awhile lost in thought, then suddenly turns, and is 
 going.) — Whither so quick. Art thou ashamed, 
 because detected. 
 
 Fra, — {Concealing his face.) — Let me weep un- 
 molested. — Hard-hearted father — thus to consign 
 to misery the worthiest of his sons. Let me has- 
 ten to him, dear Amelia. I'll fall at his feet, and, 
 on my knees, implore that he will transfer his 
 curse to me — that he will disinherit me — my blood 
 — my life — : my every thing. 
 
 Ame, — {Fails on his neck.) — Brother of my 
 Charles 1 Best, dearest Francis ! 
 
 Fra, Oh, Amelia, how do I love you for your 
 unshaken constancy towards Charles. Pardon 
 me for having thus put your affection to the test. 
 How sweetly have you justified my wishes. These 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE ROB 2 Ell S. 
 
 15 
 
 tears, these sighs, this praiseworthy indignation 
 — all, all prove our souls to be congenial. 
 
 Ame. — {Shakes her head.) — No, no. By yon 
 chaste light of heaven, thou canst not feel like 
 Charles. His sensibility and spirit are alike un- 
 known to thee. 
 
 m Fra. The evening which preceded his depar- 
 ture for Leipzig was silent and serene. He led 
 me to the arbour, where you and he so often had 
 exchanged soft vows of love. — Long we remained 
 silent, till at length he seized my hand, and whis- 
 pered in a voice which his tears almost choaked : 
 " I leave my Amelia — I cannot account for my 
 sensations — but I fear that I leave her for ever. 
 Do not forsake her, brother. Be her friend — her 
 
 Charles — should Charles never return {Falls 
 
 at her feet, and kisses her hand with fervour,) — And 
 never will he return — Amelia, I acceded to his 
 wishes, and he bound me to the observance cf 
 them by an oath. 
 
 Ame. {Starts back.) Traitor ! Have I detected 
 thee ? In that very arbour did he conjure me, that, 
 
 if death divided us, no other passion should 
 
 W retch ; villain most accursed i Away from me ! 
 
 Fra. Amelia, you do not know me. 
 
 Ame. Oh, I know thee well. Wouldst thou 
 convince me that Charles could entrust his se- 
 crets to a wretch like thee I Begone instantly. 
 
 Fra. You insult me. 
 
 Ame. Begone, I say. Thou hast robbed me 
 of a costly hour. May it be deducted from thy life i 
 
 Fra. You hate me, then ? 
 
 Ame. I abhor thee. Begone. 
 
 Fra. (Furiously.) Enough! Soon shall you 
 tremble for this conduct. You shall feel what it 
 is to prefer a beggar. (Exit. 
 
 Ame. Go, villain. I am now again with Charles. 
 — Beggar, said he ? I would not exchange the 
 tatters which hang upon him, for the purple of 
 
16 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 an emperor. How dignified must be the look with 
 which he begs ! — A look, which instantly annihi- 
 lates the pageantry and splendor of the great. 
 Down to the dust, ye splendid baubles I (Tears 
 Iter necklace,) Ye rich and mighty barons, may 
 your gold, your jewels, and your banquets be 
 your curse ! — Charles 1 Charles ! Now, I deserve 
 thee. ( Exit. 
 
 Scene changes to an inn on the borders of Saxonj. 
 Charles is discovered walking to and fro in great 
 agitation. 
 
 Cha. Where can these fellows tarry ! Surely 
 they have been on horseback. Holla ! More wine 
 here ! — Evening approaches, and the post is not 
 yet arrived. ( Laying his hand en his breast.) How 
 my heart beats ! — Wine, wine, I say ! — I am dou- 
 bly in want of courage to-day, whether to bear 
 joyful or disastrous tidings. (Wine is brought — 
 he drinks, and strikes the table with violence.) What 
 a damned inequality prevails throughout this 
 world ! While many a miser hoards whole chests 
 of gold, poverty lays her leaden hand upon the 
 bold enterprising flights of youth. Fellows, whose 
 income is incalculable, torment me hourly to dis- 
 charge my paltry debts, and though I press their 
 hands, and beg them to allow me but a single 
 day — all is in vain. Entreaties, oaths, and tears, 
 have no effect on their impenetrable souls. 
 
 Enter Spiegelberg. 
 
 Spi. Damnation ! One stroke follows clo ie up- 
 on another. Have you heard the news, Moor ? 
 
 Cha. No — What has happened ? 
 
 Spi, Happened ! Read this paper, which is 
 just arrived by the post. Peace is proclaimed 
 throughout Germany. The devil take all monks, 
 say L 
 
Act L 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 17 
 
 Cha. Peace throughout Germany ! 
 
 Spi. Ay. — The news is enough to make a man 
 hang himself. Club-law is at an end. All con- 
 tests are forbidden on pain of death. Hell and 
 furies ! Cut your throat, Moor. Pens will scrib- 
 ble now, where swords used to be employed. 
 
 Cha. ( Casts his sword from him.) Let cow- 
 ards, then, head our regiments, and men break 
 their swords. — Peace throughout Germany ! The 
 news has branded thee with infamy for ever, Ger- 
 many. Goose-quills usurp the place of swords ! 
 I'll not think of it. Shall I curb my ardent spirit, 
 and submit, without resistance, to despotic laws ? 
 Peace throughout Germany ! Damned be the 
 peace, which would make a man crawl like a snail 
 upon the earth, when he feels that he could over- 
 top the eagle in his flight ! Peace never produced 
 a great man — war has made many a hero. Oh 
 that the spirit of our fathers would revive ! Place 
 me at the head of a few bold determined Germans. 
 — Germans ! No, no, no. That cannot be. Ger- 
 many must fall. Her hour is come. Not one spark 
 of resolution animates the descendants of Barba- 
 rossa. I will forget the use of arms, and wander 
 in my peaceful native groves. 
 
 Spi. What, in the devil's name, do you mean ? 
 Why, you surely would not act the part of the 
 prodigal son — you, a fellow, who has written more 
 legible characters with his sword, than half a do- 
 zen quill-drivers could scribble in a leap-year 1 
 Pshaw I You ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
 Misfortunes must never transform a hero into a 
 coward. 
 
 Cha. Yes, Maurice, I will a6l the part of the 
 repentant prodigal. You may call it weakness in 
 me to revere my father. It is the weakness of a 
 man ; and he who does not feel it, must be exalted 
 
18 
 
 T II E UOBB E R S 
 
 Ad I. 
 
 above humanity, or degraded below it. I will pur- 
 sue the middle course. 
 
 Spi* Go, go — You are no longer the Charles 
 Moor, whom once I knew. Don't you remember 
 how often you have laughed at the old miser, with 
 the glass in your hand. Have I not heard you 
 say, a thousand times, " Let him enjoy his hoards 
 of wealth, while I enjoy my bottle." Don't you 
 remember this, I say ? 'Twas spoken like a man, 
 but—, — 
 
 Cha. Damnation overtake thee, Maurice, for 
 reminding me of such expressions ! Damnation 
 overtake myself for having uttered them ! But, no 
 ' — I was intoxicated. My heart knew not what 
 escaped my lips. 
 
 Spi. (Shakes his head. J Charles, it is impos- 
 sible you can be serious. Come, confess now, 
 that necessity compels you to think of this plan. 
 Pshaw ! never fear, man, happen what may. True 
 courage grows in proportion to the increase of 
 danger. Fate stems resolved to make great men 
 of us, by casting so many impediments m our way. 
 
 Cha. ( In a peevish tone.) I know not of what 
 use courage would be now. 
 
 Spi* Of much. What ! Would you suffer your 
 talents to moulder and decay ? Would you bury 
 your great abilities in the earth ? Do you fancy 
 that your genius is incapable of any thing beyond 
 your petty exploits at Leipzig ? Let us hurry to- 
 gether into the bustle of the world. Paris and 
 London are the places for us. There, if you greet 
 a person by the title of an honest man, you are 
 sure to feel his fist. There, a man of genius may 
 carry on the trade by wholesale. Yes — you will 
 stare, I promise you, when you see how gloriously 
 writing is counterfeited — dice loaded — cards palm- 
 ed — locks picked — strong boxes gutted. Huzza I 
 Paris and London for ever ! I'll be your tutor. 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE ROBBER,-,. 
 
 1* 
 
 Hang the miserable dolt, who would starve rather 
 than belong to the crook-fingered tribe. 
 
 Cha. (With asperity.) Have you reached such 
 a length as this ? 
 
 Spi. I could almost fancy that you doubt my 
 powers. Let me once become warm, and you 
 shall see miracles. Your shallow understanding 
 will be truck with astonishment, when my preg- 
 nant genius shall bring forth. ( Striking the table.) 
 Ant Ccesar, aut nihil. You shall be jealous of me. 
 
 Cha. ( Keenly surveying him.) Maurice ! 
 
 Spi. (With ardour.) Yes, you shall be jea- 
 lous of me — you, and all our comrades. I'll de- 
 vise schemes which shall amaze and confound 
 you. What mighty plans are dawning in my mind ! 
 What gigantic projects fill this teeming brain I 
 Cursed be the lethargy (striking his forehead) 
 which hitherto confined my powers, and darkened 
 all my prospects ! I am, now, awake — I feel who 
 I am, and what I must become. — Le ave me, ail 
 of you. You shall live from my bounty. 
 
 Cha. You are a fool. The wine has mounted 
 into your brain. 
 
 Spi* (With increasing ardour.) " Spiegelberg," 
 you will say, " are you concerned with the devil, 
 Spiegelberg I" — " What a pity it is, Spiegelberg," 
 the king will say, "that you were not a general 
 when the Turks attacked us I You would have soon 
 made them beat a retreat." — " What a lamenta- 
 ble circumstance it is," I hear the doctors cry, 
 "that this young man did not study physic ! His 
 discoveries would have immortalized him as the 
 first of our profession." — " Alas ! had. he^ devoted 
 his mind to finance," will the statesman exclaim, 
 " he would have converted even stones to gold." 
 —The name of Spiegelberg will be echoed from 
 east to west — from north to south — and w01e he 
 soars with outspread wings to the temple of re- 
 
20 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Ad L 
 
 nown, you, paltry reptiles, shall be crawling in 
 the mire 
 
 Cha. Success attend you ! Mount to the sum- 
 mit of fame by the ladder of infamy, if such be 
 your inclination. More honourable happiness awaits 
 me, in the shade of my paternal groves, and in 
 the arms of my Amelia. A week has now elaps- 
 ed since I wrote to entreat my father's pardon. 
 I have not concealed from him the smallest cir- 
 cumstance, and forgiveness is ever the reward of 
 sincerity. Let us take lerive of each other, Mau- 
 rice. We shall never meet again after to-day. The 
 post is arrived. My father's pardon is already with- 
 in the walls of this town. 
 
 Enter Schw^eizeIi, Grimm, Roller, and Schuf- 
 
 TERLE. 
 
 RoL Have you heard that there are officers in 
 search of us I 
 
 Gri, And that we may expec~\ every minute 
 to be apprehended. 
 
 Cha. I am not surprised to hear it. I care not 
 what happens. Have you seen Razman ? I ex- 
 peel he has a letter for me. 
 
 RoL I dare say he has, for I observed him in 
 search of you some time ago. 
 
 Cha, Where, where is he ? (Going.) 
 
 RoL Stay. I told him to come hither. Why, 
 how now ? You tremble. 
 
 Cha. Not I, indeed. Why should I tremble ? 
 This letter — rejoice with me, my friends— J am 
 the happiest man on earth. Why should I trem- 
 ble ? (Schw. seats himself in the chair previously 
 occupied by Spi. and drinks his wine. ) 
 
 Enier Razman. 
 
 ChW (Flies towards him.) My friend ! The 
 letter ! the letter I 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 '21 
 
 Raz. (Delivers the letter, which Charles hastily 
 tears open,) What now I Why, you are as pale 
 as a white-washed wall. 
 
 Cha, My brother's hand ! 
 
 Rol. What's the matter with Spiegelberg ? 
 
 Gri. The fellow has lost his senses. He is 
 troubled with St. Vitus's dance. 
 
 Schw. He seems to me as if he were making 
 verses. 
 
 Rol. Spiegelberg ! Holla ! Spiegelberg ! Damn 
 the fellow I He does not hear me. 
 
 Gri. (Shaking him.) Maurice, are you dream- 
 ing ? or ? 
 
 Spi. (Who has been, since his conversation with 
 Charles, sitting in a corner, and making gestures, 
 which convey the idea of some great project, starts 
 wildly from his chair, and seizes Schweizer by the 
 throat.) La bourse ou la vie. (Schweizer, with per- 
 fect composure, pushes him against the wall. The 
 rest laugh, Charles drops his letter, and is bursting 
 out of the room. All start.) 
 
 Rol. (Holding Charles.) Moor, whither so fast ? 
 
 Gri. What is the matter ? He is as pale as death. 
 
 Cha. Lost, lost for ever. ( Rushes out. 
 
 Rol. ( Takes up the letter and reads it.) " Un- 
 fortunate brother! The beginning is pleasant 
 enough, to be sure. " I am under the necessity 
 of briefly informing you that your hopes are de- 
 feated. Our father says, you may go wherever 
 your depraved, abandoned mind directs. He for- 
 bids every personal attempt, on your part, to ob- 
 tain his pardon, unless you wish to live on bread 
 and water in the lowest dungeon of the castle, till 
 your hairs grow like the feathers of an eagle, and 
 your nails like the talons of a vulture. These are 
 his last words. He commands me to close the 
 letter. Farewel, forever. I sincerely pity you. 
 
 Francis Mtoor 
 
 I CM 
 
TfiE RCBBLRS. 
 
 jet h 
 
 Sch-29. Most amiable brother Francis ! 
 
 Spi, You mentioned bread and water, I think ? 
 Temperate kind of diet, to be sure — but I have 
 provided otherwise for you. Have not I always 
 said that I should be obliged at last to think for 
 you all ? 
 
 Schiv. The blockhead ! You think for us all 1 
 
 Spi. If you be not poltroons — if you have cou- 
 rage enough to attempt something great — 
 
 Rol, W" i 1 1 it release us from our present in- 
 fernal scrapes ? 
 
 Spi, ( With a smile of self-approbation, ) Release 
 us from our present scrapes ! Ha! ha! ha! Would 
 that satisfy you ? Can your thimble-full of brains 
 project nothing greater than that ? Yes, yes, Spie- 
 gelberg must think for you. I'll point out to you 
 the way by which you shall become heroes, ba- 
 rons, princes, gods ! 
 
 Raz. That's a long stride, by my soul. But 
 I presume your project is rather of the break-neck 
 kind. It will cost each of us a head at least, I 
 suppose. 
 
 Spi, Not your's, depend upon it, Razman. 
 Courage alone is wanted, for with respect to the 
 mode of proceeding, I take the management of 
 that entirely upon myself. Courage, I say, Schwei- 
 zer ! Courage, Roller, Grimm, Razman, Schuf- 
 terle ! Courage. 
 
 Schw, If that be all you want, I've courage 
 enough to walk through hell barefooted. 
 
 Rol. And I enough to fight the devil under 
 the gallows, for the body of a thief just executed. 
 
 Spi, Spoken like men ! If you feel thus cou- 
 rageous, let any one step forth and say, " I still 
 have something to lose." (A long pause,) No an- 
 swer to this ? 
 
 Rol, Why should we waste our time in idle 
 word#? if common sense can understand, and de- 
 termined spirit execute your project— -out with it ! 
 
Act L 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 23 
 
 Spi, Be it so. (Stations himself in the midst of 
 them, and proceeds in a solemn tone, J If you have 
 one drop of that hlood which filled the veins of 
 German heroes, follow me. Let us hasten to the 
 forests of Bohemia, there collecl a band of rob- 
 bers — and why do you stare at me ? Is your 
 
 little fume of valour already evaporated ? 
 
 Rol, You are not the first freebooter who has 
 defied the gallows — and yet — what else can we do ? 
 
 Spi. What else I Nothing. Would you be 
 confined in a dungeon for debt, and doomed to 
 hard labour till the last trumpet sounds ? Would 
 you earn a morsel of rye-bread by tilling the earth ? 
 Would you gain a mean subsistence by singing 
 ballads through the streets ? Would you follow the 
 drum (I mean if your countenances did not forbid 
 that any regiment should accept you) and submit 
 to the overbearing insults of a corporal, till flog- 
 ged to death, or doomed to fill the station of a 
 beast, and drag artillery ! Such is the choice now 
 left to you. 
 
 RoL Spiegelberg, you are a glorious orator, 
 when your object is to transform an honest man 
 into a villain. But what is become of Moor ? 
 
 Spi, An honest man, did you say I -Do you 
 think my project will make you less honest than 
 you are at present ? Is it not praiseworthy to take 
 from the miser a third of that, which causes care, 
 and banishes repose— to force the hoarded trea- 
 sure into circulation — to restore equality of pro- 
 perty — in a word, to create a second golden age 
 — to assist heaven, by removing from the world 
 war, pestilence, famine and physic — to feel the 
 flattering conviction, when we sit down to dinner, 
 that our meal is procured by the exertion of our 
 own genius and courage — to acquire the respect 
 of every rank in society— 
 
 Roh And, finally, to be dispatched by a hang- 
 
24 
 
 THE RODDERS. 
 
 Ad L 
 
 man — to dangle, m defiance of wind and weather, 
 between heaven and earth, while the fowls of the 
 air join in celestial concert round us — to have the 
 honour, while monarchs are food for worms, of 
 being visited by the royal bird of Jove. — Maurice, 
 Maurice, beware of the beast with three legs. 
 
 Spi. Hen-hearted fool ! Does this alarm you ? 
 Many a fine fellow with a genius entensive enough 
 to have effected universal reformation, has been 
 doomed to perish by the halter ; — but does not 
 such a man's renown extend through centuries 
 and tens of centuries, while many a prince would 
 be overlooked in history, were it not the histori- 
 an's interest to increase the number of his pages ? 
 Nay, when the traveller sees a gibbet, — does he 
 not exclaim : " That fellow was no fool," and la- 
 ment the hardship of the times ? 
 
 Raz. Spiegelberg, give me your hand. Your 
 arguments, like the lyre of Orpheus, have lulled 
 that howling Cerberus, my conscience, to repose f 
 —I am your's. 
 
 Gri. Let them catch us too, if they can. At 
 all events one may carry a concealed powder which 
 is capable of conveying us across Acheron at short 
 notice. — Your hand, Maurice. — Your hand, Mau- 
 rice. You have heard my Catechism. 
 
 Schiif. Damnation ! There's an auction in my 
 
 head. A mountebank — a sharper — a robber 1 
 
 am ready to adopt any character. He who bids 
 the most, secures me — Give me your hand, Mau- 
 rice. 
 
 Schzv. (Approaches slowly, and presents his hand.) 
 Spiegelberg, you are a great man — or a blind sow 
 has found an acorn. 
 
 Rol. (After a long pause, during which he has 
 rivet ted his eye on Sc/\weizer.) You too my friend ! 
 (Stretches jorth his hand.) Roller and Schweizer 
 shall support each other — even to the jaws of hell. 
 
Act I. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 2:, 
 
 Shi. Right, my lads ! All is settled. To the 
 stars let us force our way, — to Caesars and to Ca- 
 lamines. — Fill your glasses. Health to the god of 
 thieves. 
 
 All. Health to Mercury 1 
 
 Spi. Now, let us proceed to business. A year 
 hence, each of us will be rich enough to buy an 
 earldom. 
 
 Schav. {Aside.) Yes — if we be not broken on 
 the wheel before the year is expired. (They are 
 going.) 
 
 Rol. Stay, comrades, stay. Ugly as the beast 
 may be, it must have a head. Rome and Sparta 
 fell for want of one. 
 
 Spi. (With a favoning mien.) True. Roller is 
 right. A leader you must have — a penetrating 
 politic leader. (Stalks into the midst of them.) 
 When I reflect what you were but a few moments 
 since, and what one happy thought has made you 
 — (yes, yes, — of course you must have a chief) — a 
 thought, too, which must have had its origin in 
 an enlightened mind — 
 
 Rol. If we might hope — but I fear he will not 
 . consent- 
 s'*. (In a complacent tone.) Don't despair, Rol- 
 ler. Hard as is the task to steer the vessel, when 
 the winds and waves oppose it — oppressive as is 
 the weight of a crown — speak frankly, man. Per- 
 haps — perhaps — he may be prevailed upon — 
 
 Rol. If he be not at our head, the whole scheme 
 is a bubble. Without Moor, we shall be a body- 
 without a soul. 
 
 Spi. (Turning anvay with a look of peevish dis- 
 appointment.) Dolt ! Blockhead ! 
 
 Enter Charles, in violent agitation. 
 Cha. (Walks to and fro ivith furious gestures, 
 not perceiving that any one is present.) Man !— man ! 
 (vol. 11.) C 
 
$6 
 
 TTIi: ROBBERS. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 — False hypocrite ! — Deceitful crocodile ! — Thy 
 eyes oversow — but thy heart is iron.— ~ Thoit 
 stretchiest forth thy open arms — but a poniard is 
 concealed in thy bosom. Lions and leopards feed 
 their young, — the ravens feasts its little ones on 
 carrion, and he, he — Experience has made me 
 proof against the shafts of malice. I could smile, 
 while my enemy quaffed my heart's blood — but 
 when the affection of a father is converted into 
 the hatred of a fury—let manly composure catch 
 lire — iletthe gentle lamb become a tiger — let every 
 nerve in my frame be braced, that I may spread 
 around me vengeance and destruction. 
 
 Rol. Moor, what think you ? — Is not the cavern 
 of a robber better than the dungeon of -a prison ? 
 
 Cha. Why did not my spirit take up its abode in 
 the body of a tiger, which satisfies its ravenous 
 appetite with human flesh ? Is this a parent's love ? 
 Oh that I were a bear — then might I instigate 
 my whole species to revenge my wrongs. — Thus 
 penitent — yet thus rejected ! 1 could pour poison 
 into the ocean — I could annihilate mankind. 
 
 RoU Listen to me, Moor. 
 
 Cha. It is incredible — it is a vision. — so pa- 
 thetic a description of my sufferings—- .so fervent 
 an avowal of my penitence — the beasts of the fo- 
 rest would have felt compassion, yet were I 
 
 to declare this openly, the world would deem it 
 a libel upon human nature — Oh that I could blow 
 the trumpet of rebellion through creation — that I 
 could arm earth, air, and sea against the barba- 
 rous race ? 
 
 Gri. Hear us Moor ! Your fury. m?.kes you deaf 
 to us. 
 
 Cha. Away from me ! Is not thy name man ? 
 Art thou not born of woman ? Away from me in- 
 stantly 1 Oh I loved him so sincerely — so unut- 
 terably. No son could feel the same affection to- 
 
Jet I, 
 
 THE HOBSERS. 
 
 wards a father. A thousand times would I have 
 sacrificed my life in his defence. ( Foaming with 
 fury, and stamping most violently. ) Ha ! — Who will 
 arm this hand with a sword, that I may destroy 
 this-brood of otters? Who will instruct me how to 
 extirpate the whole race ? — He shall be my friend, 
 my guardian angel. — I will adore him. 
 
 Rol. We are the friends v/hom you describe. 
 Listen to us, Moor. 
 
 Gri. Accompany us to the Bohemian forests. 
 We intend to form a band of robbers, and you 
 — (Charles rivets his eye on him. ) 
 
 Schw. You shall be our captain — you must be 
 our captain. 
 
 Spi. (Throws himself into a chair,) Slaves and 
 cowards ! 
 
 Cha. Who first thought of this ? — Hear me fel- 
 lows I (Seizes Roller. J Thy mind is incapable of 
 conceiving such a project. — Who mentioned it to 
 thee ? — Yes, by the thousand arms of Death, the 
 project suits my temper. — He who first planned 
 this enterprize, is worthy of a seat in heaven — i 
 Robbers and murderers ! — By my soul, I will be 
 your captain. 
 
 AIL (With a joyful shout.) Long live our cap- 
 tain ! 
 
 Spi. (Aside.) 'Till I dispatch him. 
 
 Cha. The scales fall from my eyes. What a 
 fool was I to sigh for the cage, in which I have 
 before been confined ! My soul thirsts for action 
 —my heart pants for the blessings of freedom— 
 Robbers and murderers ! — Yes. ] will unite with 
 these, and trample on all laws. I appealed to man, 
 and man shut his ear against me. — Away, there- 
 fore, all sympathy — all mercy — all humanity 1 I 
 no longer have a father — I no longer feel an at- 
 tachment. Blood and death shall teach me to for- 
 get that any one was ever dear to me.— Tremble, 
 
88 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 tremble, ye who are doomed to be in my power. 
 — For my vengeance shall be horrible. — We are 
 agreed, my friends. I am your captain — and hap- 
 py shall be his lot, who most shall spread around 
 him desolation and despair ; for, as I live, he shall 
 be recompensed most royally. — Come round me, 
 friends, and swear you will be faithful and obedi- 
 ent to me till death. 
 
 All. ( Present their hands.) Your's till death. 
 (Spiegelberg walks furiously up and down. J 
 
 CHa. And now, by this right hand I swear to 
 remain your faithful, stedfast leader, till I shall 
 be no more. This arm shall make a corpse of 
 him who hesitates when danger calls, or retreats 
 when it presses. The same punishment overtake 
 me from your hands, if ever I swerve from my 
 oath. Are you satisfied ? 
 
 All. (Throwing their hats in the air.) We are, 
 we are. (Spiegelberg turns awaywith a malicious 
 smile,) 
 
 Cha. Nov/, let us go. Be not afraid of danger 
 or of death ; for over us presides a destiny, which 
 cannot be controlled. We all hasten towards the 
 fatal day : Die we must — whether upon a bed of 
 down, the field of battle, or the scaffold — One of 
 these must be our lot. (Exit, followed by the rest* 
 
 Spi. {Aside, as he goes.) The catalogue is not 
 complete. Thou hast omitted treason and assas- 
 sination. (Exit* 
 
 END OF THE FIRST ACT, 
 
Act II, 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 2 9 
 
 ACT II, 
 
 Scene — A Chamber in the Count's Castle. 
 
 Francis is discovered in deep Meditation, 
 
 Fra, How tedious are these medical men !— 
 What an eternity is an old man's life ! — Must my 
 towering plans be confined to the snail-paced in- 
 firmities of a father I Oh that I understood the 
 method of conveying- death into the fort of life — 
 of destroying the body by operating on the mind I 
 — That were a glorious discovery, — -it would raise 
 me to the rank of a second Columbus in the realms 
 of death. — Let me reflect, awhile. Such an art 
 deserves that I should be the inventor of it. — How 
 shall I begin ? — What sensation would soonest 
 overpower the faculties of life ? Rage ? No. That 
 is a voracious wolf, which soon surfeits itself— 
 Grief? No. That is a worm, which creeps too 
 slowly. — Fear? — No. Hope defeats its power.— 
 —Are these the only executioners of man ? — Is 
 the arsenal of death so soon exhausted ? (After a 
 pause, ) Ha ! True ! — Terror ! — What cannot ter- 
 ror effect? — What can reason, or religion oppose 
 to this giant ? — Yet, it is possible he may even sur- 
 vive the effects of terror. — Assist me then, Anguish, 
 and thou, Repentance, undermining viper, who dost 
 ruminate thy food. Assist me, thou Self-accusa- 
 tion, who dost destroy thine own inheritance, and 
 turn against thy p?irent. Lend me thy aid, too, 
 Memory, who dost multiply our present sorrows 
 by recalling former happiness— Display thy mir- 
 ror, thou deceitful nymph, Futurity, Let him 
 behold therein the joys of heaven, but never, ne- 
 ver let him taste tha$n— The plan is excellent. 
 Blow shall follow blow. This band of furies shall 
 immediately commence their terrible combined 
 
 C 2 , : " 
 
THE R0B3KRS. 
 
 Ad II. 
 
 assault, and that -malignant fiend, Des 5a/r, shall 
 follow, and inflict the fatal bl3W. Triumph I 
 Triumph ! 
 
 Enter Her man. 
 
 Ha ! Dcus ex machina I Herman I 
 
 Her. Your humble servant, Sir. 
 
 Fra. ( Presents his hand. J You shaii not find me 
 ungrateful. 
 
 Her. I have proof of your liberality. 
 
 Fra. You shall soon have more — very soon. 
 Herman listen to me. 
 
 Her. I am all attention. 
 
 Fra. I know you, Herman. You are a reso- 
 lute, intrepid fellow. My father has insulted you 
 most grossly. 
 
 Her. May hell receive me when I forget it ! 
 
 Fra. Spoken like a man ! Revenge becomes 
 you, Herman. Take this purse. It should be 
 heavier, were I lord of these domains. 
 
 Her. That is my constant wish. I thank you, Sir. 
 
 Fra. Is it your wish I should be lord of these 
 domains ? — Is it really your wish, Herman ? But 
 it cannot be. My father has the constitution of a 
 lion, and I am a younger son. 
 
 Her. I wish, Sir, that you were heir to the 
 estates, and that your father had the constitution 
 of a love-sick girl. 
 
 Fra. Were such the case, Herman should be 
 royally rewarded for his services. I would raise 
 thee from thy ignoble situation, to the rank which 
 thou deservest. By heaven, thou shouldst possess 
 a treasure — thou shouldst rival the equipages of 
 
 our proudest nobles but I am wandering from 
 
 the subject, on which I wished to converse with 
 you. Have you forgotten Amelia ? 
 
 Her. Damnation 1 Why remind me of her ? 
 
 Fra. My brother gained her affections — my 
 brother robbed you 
 
 Her. For which he shall most dearly pay. 
 
Act III 
 
 THE ROSTERS., 
 
 Si 
 
 Fra. She refused you — uay, I believe, he kick- 
 ed you down stars — 
 
 Her. For which I'll kick him into hell. 
 
 Fra. I have often heard him say, that your fa- 
 ther never could look at you without striking his 
 breast and exclaiming : u God be merciful to me, 
 a sinner I" 
 
 Her. (With frantic violence.) Hell and damna- 
 tion seize him I — No more ! 
 
 Fra. He advised you to sell the patent of your 
 father's nobility, and buy worsted to mend your 
 stor.kings. 
 
 Her. The curse of heaven overtake him ! I'll 
 tear his eyes out. 
 
 Fra. Why thus iritated, Herman ? How can 
 you be revenged ? What harm can a mouse do to 
 a lion ? Your fury v. ill sweeten his triumph. You 
 can do no more than grind your teeth, and vent 
 your rage upon a crust of bread. 
 
 Her. (Stamping with violence.) I'll trample, 
 him in the dust. 
 
 Fra. Right. — Herman, you are a gentleman. 
 You must not tamely submit to this insult. — 
 You must not lose Amelia — no, by heaven, you 
 shall not lose Amelia. Hell and furies ! I would 
 attempt the utmost, were I in your situation. 
 
 Her. I will not rest till I have felled him to 
 the earth. 
 
 Fra. Be not so violent, Herman. Come near- 
 er. You shall have Amelia. 
 
 Her. That I will, in spite of the devil. 
 
 Fra. You shall have her, 1 tell you. You shall 
 receive her from my hand. Come nearer, I say. 
 You are ignorant, perhaps, that Charles is disin- 
 herited. 
 
 Her. Amazing ! I have never heard a syllabic 
 respecting it. 
 
 Fra. Compose yourself, and listen. Eleven 
 months have elapsed since nc has been discarded, 
 
32 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 — But my father already repents the hasty step, 
 though (with a smile) I flatter my-selfhe ought 
 not to have the credit of it. Amelia, too, tor- 
 ments him daily with reproaches and complaints. 
 In short, I am convinced he will soon he persuaded 
 to send people in search of him throughout the 
 world, and if he he found — goodnight, Herman 1 
 You may how to him at the coach-door, when he 
 drives with her to church, for the purpose of mar- 
 rying her. 
 
 Her. I would strangle him at the alter. 
 
 Fra. My father will soon resign to my hrother 
 his estates, that he himself may live in retirement. 
 Then will your proud rival have the reins in hand, 
 and laugh at those who envy him — while I, who 
 would exalt you to the rank which you deserve— 
 I must be dependent on him for a bare subsistence. 
 
 Her. (Enraged) Ho. By my soul you shall 
 not be dependent on him. 
 
 Fra. Can you prevent it ? you, too Herman, will 
 be doomed to feel the scourge of his malice. When 
 he meets you in the street, he will spit at you, 
 and if you shrug your shoulders, or complain — 
 woe be to you ! — Such is your chance to obtain 
 Amelia — such are your prospects*. 
 
 Her. (In a resolute tone.) Instruct me, then, 
 how to act. 
 
 Fra. I will ; I feel for your fate, and will ad- 
 vise you as a friend. Go — disguise yourself — so 
 completely that no one can recognize you, and 
 procure admission to the old man. Tell him 
 that you are come from Hungary — that you served 
 with my brother during the last campaign — that 
 you saw him die on the field of battle— 
 
 Her. But shall I be believed ? 
 
 Fra. Leave that to me. Take this packet- 
 It contains instructions and documents, which 
 will silence all suspicion. — Now contrive to leave 
 the castle unperceived. Escape through the back- 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS* 
 
 door, and over the garden-wall. — For the manage- 
 ment of the catastrophe rely on me. 
 
 Her. And that will end in : Long live our new 
 Lord, Francis Count Moor ! 
 
 Fra. How sly the rogue is ! — Right, Herman. 
 By this plan we shall obtain all we wish. Amelia 
 will renounce every hope of possessing Charles. 
 The old man will blame himself for haying been 
 the cause of his son's untimely end— will fall sick 
 — and then, Herman — there needs no earthquake 
 to destroy a fulling house. He will not survive 
 the news — I shall inherit his property. Amelia, 
 having lost every support, must become the play- 
 thing of my will. Of course, therefore, you per- 
 ceive — in short every thing will be as we wish. 
 —But, you must not retract, Herman. 
 
 Her. Retract 1 {With an air of triumph.) Sooner 
 shall the bail return to the cannon which discharg- 
 ed it. Rely on me. — Farewel. {Exit, 
 
 F>-a. (Calls after him.) Remember that all you 
 do is for your own advantage. The harvest is 
 
 your own. Yes. When the ox has dragged 
 
 the corn to the barn he must be content with hay. 
 Some village wench thou may'st espouse, but not 
 Amelia. How .ready is the impetuous fool to 
 stride over the bounds of honesty for the purpose 
 of obtaining an object, which it is impossible he 
 ever can possess ! This fellow, though he him- 
 self is a villain, relies upon my promise. Wil- 
 lingly does he consent to deceive an unsuspecting 
 father — vet never would he forgive the man who 
 retaliates by deceiving him. Is such the creature 
 appointed by his Maker to be lord of the creati- 
 on ? Forgive me, then, dame nature, if I have 
 accused thee of making me unlike the rest of man- 
 kind, and rid me of the little resemblance which 
 stiil exists. — Man, thou hast forfeited my respect, 
 and firmly am I now convinced that there can be 
 
THI ROBBERS. 
 
 Ad II. 
 
 no sin in straining* every nerve to injure thee. 
 1 {Exit. 
 
 Scene changes to the Count's chamber. — He is 
 
 discovered asleep. — Amelia is standing at his side. 
 
 Ante. Softly let me tread — he is asleep. — {Ap- 
 proaches him-) How benignant, how venerable is 
 his countenance ! — Venerable as the countenance 
 with which saints are depicted.— No, good man, 
 I cannot be incensed against thee. — Slumber a- 
 midst the perfume of the rose. {Scatters roses on 
 the bsd.) Dream of your Charles— and wake with 
 grateful odours round you. {Going.) 
 
 Cgu. {In his sleep.) My Charles 1 My Charles ! 
 
 Ame. {Slowly returns.) Hark 1 His guardian an- 
 gel listened to my supplication. {Walks close to 
 the bed.) It is sweet to breathe the air, in which 
 his name is floating. 1 will remain here. 
 
 Cou. {Still asleep.) Are you there, Charles ? 
 Are you really there ? — Oh, turn away that look 
 of horror. I am already wretched enough. {Ap- 
 pears to be much agitated.) 
 
 Ame. {Shakes him.) Awake, Uncle. — -It was 
 but a dream. 
 
 Con. {Half aivake.) He was- not here, then. 
 I did not hold his hand. Cruel, hard-hearted Fran* 
 c is ! Will you not even allow me to see him in a 
 dream ? 
 
 ,Ame. {Starts.) Ha! mark that, Amelia. 
 
 Cou. {Rouses himself.) Where am I ? — You 
 here, my niece ? 
 
 Ame. Your slumbers were enviable, uncle. 
 
 Cou. True. I was dreaming of my Charles. 
 Why did I not continue to dream of him ? Per- 
 haps, I might have obtained his forgiveness. 
 
 Ame. {With a look of benignity.) Angels har- 
 bour no resentment. — He forgives you. {Gently 
 pressing his hand.) Father of my Charles, i" for- 
 give you. 
 
Met n. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 35 
 
 Cou. No, dearest girl. The deadly paleness of 
 thy countenance bears witness against me. — Poor 
 Amelia ! I destroyed thy happiness for ever. Do 
 not forgive me — yet oh, do not curse me. 
 
 Ame. Never, never ! Be this my only curse ! 
 {Kisses his hand with tenderness.') 
 
 Cou. {Rising.) What do I see ? Roses ! — Girl, 
 dost thou strew roses on the murderer of thy 
 Charles ? 
 
 Ams. I strewed them on the father of my 
 Charles. {Falls on the Count's neck.) On Charles 
 himself I cannot strew them. 
 
 Con. How happy would you be, were that in 
 your power ! {Draws forth a miniature.) Know you 
 this picture ? 
 
 Ame. {Rushes towards it.) My Charles ? 
 
 Cou. Such were his looks, when sixteen years 
 of age. How altered are they now 1 Dreadful 
 thought ' This benignant look is now supplanted 
 by the frown of fell misanthropy. This smile of 
 hope is banished by despair. Doubtless you re- 
 collect the day on which you painted this, Amelia. 
 It was his birth-day. 
 
 Ame. Oh ! never shall I forget it. Never shall 
 I again feel so happy ! How charming were his 
 looks ! The reflection of the setting sun illumined 
 his countenance, while his dark locks wantoned 
 in the air. The sensations of the woman over- 
 powered the skill of the artist. My pencil fell 
 from my hand, while my soul fed on his enchant- 
 ing features. The full beauty of the original took 
 root in my heart, while on the ivory the touches 
 were feeble and inanimate as is the recolleclion of 
 past music. 
 
 Cou. Proceed, proceed. These enthusiastic 
 ideas recal my youth. Oh my Amelia, your mu- 
 tual affection made me so happy 
 
 Ann. ( Riveting her eye upon the miniature. ) 
 
56 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 No, it is not he — it is not Charles. Here, and 
 here, (pointing to her heart and head.) the like- 
 ness is exact. It was not in the power of colours 
 to imitate that heavenly fire, which sparkles in 
 his eye. Away with it — 'tis a paltry daub. 
 
 Enter Daniel. 
 
 Dan. A man waits without, who wishes to see 
 you, my Lord. He says that he has tidings of im- 
 portance to communicate. 
 
 Cou. To me there is in this world, but one sub- 
 ject which can be of importance. You know it 
 Amelia — Perhaps it is some unfortunate man, who 
 comes to crave my charity. He shall not depar 
 unassisted. (Exit Daniel 
 
 Ame. If he be a beggar, admit him instantly 
 
 Enter Francis, Herman in disguise and Daniel 
 
 Tra. This is the man who demands admittance 
 to you. He says that he is the bearer of most dread 
 ful tidings — can you bear to hear his recital ? 
 
 Cou. I know but one circumstance which can 
 be dreadful to me. Approach, and spare me not. 
 . Give him a cup ofwine. 
 
 Her. {In a feigned voice.) My Lord, I hope you 
 will forgive me, if, against my inclination, I di- 
 stress you by my narrative. I am a stranger in this 
 country ; but I know you well — you are the father 
 of Charles Moor. 
 
 Cou. How know you this ? 
 
 Her. I knew your son. 
 
 Amc. Where is he? where is he? 
 
 Cou. Do you bring tidings of him ? 
 
 Her. He was student at the university of Leip- 
 zig. When he left that place, he wandered far 
 and wide. He himself has told me that he strol- 
 led through Germany bare-headed and bare-foot- 
 ed, begging his bread from door to door. Five 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE R03BEHS. 
 
 37 
 
 months after this, the fatal war between the Poles 
 and Turks broke out, and as he had no hopes in 
 this world, he was attracted by the sound of kin-- 
 Matthias's victorious drum. " Permit me," said 
 he to his majesty, " to die upon the bed of honour. 
 I am fatherless." 
 
 Cou. Do not look at me, Amelia. 
 
 Her. The king bestowed on him an ensign's 
 commission, and he accompanied the royal hero, 
 during his victorious career. It happened that he 
 and I slept in the same tent. He often spoke of 
 his old father, and said he had known better days ; 
 nay, sometimes he would dwell upon his disap- 
 pointed hopes, till tears rose into our eyes. 
 
 Cou. ( Hiding his face.) No more ! no more ! 
 
 Her. A week after this period, a bloody bat- 
 tle occurred, and your son conducted himself like 
 a gallant warrior. The whole army was witness 
 of his wonderful exploits. Five regiments were 
 obliged to relieve -each other — and your son kept 
 his post. Balls whizzed past him on every side — 
 and he kept his post. A bullet shattered his right 
 hand — he grasped the colours with his left — and 
 'kept his post. 
 
 Ame. (Transported.) Uncle, he kept his post. 
 
 Her. I found him, after the battle, stretched 
 on the very spot where he had stood. He was mor- 
 tally wounded. With his left hand he was trying 
 to repel the streaming blood— his right he had 
 buried in the earth. "Comrade," said he, "it 
 was reported through the ranks that our general 
 is slain." — " He is," answered I. " Then let every 
 brave soldier follow his commander," cried he. 
 With these words he withdrew his left hand from 
 the wound, and, in a few minutes, expired like 
 a hero. 
 
 Fra. ( Affecting to be enraged.) Peace, wretch ! 
 (vol. ii.) D 
 
THE R0BBER3. 
 
 Act //. 
 
 May thy tongue deny its office for ever ! Art thou 
 come hither to destroy my father? 
 
 Her, I am come to fulfil the last request of 
 my dying comrade. " Take this sword," said he, 
 " in a feeble voice, and deliver it to my father. 
 Tell him that it is stained with the blood of his 
 son — of his sen Charles, whom his curse forced 
 into the field. Tell him that I died in despair." 
 The woid which accompanied his last sigh was — . 
 Amelia, 
 
 Ame, {As if roused from a reverie.) Was Amelia! 
 
 Con, (Overpowered with anguish, tears his hair) 
 My curse forced him into the field ! He died in des- 
 pair ! 
 
 Her, This is the sword, and this a miniature, 
 which, at the same time, he drew from his bosom : 
 it bears a strong resemblance to that lady. " Deli- 
 ver this to my brother Francis, and tell him" — . 
 Here his voice failed him. I know not what he 
 would have added. 
 
 Fra. ( Counterfeiting astonishment. ) Amelia's pic- 
 ture to me ! Amelia's picture from Charles tc* 
 me ! 
 
 Ame, ( Approaching Herman with violence.) 
 Vile impostor ! Execrable hireling ! ( Seizes him.) 
 
 Her, I meritnot this treatment, Madam: look, 
 and be convinced it is your picture. Perhaps you 
 yourself presented it to him. 
 
 Fra, By my soul, Amelia, 'tis the very picture* 
 
 Ame. It is, it is. — Oh heaven and earth ! 
 
 Con, ( In agony.) My curse forced him into the 
 field— -my curse drove him to despair. 
 
 Fra. And he thought of me in the last bitter 
 hour — thought of me when death already waved 
 his sable banner over him. Worthy affectionate 
 brother. 
 
 Cou, My curse drove my son into the field of 
 battle — my curse made him die in despair. 
 
Jet II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Her. (Scarcely able to conceal his agitation.) I 
 -cannot bear the sight of so much misery. Farewel, 
 my Lord. ( Aside to Francis.) Would that you 
 had not employed me. Exit hastily. 
 
 Ame. Stay, oh stay, what was his last word ? 
 
 Her. {Calls to her in a broken voice.) Amelia. 
 
 Ame, Amelia ! No : — thou art not an impostor. 
 He is dead — yes, he is dead. Charles is dead* 
 
 Fra. What do I see ? Letters written with 
 blood upon the sword 1 — Amelia! 
 
 Ame. Written with his blood I 
 
 Fra. Am I awake? Look at these bloody cha- 
 racters. " Francis do not forsake my Amelia." And 
 see — on the other side of the blade : "Amelia, al- 
 mighty death releases you from your vows." Mark 
 that. He wrote it with a hand almost benumbed 
 by death ; he wrote it with his heart's warm blood ; 
 he wrote it on the awful brink of eternity. 
 
 Ame. Gracious God ! it is his hand. Oh hor- 
 rible i He never loved me. [Rushes out. 
 
 Fra. {Aside.) Damnation, the dotard will sur- 
 vive the attack. 
 
 Cou. Oh my Amelia, my niece, my child, do 
 not leave me. Francis, Francis, restore to me my 
 son. 
 
 Fra. Who loaded him with a malediction ? 
 Who drove him to the field of battle? Who doom- 
 ed him to die in despair ? He was a noble youth. 
 May the curse of heaven overtake his murderer ! 
 
 Cou. (Striking his breast and forehead ivith fran- 
 tic violence.) Yes. Heaven's curse must over- 
 take me 1 I am the father, the unatural father 
 who destroyed him. I am the murderer of my 
 son. He loved me even at the hour of death. 
 Monster, monster that I am ! 
 
 Fra. Why this fruitless, sorrow ? He is dead. 
 (With a malignant smile.) It is easier to murder 
 than to reanimate a son. 
 
40 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act II, 
 
 Cou. It was by thy persuasion that I cursed 
 my son. It was by thy hellish arts. — Wretch ! 
 restore to me my Charles. 
 
 Era. Rouse not my fury. I abandon thee at 
 the hour of death. 
 
 Coii. Villain ! Monster ! Barbarous monster ! 
 Restore to me my son. ( Rushes furiously to- 
 wards Francis, who eludes his grasps and exit.) 
 A thousand curses follow thee ! Thou hast robbed 
 me of my son. ( Overwhelmed with despair, he 
 throws himself upon a couch.) Forsaken by all — 
 forsaken at my dying hour. My guardian angel 
 turns away, and a/1 the saints of heaven abhor me 
 as a murderer. — O horrible, horrible 1 ■ Will 
 no kind soul support my head ? Will no one close 
 my eyes ? 1 call not on my kindred, or my friends. 
 I have no kindred — I have no friends. I call on 
 mankind. Will no one — -forsaken — alone — death 
 
 despair. ( Sinks senseless upon the couch.) 
 
 Enter Amelia. 
 Amc. {Espies him, and shrieks.") Dead ! dead ! 
 
 (Rushes out. 
 
 Scene changes to a forest in Bohemia. Enter Raz- 
 k an from one side, and Spiegelberg, with 
 several Robbers, from the other. 
 
 Raz. Welcome, comrade, welcome to the fo- 
 rest of Bohemia. ( Embraces him.) Where the 
 devil have you been ? From what quarter has the 
 wind blown you hither, precious brother in inir 
 quity ? 
 
 Spi. I am piping hot from the fair at Leipzig. 
 Rare fun we had, I assure you. Schufterle will 
 tell you all particulars, when you see him. He 
 has joined our captain's principal division on the 
 road. (Throws himself on the earth.') Well, and 
 how have you fared since we parted. Is the trade 
 brisk ? Oh, I could spend a day in relating our 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 41 
 
 pranks, and damn me if you would not forget your 
 meals while listening to them. 
 
 Raz. That I believe — that I believe. We have 
 seen some accounts of you in the newspapers. 
 But where, in the devil's name, did you find these 
 fellows ? Why, you have brought an army of re- 
 cruits. You are a notable dog at discovering 
 rogues, Maurice. 
 
 Spi. Ay, and a glorious set of rogues I've 
 brought. You may hang your hat on the sun, 
 and I'll bet half a week's booty that the fellows 
 steal it, and that not a soul shall know how it 
 was taken away. 
 
 Raz. (Laughs.) Well, said Maurice, you and 
 these gentlemen will be welcome to our noble 
 captain. He has enticed some fine fellows, too, 
 I promise you. 
 
 Spi. (Maliciously.) Captain, forsooth ! — -Com- 
 pare his men to mine ? — Pshaw ! 
 
 Raz. Come, come. — Your's may know how 
 to manage their fingers ; but our Captain's re- 
 putation has procured him some determined dogs 
 brave hearty honest fellows. 
 
 Spi. So much the worse. 
 
 Enter Grimm in haste. 
 
 Raz. Who's there ? What's the matter I Have 
 you seen any travellers ? 
 
 Gri. Damnation ? Where are the rest — What ! 
 —Must you stand prating here, while poor Rol- 
 ler— 
 
 R,z. Roller ! What of him? 
 Gri. Why he is hanged, and four more with 
 him. 
 
 Raz. Roller hanged ! How do you know that ? 
 
 Gri. He has been in prison three weeks ; and 
 yrt knew nothing about the matter, During that 
 time, he has been thrice stretched on the wheel/ 
 d 2 
 
42 
 
 THE ROBBERS, 
 
 Act II. 
 
 but the staunch dog refused to confess where his 
 captain was. Yesterday he was condemned — and 
 this morning he went post-haste to the devil. 
 
 Raz, What a damned business ! Does the 
 Captain know it ? 
 
 Gri. The first account of it reached him yes>- 
 terday. He foamed at the mouth like a wild boar. 
 You know he was always very fond of Roller. 
 Away he went, and fixed a ladder against the wall 
 of the prison, but in vain. He gained admittance 
 disguised as a friar, and wanted to take Roller's 
 situation, but the noble fellow would not consent 
 to it. Moor then returned, and this morning 
 swore (our blood ran while we heard him) that 
 Roller should be lighted to eternity by such a torch 
 as never yet graced the funeral of an emperor. 
 The town will feel the effect of his fury ; for he 
 hates the inhabitants on account of their bigotry, 
 and you know when he says he will do any thing, 
 it is as certain as if already done. 
 
 Raz. Poor Roller ! 
 
 Spi. Memento mori. But I have not much to 
 -do -with that maxim. (Sings. ) 
 
 When a gibbet I pass 
 I am not such an ass 
 As to blubber, and think of my end. 
 But 1 shut my left eye, 
 Nod, and wink while I cry : 
 "Better you there than Maurice — good friend." 
 Raz. Hark 1 a shot ! ( A noise is heard.) 
 Spi. Another! 
 
 Raz. And a third ! Huzza ! It is the captain. 
 (Several Robbers sing at a distance. J 
 
 Long live such judges! Who can match 'em ? 
 They hang no rogues — unless they catch 'em. 
 (Schweizer's and Roller's voices are heard.) Hol- 
 la ! Holla ! Ho ! 
 
 Raz. Roller's voice, or a thousand devils seize 
 ane i 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 (Schweizer and Roller are again heard. ) Raz- 
 man ! Grimm ! Spiegelberg ! Razman 1 
 
 Raz. Roller I Schweizer ! Fire, fury, and hell. 
 
 ( Running to meet them. 
 
 Enter Charles, Schweizer, Roller, Schuf- 
 terle, and other Robbers, covered with dirt. 
 
 Cha. Liberty ! Liberty ! — Roller, you are free. 
 Take my horse, and wash him with wine. (Throws 
 himself on the earth.) We have had warm work, 
 by my soul. 
 
 Raz. (To Roller.) What! Escaped, after 
 having been thrice on the wheel ! 
 
 Spi. Are you alive, or do I see a ghost ? 
 
 Rol. Alive and hearty, comrade. Where am 
 I come from, think you ? 
 
 Gri. How can we know ? We expected you 
 were gone to prepare for our reception below. 
 
 Rol. You might have guessed worse, for I had 
 begun my journey thither. I am come straight 
 from the gallows. Let me recover my breath. 
 Schweizer will tell you the whole history. Give 
 me a glass of brandy. You here again, Maurice ! 
 I expect to have met you else where. Give me 
 a glass of brandy. All my bones are loose. 
 
 Raz. But come — tell us how you escaped. 
 From the gallows, did you say ? 
 
 Rol. {Swallows a glass of brandy.) That's the 
 liquor of life ! It warms my heart. — Yes—straight 
 from the gallows, as I told you, I was only three 
 steps from the damned ladder, on which I was to 
 mount into Abraham's bosom. My chance was 
 not worth a pinch of snuff. To the captain I am 
 indebted for liberty and life. 
 
 Schw. It was an excellent joke, to be sure. We 
 were told, by our spies, yesterday, that Roller 
 was safe in the stone jug, and that, unless the 
 sky fell before this morning, he would inevitably 
 
44 
 
 THE ROBBERS* 
 
 Act II. 
 
 go the way of all flesh. " Follow me," cried the 
 captain. 44 What will not a man attempt, when 
 the life of a friend is in danger ? We will rescue 
 
 him if it be possible if not, we'll light him to 
 
 eternity by such a torch as never yet graced the 
 funeral of an emperor." The band collected. We 
 employed a clever fellow to apprize Roller of our 
 intention, which he contrived by throwing a small 
 note into his soup. 
 
 Rol. I despaired of success. 
 Schw. "We waited till the streets were cleared. 
 All the inhabitants followed poor Roller. We 
 heard their shouts, and now and then could dis- 
 tinguish the voices of the psalm-singers. " Now," 
 said the Captain, " execute my orders." We flew 
 like arrows, set fire to the town in thirty-three 
 places at once, hurled firebrands into the neigh- 
 bourhood of the powder-magazine, into the church- 
 es and granaries Hell and the devil ! Before 
 
 a quarter of an hour had elapsed, the north east 
 wind, which must have felt a grudge against the 
 town, came to our assistance, and soon made the 
 blaze mount above the chimnies. We ran up and 
 down the streets like furies, crying " Fire ! Fire !" 
 Shrieks, shouts, and confusion pervaded the place. 
 The bells began to ring backwards, when sudden- 
 ly the powder-magazine blew up. What a curs- 
 ed explosion did it make ! One might have fanci- 
 ed that our earth was split asunder, that the sky 
 was driven almost beyond space, and hell sunk at 
 least ten thousand fathoms lower. 
 
 RoL Just at this time, my attendants cast a 
 look behind them. The town appeared like So- 
 dom and Gomorrah. The horizon seemed to be 
 on fire. — All sulphur, smoke, and flame. The 
 forty hills which surround the town re-echoed with 
 continual explosions. Terror and dismay over- 
 powered every spectator of the scene. This was 
 
Act IL 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 4 5 
 
 the decisive moment. I availed myself of it. So 
 near was my fate that my irons had been already 
 taken off. Away I flew swift as the wind, while 
 the people round me were looking back like Lot's 
 wife. After having run about sixty yards, I threw 
 my clothes away, plunged into the river, and swam 
 under water till I thought myself no longer in 
 danger. I then landed and found our captain wait- 
 ing for me with horses and clothes. Thus I es- 
 caped, and here I am. Moor, Moor, I wish you 
 may soon be in a scrape, that I may have an op- 
 portunity of paying my debt. 
 
 Raz. A brutal wish, for which you ought to 
 be hanged. But it was a capital stroke. 
 
 Rol. No one can know what it was, unless he 
 has been in the same situation. To understand 
 and feel it, you must march like me with haif 
 a hundred armed attendants. Then you must 
 observe the damned preparations — you must see 
 all the ceremonies cf the executioner — you must 
 look at the infernal machine, to which every re- 
 luctant step brings you nearer — you must hear 
 those horrid psalm-singers — (their cursed twang 
 still rings through my head) — you must hear the 
 croak of the hungry ravens, who are picking up 
 the half-corrupted remnant of your predecessor's 
 carcase. — All this combined with the happy pros- 
 pect of eternity, must be felt, before you can judge 
 what were my sensations. I would not undergo 
 the same damned process for all the wealth which 
 the devil can bestow. Death is no more than a 
 Harlequin's leap, but the preparations — oh, curse 
 them. 
 
 Spi. I can't help thinking of the powder-maga- 
 zine. When it blew up, I'll answer for it that 
 the air stunk as insufferably of brimstone, as if 
 the devil had hung out his whole wardrobe. 
 
 Schw, If the town rejoiced so much at the 
 
4G 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act II* 
 
 idea of seeing our friend Roller swing, wliy should 
 not we rejoice at the destruction of the town ? 
 Schufterle, do you know how many lives were lost. 
 
 Schuf. Eighty-three, I was told. The church- 
 steeple alone buried sixty people under it. 
 
 Cha. — (Who has listened with the utmost gravi- 
 tj) — Roller, thy life was dearly bought. 
 
 Schw. Pshaw ! what does that signify ? To be 
 sure, if they had been men— but mere infants in 
 swaddling-clouts — silly bedlams, employed in 
 driving the flies from them — blind chimney-cor* 
 ner cripples, no longer able to find the door — what 
 the devil are they worth ? All who could move, 
 were gone to see the farce. None but the dregs 
 of the town remained at home. 
 
 Cha. Poor unfortunate creatures ! infants, crip- 
 J>les, and old nurses, said you ! 
 
 Schuf. Ay, damn 'em — some invalids too — wo- 
 men with child — a few perhaps, actually in la- 
 bour. I happened to pass a house in which I 
 heard an odd noise — I peeped into it, and what 
 *lo you think I saw ? — A child — a little healthy 
 •chubby boy. — It was stretched on the floor, un- 
 der a table, and the flames were gathering round 
 it. — " Poor little devil," said I, " why, you seem 
 cold." So I lifted him by the arm, and threw him 
 into the fire. 
 
 Cha. Didst thou so ? May that fire burn in 
 thy bosom till eternity grows grey. Quit my pre- 
 sence, monster, and dare not to appear again be- 
 fore me. I discharge thee from my band. — (Se- 
 veral Robbers begin to murmur. ) — What ! — do you 
 murmur ? — Do you reflect upon the justice of my 
 sentence ? — Who dares to murmur or to think 
 when Moor commands ? — Away with him, I say. 
 There are more among you who are ripe for my 
 resentment. I know you, Spiegelberg. But I 
 ehall soon investigate more narrowly the conduct: 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 47 
 
 of you all ; and better had it been for any one who 
 dreads this scrutiny, if he had never seen the light 
 : of heaven. 
 
 All the Robbers withdraw in great agitation. 
 Cha. — {Walks to and fro with rapid strides.) — God 
 of vengeance, canst thou blame me for being what 
 I am ? Do not those engines of thy indignation, 
 pestilence and famine, sweep away the just as 
 well as unjust ? Who can command the flames to 
 kill the vermin, but to spare the grain? Here do 
 I stand, before the face of heaven, and feel asham- 
 ed to own my degradation. — I, who. essayed to 
 hurl the thunderbolt of Jove, have murdered pig- 
 mies, while the Titans triumph. — My first at- 
 tempt has failed. I feel I have not strength to 
 wield the avenging sword of God. Here, then, 
 < I renounce the audacious project. — I will retire 
 to some rude corner of the earth, and shun the 
 light of day. 
 
 Enter Roller in great haste. 
 Rol. Captain, we are discovered. Several 
 troops of Bohemian cavalry are patroling through 
 the forest. Damn blue stockings, they have be- 
 jtrayed us. 
 
 Enter Grimm. 
 Gri. Captain, we are tracked to our haunts 
 We are surrounded by a thousand horsemen. 
 
 Enter Spiegei.berg. 
 Spi. Lost, lost, inevitably lost ! Every man 
 of us is hung, drawn, and quartered. Several 
 thousand hussars and dragoons are stationed on 
 the heights, and prevent all possibility of escape. 
 
 ( Exit Charles. 
 
 Enter Schweizf.r, Razman, Schufterle, and 
 other Robbers, from various quarters. 
 
 Schw. It seems Ave have routed the fellows at 
 last. I am glad to see these knights of the broad- 
 
48 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act 11. 
 
 sword. I have long wished to face them. — Where 
 is our captain? — Is all the band assembled! We 
 have ammunition enough, I hope ? 
 
 Raz. Plenty, plenty. But our troop consists 
 of no more than eighty. The odds are thirty to one 
 against us at least. 
 
 Schw. So much the better. These fellows are 
 paid for risking their persons — we fight for liberty 
 and life. Let us rush upon them like a deluge and 
 fire, as if all the demons of hell were let loose. 
 Where is our captain ? 
 
 Spi. He forsakes us in the hour of distress. Is 
 there no possibility of escape ? 
 
 Schw. Escape 1 When you attempt it, coward, 
 may you sink in the mire, and be trampled to 
 death ! Yes, poltroon, you always can talk, but 
 
 when you see a pistol You chicken-hearted 
 
 boaster, if you don't behave like a man to-day, I'll 
 sew you in a boar's skin, and throw you to the 
 dogs. 
 
 Raz. The captain ! The captain! 
 
 Enter Charles slowly. 
 
 Cha. {Aside.) — I have seen that the forest is 
 surrounded. They must now fight with the cou- 
 rage of despair. — {Aloud.) — My friends, the deci- 
 sive hour is arrived. We must conquer or die. . 
 
 Schw. This sword shall rip up a few of them, 
 by heavens. Lead on, captain. We'll follow you 
 into the jaws of death. 
 
 Cha. Let every man load his fire arms. We 
 are not in want of ammunition, I hope ? 
 
 Schw. Ammunition! We have enough to drive 
 the earth to the moon. 
 
 Raz. Each of us is armed with five brace of 
 prstols, and three carbines, all of which are loaded. 
 
 Cha. That is well. And now some of you 
 must climb the trees or hide yourselves in the 
 
Act IT. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 thickets, in order to fire upon them before they 
 can perceive you. 
 
 Schiv. That station will suit you, Spiegelberg. 
 
 Cha. The rest will follow me, and fall like fu- 
 ries on their flank. 
 
 Schvj. I'll belong to that division, captain. 
 
 Cha. Every man must blow his whistle that our 
 numbers may appear more formidable. All the 
 dogs, too must be let loose, and encouraged to at- 
 tack the ranks, that, when separated and confused, 
 they may rush upon our fire. Roller, Schweizer, 
 and I, will, lead the main division. 
 
 Enter Commissary. 
 
 Gri. Look, Captain. Here comes one of the 
 bloodhounds of justice. 
 
 Schzv. Down with him 1 Don't let him utter a 
 word. 
 
 Cha. Silence ! I will hear him. 
 Com, With your permission, gentlemen. — -I 
 am vested with authority by the tribunal of justice, 
 and every hair of my head is guarded by eight hun- 
 dred soldiers. 
 
 Schzv K Comfortable tidings for us ! 
 
 Cha. Peace, comrade. Be brief, Sir. What 
 have you to say ? 
 
 Com, I am a delegate of that august power, 
 which decides on life and death. I shall address 
 one word to you, and a couple to your band. 
 
 Cha. (Leaning on his sword,) Begin, then. 
 
 Com. Horrible murderer 1 Are not thy hands 
 stained with the blood of a murdered count — a 
 count of the holy Roman empire ? Hast thou not da- 
 red, with sacrilegious arm, to break into the tem- 
 ple of the Lord, and bear away the consecrated 
 vessels ? Hast thou not hurled firebrands into our 
 religious town, destroyed our church, and mur- 
 dered many pious Christians ? (JVith uplifted 
 (vol. ii.) E 
 
30 THE ROBBERS. Act II, 
 
 hands,) Oh, abominable act, the stench of which 
 has mounted to the throne of the Most High, and 
 may, perhaps, provoke him to destroy the world, 
 and summon all into his heavenly presence. 
 
 Cha. Thus far you have conducted yourself in 
 a masterly manner. But now, Sir, to the point. 
 What information does this most august tribunal 
 of justice send to me through you ? 
 
 Com, It sends what thou never wilt deserve to 
 receive. Look round thee, fell incendiary. On 
 every side, far as thine eye can see, our cavalry 
 is stationed. Escape is impossible. As surely 
 as cherries grow upon these oaks, and peaches 
 on these pines-— so surely will you turn your backs 
 on them in safety. 
 
 Cha, Do you hear this, comrades ? — But pro- 
 ceed. 
 
 Com, Hear, then, how mercifully the tribunal 
 proceeds. If thou wilt instantly surrender, own 
 thy guilt, and sue for a mitigation of thy punish- 
 ment, the rigour of the law will not be exercised 
 agrdnst thee, but justice will become a loving 
 mother. She will shut her eyes to half thy guilt, 
 and only condemn thee to be broken on the wheel. 
 
 Schtv, Captain ! Let me cut his throat. By 
 God I should like to make his blood gush from 
 every pore. 
 
 Rol, Captain ! Hell, damnation, and the de- 
 vil I Captain ! How he bites his lip. Captain, 
 let me split his skull, and manure the earth with 
 his brains, if he has got any. 
 
 Cha, Hold ! Let no one dare to touch him. (To 
 Commissary.) Look you, Sir. Here stand se- 
 venty-nine men, whose commander I am. Not 
 one w T hom you bebold is skilled in military tactics, 
 or can dance to the music of artillery. Opposed 
 to us are eight hundred soldiers, who have been 
 regularly disciplined. Now attend to me. Thus 
 
Act II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 5J 
 
 speaks Moor, the Captain of these robbers : True 
 it is, that I have murdered a count of the empire, 
 that I have hurled fire-brands into your supersti- 
 tious town, that I have caused the death of many 
 pious Christians — but fancy not that this is alK 
 (Stretches forth his right hand.) You see, that, 
 on each finger of this hand, I wear a valuable ring. 
 This ruby belonged to a prime minister, whom 
 my sabre felled to the earth, when he and his 
 prince were hunting. From the most abje6l si- 
 tuation he had raised himself to royal favour. His 
 elevation was obtained by crimes innumerable, 
 which weeping widows and forsaken orphans dai- 
 ly proved. — This diamond I drew from the finger 
 of a state-treasurer, who disposed of offices and 
 posts of honour to the highest bidder. This agate 
 was the property of a monk, whoXn I strangled 
 with my own hand, because he had lamented, in 
 the pulpit, that the inquisition was no longer in 
 repute. I could recite to you more anecdotes re- 
 specting these my rings, were I not already sorry 
 to have thrown away so many words upon you. 
 
 Com. How can a villain be so proud ? 
 
 Cha. As yet you have not heard me speak with 
 pride — but now you shall, sir. Go, and report 
 my words to that august tribunal, which decides 
 on life and death according to its pleasure- lam 
 not one of those mean thieves, who enter into corn- 
 pad with darkness, and creep into a dwelling un- 
 der covert of the night. What I have done, I 
 doubtless shall be doomed to read in the Eternal 
 Judge's register, but on his miserable earthly re- 
 presentatives, I shall not waste another word. — 
 Tell your employers, that retaliation is the trade 
 I follow. Tell them, that vengeance is my oc- 
 cupation. {Turns away with contempt.) 
 
 Com. Thou dost refuse, then, all mercy and 
 compassion. — To thee, I shall say no more/ (Ad- 
 
52 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act tL 
 
 dresses himself to the band,) Listen to me, all of 
 you. I am authorized to state, that if you will 
 instantly bind and deliver into -my hands this abo- 
 minable villain, your crimes shall no longer be re- 
 membered. The holy church will receive you as 
 sheep, who had strayed from her flock, and the 
 road to preferment shall be open to every one of 
 you. Here is the general pardon, signed and 
 .sealed. ( Delivers it to Schweizer pith a trium- 
 phant smile.) How does your majesty like this ?— 
 Bind him. and be free. 
 
 Cha, You hear his offer — why this appearance 
 of surprize — this look of hesitation ? He offers 
 you liberty,' and you are already prisoners. He 
 offers you life, and you must feel he can do this, 
 because you are already doomed to die. He as- 
 sures you, that yqu may obtain honourable offi- 
 ces, and what can be the consequence of your re- 
 fusal, but disgrace and infamy ? He announces 
 to you heaven's forgiveness, though you are al- 
 ready damned. There is not a hair upon your 
 heads which will not blaze inhell's eternal fire- 
 Do you still hesitate ? Is there a choice between 
 celestial biiss and torture everlasting ? — Aid my 
 endeavours to persuade them, sir. 
 
 Com, ( Aside.) Some daemon surely speaks 
 through him. He makes me tremble. 
 
 Cha. How ! Still no answer 1 Do you fancy 
 that your arms and intrepidity can extricate you 
 from your present situation ? — Look round you— 
 look on every side. The idea of escape is child- 
 ish and absurd. — Or, do you flatter yourselves, 
 that you will fall like heroes ? What can induce 
 you to think thus ? My late delight in scenes of 
 devastation ; Oh, do not thus deceive yourselves. 
 —Among you all, there is not one like Moor. 
 You are mere thieves — poor paltry tools, which 
 I employ to execute my nobler projects — despica- 
 bly mean as is the hangman's halter. — Thieves 
 
A ct II. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 cannot fall like heroes. Thieves have a right to 
 be afraid of death. — Hear you not how their trum- 
 pets echo through the forest ? See you not how 
 their sabres glitter all around you ? How S Still 
 irresolute ? Are you mad ? — Think not that I am 
 grateful for my life — I am indignant at the sacri- 
 fice you make. (Trumpets are heard.) 
 
 Corn. (Confounded by his dignitj.) Never did 
 I see a man like this i I must away. 
 
 Cha. Or are you fearful that I shall destroy 
 myself, and thereby counteract the pardon offer- 
 <ed for delivering me alive ? — your fears are ground- 
 less. Here I throw away my dagger — my pistols 
 — and my poison. — What! Still irresolute ! — You, 
 perhaps, imagine, I shall oppose the man who 
 attempts to seize me. — See 1 — I hind my right hand 
 to this branch of oak — now opposition is impos- 
 sible. A child might overpower me. — Who will 
 be first to betray me ? — -Who will first forsake his 
 captain in the hour of peril ? 
 
 A'j. 7 . (With frantic Violence.} Hell seize him, 
 if there be one in our band 1 (Brandishes his sword.) 
 Damn the villain, who refuses to defend our captain! 
 
 Schw. ("Fears the pardon, and throws it in the 
 jace of the commissary,) Take that, and begone, 
 scoundrel^— our pardon is our swords and fire-arms. 
 Tell the senate which sent you, that you did not 
 find one traitor in Moor's band. — Save the captain ! 
 
 All. Save the captain 1 Save him 1 Save the 
 captain 1 
 
 Cha. ( Joyfully extricating himself from the tree.) 
 Comrades — friends — brothers ! Now we are free. 
 I feel a tenfold vigour nerve this arm. I could 
 oppose a host. — Death, or liberty ! They shall, 
 at all events, not make us prisoners. Follow me. 
 ( All draws their swords and exeunt. The charge is 
 immediately sounded. , 
 
 END OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 E 2 
 
THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IIL 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene — A Garden. A mf -lia is discovered in a pen- 
 sive attitude. Enter Francis. Both are in deep 
 mourning. 
 
 Fra. Do I find you here again, dear enthusi- 
 ast ? As soon as you stole away from table, my 
 guests were no longer in spirits. 
 
 Ame. Shame on you for having guests 1 — Does 
 not your father's funeral dirge still vibrate in your 
 ears ? 
 
 Fra. Why this incessant lamentation ? Let the 
 dead rest in peace, and make the living happy. 
 I come 
 
 Ame. And when will you go again ? 
 
 Fra. Amelia, do not treat me with this cold 
 disdain. I come to tell you — - — 
 
 Ame. That Francis Moor is lord of these do- 
 mains. 
 
 Fra. Exactly. Maximilian reposes in the tomb 
 of his forefathers, and I become the lord of these 
 domains. Yet even these do not satisfy me, dear 
 Amelia. You know, that you have always made 
 my father's house your home. He loved you with 
 a parent's tenderness. You will never forget 
 that. 
 
 Ame. Never, never ! How could I endeavour, 
 by revelry and mirth, to banish from my mind the 
 recollection of his goodness ? 
 
 Fra. I admire your sentiments, Amelia. What 
 you owed my father for his goodness, you have 
 now an opportunity of paying to his son. Charles 
 
 is dead, and Francis offers [Aside.) By my 
 
 soul, so flattering is the thought, it even is too 
 much for woman's pride. — ( Aloud- ) Francis tram- 
 ples on the hopes of many a noble family. Fran- 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 55 
 
 cis offers a forsaken orphan, his heart, his hand, 
 t his wealth; his castle, his estates. Francis, whom 
 all his neighbours fear and envy, declares himself 
 : Amelia's voluntary slave. 
 
 Ame. Why do not heaven's lightnings blast 
 thee, whilst thou makest the declaration ? Hast 
 thou not been guilty of fratricide ? Hast thou not 
 robbed me of my Charles ? And thinkest thou 
 that Amelia will accept thy hand, — thou monster I 
 
 Fra. Be not so violent, most gracious princess. 
 True it is, that Francis does not fawn and flatter 
 like a cooing Celadon. True it is, he has not 
 learnt, like the sighing shepherds of Arcadia, to 
 complain of fair Amelia's cruelty to grottos and 
 to rocks. — No. Francis speaks ; and if he be not 
 answered — he commands. 
 
 Ame. Vile reptile ! — Thou command me ! And 
 if I scorn thy great commands ? 
 
 Fra. That you will not. I know a most ex- 
 cellent receipt for conquering female pride and 
 obstinacy — a cloister. 
 
 Ame. Welcome thought ! In a cloister I shall 
 not be gazed upon by thee, thou basilisk, but shall 
 have leisure to reflect upon the virtues of my 
 Charles !— Take me to a cloister instantly. 
 
 Fra. Ha ! Is it so ! — I thank you for having 
 taught me the art of tormenting you. — Like a fu- 
 ry, will I drive the recollection of this Charles 
 from your heart. My disgusting form shall lurk 
 'behind the image of your minion like the dragon 
 which sleeps on subterraneous treasure. By thy 
 hair will I drag you to the alter, — with a dagger 
 in my hand, will I force from your lips the nup- 
 tial vow. 
 
 Ame. (Strikes him.) Take this, then, as my 
 dowry. 
 
 Fra. C Enraged.) Damnation !— -I will think of 
 tenfold vengeance. — Thou shalt not he my wife — 
 
THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 no, that were too great an honour. — Thou shall 
 be my paramour, that every peasant's wife may- 
 point the finger of derision at thee. — Ay, gnash 
 thy teeth — dart fire and murder from thine eyes.. 
 To me a woman's fury is a treat — it makes her 
 lovelier — more desirable.-— Come. — Thy strug- 
 gles shall enhance the value of my triumph, and 
 
 sweeten the delight of forced embraces Come 
 
 with me to the alter. — This instant thou shalt go. 
 
 ( Dragging her away. J 
 ■Amc. ( Falls r on his neck. J Forgive me, Fran- 
 cis. ( As he is about to embrace her, she draws the 
 sword from his side, and hastily steps back. J See'st 
 thou villain, what I now can do ? Thou art in my 
 power. 1 am a woman — but a woman roused to 
 
 fury Dare to approach me, and with this 
 
 sword I'll stab thee to the heart. My uncle's spi- 
 rit will direclmy hand. — Instantly begone. ( Drives 
 him awav.) Ha 1 — I breathe more freely. I feel 
 myself endowed with strength and fury — such as 
 animate the mettled steed and tiger. — To a cloi- 
 ster, said he ? Thanks for the happy thought. 
 There I shall find a sale retreat. A cloister is 
 the right abode for hopeless love. 
 
 (Exit. 
 
 Scene* changes to a hill near the Danube. The 
 
 -• * .» " 
 
 'Robbers are stretched under various trees on the 
 summit, while their horses are grazing on the 
 side of the hill. 
 
 Ciia. Here I must rest a while. (Throws 
 himself on the earth.) My sinews are unstrung — 
 my tongue is dry as a potsherd. I would ask you 
 to fetch me a little water from the neighbouring 
 stream, but you are all as weary as myself. 
 
 ( Exit Schw. unobserved.) 
 
 Gri. We have swallowed all our wine, too. — 
 How gloriously the sun sets to-night ! 
 
Act 111. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 .5 7 
 
 Cha» {Gazing at it.) Thus worthy of admirati- 
 on dies a hero. 
 
 Gri. Yon seem deeply affected. 
 
 Cha. When I was a boy, my favourite thought 
 was that I would live and die like yonder glorious 
 orb. {Suppressing his emotion.) It was a boyish 
 thought. 
 
 Gri. True, captain. 
 
 Cha. {Draws his hat over his face.) There was 
 a time Comrades, leave me to myself. 
 
 Gri. Captain ! Captain I— Damnation ! How 
 his colour changes ! 
 
 Raz. Death and the devil ! What ails him ? 
 
 Cha. There was a time, when I could not sleep 
 if I had forgotten my evening-prayer. 
 
 Gri. Have you lost your senses? Who would 
 be guided by the mere fancies of a boy ? 
 
 Cha. C Rests his head on Grimm's Breast. J 
 Brother I Brother ! 
 
 Gri. Come, come. Don't be a child, I beg. 
 
 Cha. Would that I were a child again I 
 
 Gri. Pshaw ! Cheer up, man. — Look at this 
 picturesque country, and enjoy the lovely evening. 
 
 Cha. Yes, friends — this world is so beautiful- 
 
 Gri. Right 1 Now, you talk properly. 
 
 Cha. This earth so admirable — 
 
 Gri. True. I like to hear you when you are 
 in this humour. 
 
 Cha. And I so ugly in thi3 beauteous world-— 
 I, monster on this admirable earth. ( Sinking back.) 
 Lost, lost for ever ! 
 
 Gri. Pray do not talk thus. 
 
 Cha. My innocence ! My innocence ! See — 
 every creature has stepped forth to enjoy the vivi- 
 fying warmth of spring. Why must this heavenly 
 scene be hell to me ? Yet thus it is. — All on this 
 earth are happy — all united by the mild spirit 
 of concord — all one family— whose Father is 
 above them but he is not my Father I, 
 
bo 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 alone, am rejected — I, alone, am banished from 
 the empire of the good. (Wildly looking at the rob- 
 bers.) Surrounded by murderers — bound by ad- 
 amantine chains to guilt and infamy. — 
 
 Raz. Unaccountable ! I never saw him thus. 
 
 C'la. Oh, that I could return into my mother's 
 womb ! Oh, that I could be born a peasant 1 I 
 would labour till the blood rolled from my temples 
 to buy the luxury of a noonday's slumber — the 
 rapture of one solitary tear. 
 
 Gri. ( To the rest.) Don't disturb him. The pa- 
 roxysm is already decreasing. 
 
 Cha. There was a time, when my tears flowed 
 
 willingly. — Oh days of peace ! Thou castle of 
 
 my fathers — and ye green delightful valleys, shall 
 I no more behold you ? — Oh beauteous groves, so 
 oft enjoyed in childhood — will you not cool my 
 burning bosom with your zephyrs ? Mourn with 
 me, nature. Never, never will those happy days 
 return. Past, past — irrevocably past ! 
 
 Enter Schweizer, with water in his hat. 
 
 Schw. Drink, Captain. Here is water enough 
 — and cold as ice. 
 
 Gri. Why, Schweizer, you are bleeding. What's 
 the matter ? 
 
 Schw. Nothing, man. To be sure, the joke 
 might have cost me a limb or two. As I was 
 running on the edge of the hill, which consists of 
 nothing but sand, down sunk the whole mass, and 
 away rolled I full ten yards, to the bottom. — 
 There I lay awhile ; and as soon as I recovered 
 my five senses, I found a clear spring close to me, 
 among some gravel.—' 4 Well," though I, " For- 
 tune has not tried to break my neck for nothing. 
 Here is some good fresh water for the captain." 
 
 Cha. ( Returns Schweizer's hat, and throws a 
 few drops of water upon his face.) The dust and 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 59 
 
 dirt have hidden the wounds on your forehead, 
 which you received from the Bohemian cavalry. 
 — The water was excellent, Schweizer. — Your 
 scars become you. 
 
 Schiv. Pshaw ! There is room for thirty more. 
 
 Cha. Yes, comrades. The battle was bloody, 
 though we only lost a single friend. — Roller died 
 a noble death. Had he fallen in any other cause, 
 a monument would have been erected to his me- 
 mory. — Let this suffice. (Wipes a tear away.) 
 How many of our enemies were slain ? 
 
 Schw. Sixty hussars, ninety-three dragoons, 
 and about forty rifle-man— in all, two hundred. 
 
 Cha. Two hundred for one. — Every man of 
 you has a claim upon this head. (Takes off his 
 hat.) Here, in the presence of you all, I raise my 
 ! soul, I never will forsake you. 
 
 Schw. Captain, don't swear. Should happier 
 prospects open to you, perhaps you may repent. 
 
 Cha. By the ashes of Roller, I never will for- 
 sake you. 
 
 Enter Kosinski. 
 
 Kos. (Aside.) I was told that I should find 
 him in this country. — Ha ' — who are these fel- 
 lows ? Should they be — they are, they are.— J will 
 : address them. 
 
 Gri Look — who comes here ? 
 
 Kos. Pardon me, gentlemen. I know not 
 whether I am right in my conjecture. 
 
 Cha. Who should we be, if you were right ? 
 
 Kos. Men. 
 
 Schw. We have proved that, I think, captain. 
 Kos. I am in search of men, who can look un- 
 appalled at death, and sport with danger as with 
 a tame dragon — men who rate liberty at a far 
 |j higher price than life — men, whose very names, 
 l while welcome to the oppressed and needy, make 
 courage fly, and tyranny turn pale. 
 
I 
 
 60 THE ROBBERS. Act III, 
 
 Schiv. I like this fellow. — Friend, you have 
 found the very people you are seeking. 
 
 Kos, I trust I have — and trust, too, I shall be 
 socn allowed to call them comrades. — You, then, 
 will doubtless tell me, where I can find your cap- 
 tain — the intrepid Moor. 
 
 Schiv. (Slinking hands ivith him.) You and I 
 are sworn friends. 
 
 Cha. (Approaching.) Do you know this Moor ? 
 
 Kos. You are he. — In that mien who could 
 
 behold you without knowing you? (Gazes at him 
 for some time.) Often have I wished to see the 
 man, who sat with destru6lion-dealing look upon 
 the ruins of Carthage. — Now I no longer wish to 
 see him. 
 
 Schiv. A noble lad by my soul. 
 
 Cha. And what has Drought you hither ? 
 
 Kos. My more than cruel fate. Oh Captain, 
 I have been wrecked on the tempestuous ocean of 
 this world. I have been doomed to see my hopes 
 destroyed, and nothing now remains but the tor- 
 turing recollection of my loss, which, I feel, will 
 rob me of my senses, if I do not try to dissipate 
 all thought by aclion. 
 
 Cha. Another wretch, by heaven abandoned I 
 —Proceed. 
 
 Kos. I entered early into the army — misfor- 
 tune followed me. — I embarked for the East In- 
 dies — the vessel in which I sailed struck against 
 a rock. Various have been my projects, but all 
 alike have failed. — At length, the fame of the I 
 great hero, Moor (the great incendiary some 
 term him), reached my ears. 1 have travelled 
 many miles with the fixed determination of serv- 
 ing under him, if he will accept my services.— - 
 Oh captain, do not refuse me. 
 
 Schiv. (Springs into the air.) Huzza ! Huzza! 
 Another Roller I — A noble fellow for the band ! 
 
 ' J 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Gl 
 
 Cha. What is your name ? 
 Kos. Kosinski. 
 
 Cha. Kosinski, thou art a thoughtless boy, and 
 art about to take a most decisive step, without 
 reflection. Here thou wilt find no tennis to amuse 
 thee. 
 
 Kos. I understand what you mean to- imply. 
 I am only four and twenty years of age — -but I 
 have seen many a sword glitter before me, and 
 have heard many a ball whiz round me. 
 
 Cha. Have you, then, learnt the use of arms, 
 merely that you may assassinate a harmless tra- 
 veller, for the sake of a paltry dollar, or murder 
 helpless women ? Go, go. You have escaped 
 from your nurse, because you saw the rod in 
 her hand. 
 
 Schiv. Captain, what in the devil's name do 
 you mean? Would you dismiss such a fellow as 
 this ? Why, he is a perfect Hercules. 
 
 Cha. Because your airy schemes have failed, 
 you wish to become a villain, an assassin. Boyish 
 idea ! Know you what it is to become an assassin? 
 You may sleep soundly after beheading thistles, 
 but, after committing murder — 
 
 Kos. I will be answerable for every murder 
 which you direct me to commit. 
 
 Cha. How wondrous clever 1 Think you that a 
 manis to be caught by flattery ? How can you know 
 whether I am not tormented by bad dreams, or 
 whether I shall not turn pale with terror on the 
 bed of death ? How many things have you already 
 done, for which you thought, while doing them, 
 that you must one day be accountable ? 
 
 Kos. But very few. I, however, reckon in 
 the number, my journey in search of Moor. 
 
 Cha. Did your tutor ever put into your hands 
 the adventures of Robin Hood ? such incautious 
 blockheads should be chained to the galleys. They 
 (vol. ii.) F 
 
62 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 heat the imagination of the child, and tickle its 
 vanity with the mad idea of renown. Is this your 
 object, Kosinski ? Wish you to purchase immor- 
 tality by murdering your fellow-creatures? Believe 
 me, ambitious youth, no laurel decks the assassin's 
 brow — no triumph awaits the conquests of banditti 
 — but execration, danger, death, and inf&my. Do 
 you see that gibbet on the hill ? 
 
 Spi. {IValkijig to and fro nvith a peevish look*} How 
 stupid ! How unpardonably stupid ! Is this the 
 proper way to increase the band ? I should have 
 talked in another style. 
 
 Kos. What can he fear, who fears not death? 
 
 Cha. Excellent! You have learnt Seneca by 
 heart, I perceive. But be assured, young man, 
 you will not alleviate the sufferings of nature— 
 you will not blunt the arrow of anguish by these 
 sententious arguments. Consider well, my son. 
 (Tales his hand. ) Think that you hear the coun- 
 sel of a father. Learn the depth of the abyss, ere 
 you spring into it. Reflect whether you have in 
 this world any distant chance of comfort — for the 
 moment may arrive when you awake, and find it 
 is too late. By joining us, you at once bid adieu 
 to all conne6tion with mankind. To do this, you 
 must be more than human, or — a demon. Once 
 more, then, let me warn you, my son. If any 
 spark of hope still glimmer in your breast, avoid 
 the horrible confederacy you came to join in. You 
 mav have deceived yourself. You may mistake, 
 for strength of mind, what will, in the end, drive 
 you to despair. Believe what Moor says to you— . 
 and fly. 
 
 Kos. It cannot be. I will not leave you. Since 
 my entreaties have not moved you^ hear the true 
 recital of my sorrows. You yourself will, then, 
 place a poniard in my hand — you yourself will 
 
 . Friends, seat yourselves around me, and 
 
 listen attentively. 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 6S 
 
 Cha. I will listen attentively. 
 
 Kos. Know, then, I am a Bohemian nobleman. 
 By the early death of my father, I came into pos- 
 session of a considerable manor. The country, 
 in which I lived, was a paradise — for it contained 
 an angel. It contained a lovely girl, adorned with 
 all the charms of blooming youth, and chaste as 
 is the light of heaven. But to whom do I say 
 this ? Such descriptions suit not men who never 
 loved, who never were beloved. 
 
 Schw, Look ! our captain is as red as fire. 
 
 Cha. Hold, Kosinski ! No more at present ! I'll 
 hear the rest to-morrow — soon — at another time 
 —when I have seen blood. 
 
 Kos. Blood, say you ? Nay, hear me now. 
 Mine is a tale which calls for blood. She was 
 not of noble extraction, but her look subdued all 
 prejudice. With captivating bashfulness, she lis- 
 tened to my vows, and it was fixed that, in two 
 days, I should lead my Amelia to the altar. 
 (Charles starts and rises.) Amidst the bustle of 
 preparations for our union — while I was anticipat- 
 ing the happiness which awaited me, I was sum- 
 moned by an express to court. — I obeyed.— Let- 
 ters, which teemed with treason, were produced, 
 and I was accused of having written them. I 
 blushed at the infamous charge. My sword was 
 taken away- — I was thrown into prison — my senses 
 forsook me. 
 
 Schw, And in the mean time — go on. I smell 
 a rat. 
 
 Kos. There I lay a month, and grieved for my 
 Amelia, who would, I knew, feel pangs unutter- 
 able. At length the prime minister came to my 
 dungeon, congratulated me on the discovery 
 of my innocence, politely informed me I was at 
 liberty, and returned my sword. Triumphantly 
 I flew to my castle, to my Amelia — as I hoped. 
 
i* THE ROBBERS* Act 111. 
 
 She was gone. She had been borne away at mid- 
 night — no one knew by whom, or whither. Like j 
 lightning a suspicion darted through my brain. 
 1 flew to town — made enquiries at court. All ri- 
 vetted their eyes upon me-— -but none would give 
 me the wished-for information. At length I dis- 
 covered my Amelia through a grated window of 
 the palace — she threw me a note. 
 
 Schiv. Ay, ay, I thought how it would be. 
 
 Kos. . Hell and damnation i — She had been al- 
 lowed to chuse whether she would see me die, or 
 become the prince's mistress. A contest arose 
 between her honour arid affection. The latter con- 
 quered — and I was saved. 
 
 Schiv. How did you a6l then. 
 
 Kos. After having read her letter, I stood root- 
 ed to the spot. Blood was my first — my last— • 
 my only thought. Foaming with fury, I ran home, 
 chose a three-edged sword, and flew to the min- . 
 liter's house — for he had been the infernal pan- 
 dor. I must have been previously observed from 
 the windows, for I found all the apartments lock- 
 ed. I was informed that the minister was gone 
 to the palace. I repaired thither — the attendants 
 assured me they had not seen him. I returned — 
 burst open the doors — found him — and was on 
 the point of dispatching him, when five or six 
 servants wrested the sword from my hand. 
 
 Schw. {Stamps with violence.) The devil seisee 
 him ! — So he escaped ? 
 
 Kos. I was again imprisoned — brought to tri- 
 al — and sentenced — as a mark of peculiar lenity 
 — to be banished from my native land for ever. 
 My estates w ere given to the minister, my Ame- 
 lia remained in the claws of the tiger, and now 
 wastes her life in fruitless, lamentation, while my 
 revenge must bend to the iron yoke of despotism. 
 Schw. {Rises and draws his sword.) This lis 
 
Act III. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 65 
 
 water for our mill. Captain ! Here is employ- 
 ment for us. 
 
 Cha. {Who has been walking to and fro in violent 
 agitation, turns hastily to the Robbers.) I must see 
 her. — Rise 1 — Prepare for instant departure. Ko- 
 sinski, your hand. You shall rem am with us. 
 Prepare for instant departure, I say. 
 
 Robbers. Captain, where — 
 
 Cha. Who dares to ask a question ? (With vio- 
 lence to Schweizer.) Traitor, you wish to make 
 me abandon my projecr, but by the hope of hea- 
 ven — 
 
 Schw. I a traitor ! Lead into hell, if you like, 
 I'll follow you. 
 
 Cha. ( Falls on his neck.) I believe you, bro- 
 ther. She wastes her life in lamentation. Fol- 
 low me, all of you. We must reach Franconia 
 in a week. ( Exeunt. 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
«(3 THE ROBBERS. Act IV, 
 
 ACT IF. 
 
 ScEtfE — AGallery, Charles and Amelia are dis- 
 covered — the former in disguise. Both are intently 
 gazing at a portrait* The habit of a nun lies on 
 the table. 
 
 Cha. (Deeply affected,) He was an excellent 
 man. 
 
 Ame. The picture seems to interest you much, 
 Count Brand. 
 
 Cha. {With his eye still rivetted upon it.) An ex- 
 cellent— a godlike man — And he is dead ? 
 
 Ame, Yes — he has past away like all the joys 
 oflife. {Gently taking his hand.) Count, there is no 
 happiness in this world. 
 
 Cha. True — most true. Has sad experience 
 taught you this? You cannot be much more than 
 twenty years of age. 
 
 Ame, And yet have learnt that all who live 
 must die in sorrow — that all who gain must feel 
 the pang of losing. 
 
 Cha, {Keenly looking at her.) Have you lost any 
 thing ? 
 
 Ame. Any thing 1 Every thing. 
 
 Cha. And hope you to forget your loss, when 
 clad in yonder sacred garment ? 
 
 Ame. I do. Shall we proceed, my Lord ? 
 
 Cha. Why, in such haste ? — Whose portrait 
 is that on the right ? He has an unfortunate coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 Ame. This on the left is the late Count's son — 
 the present owner of the castle. 
 
 Cha, His only son ! 
 
 Ame, Let us proceed, I beg. 
 
 Cha. But this picture on the right ? 
 
 Ame, You will not accompany me into the gar- 
 Men ? 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 57 
 
 Cha. With pleasure — but inform me first 
 Howl You are in tears, Amelia. {Exit Amelia has- 
 tily.) She loves me still. The treacherous tears 
 rolled down her cheeks. She loves me. That is 
 the sofa upon which I oft have drank the nectar 
 of her lips. This is the castle in which I was born. 
 Wretched as I am, the golden recollection of those 
 happy days I once enjoyed, still cheers my soul. 
 Here should I have lived, an honour to my house 
 —the admiration of my vassals — here should I a 
 second time have felt the joys of childhood, while 
 observing the offspring of my dear Amelia at their 
 gambols — here should I — No more ! No more 1 
 Let me return to that dread station which Fate has 
 appointed me to fill. — Fare^el, dear castle of my 
 fathers. Thou didst witness my delight in earlier 
 years — now witness my despair. {Is goings but 
 suddenly stops,) Must I never see her more ? 
 Must I renounce all hopes of ever kissing those 
 Sweet lips ? Must I depart without one last fare- 
 wel ? — No. Once more I will behold her — once 
 more I will embrace her— that I may doubly feel 
 my wretched fate in having lost her. Once more 
 I'll quafF the sweet voluptuous poison — and then 
 away, far as the winds of heaven, and all the de- 
 mons of despair can drive me. {Exit. 
 
 Enter Francis, in deep meditation. 
 
 Era. Begone from me, thou torturing image 
 i ■ Vile coward that I ami Of what or whom 
 | am I afraid ? This count has been but a few hours 
 
 in my castle — yet to me he seems a spy employed 
 j by hell to watch my every step. Surely I should 
 
 know his features. There is a something great 
 
 —•something familiar to me in his wild and sun- 
 i burnt countenance, which makes me tremble. 
 [(Rings.) I must be on my guard. A plot is laid 
 
 against me. 
 
THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Enter Daniel. 
 
 Dan. What are your lordship's commands ? 
 
 Fra. {After having stedfastly gazed at him for 
 some time.) Nothing — But yes. Bring me a gob- 
 let of wine dire&ly. {Exit Daniel. 
 
 Who knows but this fellow will confess, if I use 
 threats to force the secret from him ? I'll rivet my 
 eve so keenly on him, that his features shall be- 
 come the mirror of his conscience. (Turns to the 
 portrait if Charles.) That long scraggy neck— 
 those thick black bushy eye-brows — those bold 
 fiery eyes. (Suddenly starting back.) Ha I Does' 
 hell inspire me with the dread suspicion ? — It is 
 Charles. 
 
 Enter Daniel, with wine. 
 
 Place it on that table. — Now look stedfastly at 
 me — eye to eye. — How the fellow's knees totter ! 
 — Villain, confess. What hast thou done ? 
 
 Ban. Nothing, my Lord, as J hope to be saved. 
 
 Fra. Drink this wine. How ? — Dost thou hes- 
 itate Instantly confess what thou hast mixed 
 
 with this wine. 
 
 Dan. Gracious God ! Mixed with the wine ! 
 
 Fra. Yes, wretch. Thou hast mingled poison 
 with it. Art thou not as white as snow ! Confess, 
 I say. Who gave thee the poison? The count? 
 Did not the count — 
 
 Dan. Good Heavens, my Lord* — the count gave 
 me nothing. 
 
 Fra. (Seizes him. J I'll strangle thee, grey- 
 headed liar. — Nothing ! Why, then, did I sec 
 him and Amelia and thee whispering together? 
 Did I not see her, after all her modest vows, cast 
 amorous glances at him? Did I not see her tears 
 fall into the wine which he so eagerly swallowed ? 
 Yes — though it was behind me, by my soul I saw 
 it in the mirror. 
 
Act IV* THK ROBBERS. 66 
 
 Dan. God knows I was quite ignorant of it. 
 
 Fra. What ! Darest thou deny it ? Darest thou 
 tell thy master that he lies? What mode of dis- 
 patching me have you agreed upon ? Do you mean 
 to smother me at midnight — or to cut my throat 
 or to poison me Out with the truth 1 I know all. 
 
 Dan. As I hope for God's assistance when I 
 need it, all I have said is true. 
 
 Fra. This time I'll forgive you, Daniel. But 
 no doubt he lined your purse — he pressed your 
 hand more than is usual — as if you were an old 
 acquaintance. Did he not, Daniel ? 
 
 Dan. Never, my Lord. 
 
 Fra. He said, for example, that he had known 
 you before — that you almost ought to know him 
 — that the scales would soon fall from your eyes— 
 that yes, yes, — he said this, Daniel. 
 
 Dan. Not a word of it. 
 
 Fra. That he would be revenged — amply re- 
 venged. 
 
 Dan. Not a syllable of it, my Lord. 
 
 Fra. How ! Recollect yourself. — Surely you 
 
 heard him say that he knew your old master very 
 well— particularly well — that he loved him — loved 
 him most sincerely-— as sincerely as a son loves a 
 father. 
 
 Dan. I recollecl I did hear him say something 
 of that kind. 
 
 Fra. (Alarmed.) Did you? — Did you, indeed? 
 He said he was my brother — did he ? 
 
 Dan. I never heard him say that. But while 
 Miss Amelia was shewing him the pictures in the 
 gallery, I observed him suddenly stop at the por- 
 trait of my late master. Miss Amelia pointed to 
 it, and said, " An excellent man," which he re- 
 peated and v.iped his eyes. 
 
 Fra. Enough ! Run I Haste ! Send Herman 
 hither. (Exit Daniel. 
 
ro 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act If. 
 
 All doubt is at an end. It is Charles. He is come 
 to demand his estate. Have I, then, sacrificed 
 my nightly rest — have I removed huge rocks, 
 and levelled mountains, to be thus defeated ? Have 
 I rebelled against humanity, only to become the' 
 viclim of an outcast ? No, no. One way is al- 
 ways open to me. By murder I surely can escape. 
 What a blockhead must he be, who, after hav- 
 ing partly done his work, stands idly looking whe- 
 ther time will finish it. 
 
 Enter Herman. 
 
 Ha! Welcome, my Eurypylus — welcome, my 
 trusty agent. 
 
 Her. (In a sullen tone.) You have sent for me. 
 
 Era. True, Herman. I wish you to end what 
 you have so ably begun. 
 
 Her. Indeed ! 
 
 Fra. Shall 1 order the carriage? We can ar- 
 range the matter while we take an airing. 
 
 Her. No ceremony, if you please. The ar- 
 rangements which we have to make to-day, can be 
 as well fixed upon in this room as elsewhere. At 
 all events, I can say a word or two which will spare 
 your lungs some exertion. 
 
 Fra. C Alarmed.) What do you mean? 
 
 Her. That you promised me Amelia's hand. 
 
 Fra. Herman ! 
 
 Her. Did you not tell me that she would be- 
 come the play-thing of your will, and that, then, 
 she should be mine ?» ( In a tond of defiance. ) 
 What have you now to say, Count Moor I • 
 
 Fra. Nothing to you — I sent for Herman. 
 
 Her. No evasion. Why was I summoned ? A- 
 gain to be the fool I have been ? Again to prop the 
 ladder that the thief may mount ? 
 
 Fra. ( As if he had suddenly recollected some- 
 thing ) True. We must not forget that. I wish- 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 71 
 
 ed to have some conversation with you respect- 
 iing the d«wry. 
 
 Her. This is mockery — or something worse. 
 Moor, be careful — drive me not mad. We are 
 s without witnesses, Moor- Confide not in a villain, 
 though you yourself have made him such. 
 
 Fra. {With a haughty mien.) Dare you con- 
 duct yourself thus towards your Lord ? Tremble, 
 slave. 
 
 . iTer. ( Contemptuously.) At your displeasure, 
 ! perhaps? What is your displeasure to a man, 
 who is incensed at himself? I already detest you 
 as a villain, Moor — do not make me deride you 
 as a blockhead. I can open sepulchres — -I can 
 raise the dead. Which of us is now the slave ? 
 
 Fra. (With great condescension.) Friend, act 
 rationally — keep your promise. 
 
 Her. Peace ! To ac\ rationally, were to abhor 
 thee, villain — to keep my promise were madness. 
 [A promise made to whom ? — To him by whom 
 
 perfidy is practised as a virtue. But patience, 
 
 patience ! Revenge is subtle. 
 
 Fra. Right ! I am glad I recollect it. You 
 I lately lost a purse containing a hundred louisdor's. 
 ! I had almost forgotten the circumstance. Take 
 back what is your own, good Herman. (Gives 
 him a purse.) 
 
 Her. {Ttiroivs it contemptuously at the feet of 
 Francis) Damned be the vile Iscariot-bribe I Has 
 hell employed thee to complete my ruin ? You 
 once imagined you had made my poverty the pan- 
 der of my heart — but you are mistaken, Moor ; 
 grossly mistaken. The former purse of gold is 
 useful — it supplies with food — a certain person. 
 
 Fra. {Alarmed.) Herman ! Herman ! — Do not 
 make me fancy — If you have done any thing con- 
 trary to my will, you are a traitor to your master. 
 
 Her. (In a triumphant tone.) Indeed ! — I rejoice 
 
73 
 
 THE KOSUERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 to hear it. Mark me, then. I will soon prepare 
 a banquet, at which your infamy shall be pro- 
 duced, and every nation of the earth shall be in- 
 vited to it. Do you comprehend this, mighty,, 
 revered, and gracious master ? 
 
 Fra. Villain 1 traitor! devil I (Strikes his fore- 
 head, ) Fool that I was, to place confidence in 
 such a creature. (Throws himself upon a couch.) 
 
 Her. Ha 1 ha 1 ha ! — Behold the cautious sly 
 projector — foiled at- his own weapons. 
 
 Fra. It is a truth, then, a confirmed truth, 
 that no thread is so finely spun, so soon torn asun- 
 der, as the tie of guilt. 
 
 Her. Vastly fine 1 — Devils are beginning to 
 moralize. 
 
 Fra. {Suddenly rises, and addresses Herman with 
 a malignant smile,) The discovery will refie<St 
 great credit on yourself, no doubt ? 
 
 Her. ( Claps his hands.) Excellent ! Inimita- 
 ble ! You act your part most admirably. First 
 you drag the easy fool into the mire — then vent 
 your rage against him, because he attemps to ex- 
 tricate himself. What a refinement of villany ! 
 But, Count, ( Laying his hand on Francis's shcuU 
 der,) you are not yet thoroughly acquainted witl 
 me. You have not yet learnt how far the loser of 
 the game dare venture. What says the pirate in 
 such a situation ?— Throw a match into the pow- 
 der magazine, and blow friend as well as foe into 
 the air." 
 
 Fra. ( Runs to the ivall, end seizes a pistol. ) 
 Treason I — I must be resolute. 
 
 Her. ( Dravjz a pistol from his pocket.) Give 
 yourself no trouble. I took care to be prepared 
 before I came. 
 
 Fra. ( Throws the pistol away, and falls on the 
 ccuch.) Don't betray me, Herman, till I have re- 
 flected how to ac~t. 
 
Act IV, 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 73 
 
 Her, You mean till you have hired a dozen 
 bravos, who will make me dumb for ever. But 
 (in a lower tone ) I have committed the secret to 
 paper, and my heirs will read it. {Exit, 
 v - Fra. Is this a dream ? — Where was my cou- 
 rage ? — where my presence of mind ? Alas I even 
 my own creatures betray me. The pillars of my 
 fortune are decayed — the furious foe already falls 
 upon me. I must instantly determine in what way 
 it is best to act. How if I go in person, and stab 
 
 him in the back. A wounded man is a mere 
 
 infant. — It is resolved. ( Is walking away with a 
 Jirm step, but stops, as if overpowered by sudden debi- 
 lity. J Who are these men behind me ? ( Rolling 
 his eyes with horrible wildness.) I never saw their 
 faces before — their looks are terrific— -Away 1 
 away ! — Courage I certainly have— the courage 
 
 of a But if a mirror were to betray me — or my 
 
 shadow— or the sound created by raising my arm 
 to inflict the deadly blow ? Huh ! — my hair bris- 
 tles towards heaven — my every limb quakes— 
 (A dagger falls from his breast.) A coward i am 
 not — perhaps I am too tender-hearted. Yes : 
 these are the last struggles of departing virtue. I 
 admire them. I should be a monster, were I to 
 assassinate my brother. No, no, no. I will re- 
 vere these relics of humanity. I will not murder. 
 Thou hast conquered, Nature. I still feel some- 
 thing which is like affection. — He shall live. {Exit, 
 
 Scene changes to a Garden, in which an Arbour 
 is seen. 
 
 Enter Amelia. 
 Ame, " You are in tears Amelia" And that 
 he said with so much sympathy — Oh, I felt as if 
 time had grown young again — as if the golden 
 spring of love returned while he spoke. Me- 
 thought I heard the nightingale— methought I 
 I (vol. ii.) G 
 
74 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 smelt the perfume of the rose — methought I lay 
 entranced upon his neck — all was the same as 
 when my Charles was here — and, surely, if the 
 spirits of the dead deign to revisit earth, it is my 
 Charles. — Ha ! false perfidious heart, how cun- 
 ningly thou veil'st thy guilt. No, no. Away 
 from my heart ye treacherous impious thoughts ! 
 In this bosom, where my Charles is buried, no 
 other image ever shall reside. Yet, why do my 
 thoughts so constantly, so irresistibly, dwell up- 
 on this stranger ? The image of my only love 
 mixes with his, until their features are united — 
 and to think of one must be to think of both. " You 
 are in tears, Amelia." — Ha ! — I must begone. 
 To-morrow I shall take the veil. The veil ! How 
 
 sweet was that idea lately 1 — But now Oh my 
 
 heart, how hast thou deceived me ! Thou didst 
 convince me that what I felt was resolution. Liar 
 that thou wert — it was despair. (Seats herself in\ 
 the arbour, and hides her face.) 
 
 Enter Herman. 
 
 Her. {Aside.) I have plunged boldly in — now 
 now let the storm rage on, even if the billows 
 overwhelm me. {Aloud.) Miss Amelia ! 
 
 Ame. {Alarmed.) A spy 1 What do you want 
 here ? 
 
 Her. I bring you news, most pleasant, yet 
 most horrible. If you be disposed to pardon ont\ 
 who has injured you, prepare yourself to hear 
 most wondrous tidings. 
 
 Ame. I have no recollection for injuries — nc 
 ear for news. 
 
 Her. Do you not lament the death of a youth 
 whom you loved ? 
 
 Ame. {Gazes at him.) Child of misfortune. 
 what justifies you in asking such a question ? 
 
 Her. {Mournfully casting his eyes on the earth. 
 Hatred and love. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 7 5 
 
 Ame. Can any one love who inhabits this re- 
 fgion. 
 
 Her. {Looking round). \es — too much — even 
 to the perpetration of villainy. — Did not your un- 
 cle lately die ? 
 
 Ame. He was to me a father. 
 
 Her. The lover and the father are alive. {Rush- 
 es away.) 
 
 Ame. C Stands rooted to the spot — then wildly 
 hxclaims ) Charles alive ! ( Is about to run after 
 IfHerman.J 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 
 Cha. Whither in such haste, lady ? 
 
 Ame. (Starts back with a frantic gesture. ) Gape 
 Ibeneath me, earth ! 
 
 Cha. I come to take leave of you. — But 
 
 [jHeavens 1 In what extreme agitation do I find 
 I you ! 
 
 Ame. Go, count stay — Happy would it 
 
 [ have been for me, had you never come ! 
 || Cha. Would that have made you happy ? Fare- 
 wel. ( Turns suddenly round and is going.) 
 
 Ame. For heaven's sake stay. That was not 
 |my meaning. (Wringing her hands.) Yet — oh 
 ■God, why was it not ? — Count, what have I done, 
 Ithat you should make me criminal ? How did I in- 
 ijure you by that affection which you have under- 
 I mined ? 
 
 Cha. You pierce to my very soul, lady. 
 
 Ame. My heart was pure till I saw you. Oh 
 Ithat my eyes had lost their faculty 1 They have 
 fcorrupted my heart. 
 
 Cha. Say not so. Your eyes and heart are 
 ■ guiltless, I am sure. 
 
 Ame. His very look ! — Count, I beseech you 
 I to avert those looks. They rouse rebellion. My 
 ■treacherous fancy tells me every moment that I 
 
re 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act It 
 
 see himself. — Go, count — return in the hateful 
 form of a crocodile, and you will be more wel- 
 come. 
 
 Cha. (With a look of fervent affection.) That ifff 
 not true, Amelia. 
 
 Ame. (With increasing tenderness. ) Should you 
 deceive me, count — should you be trifling with 
 
 this poor weak heart But how can falsehood 
 
 dwell in an eye, which beams with the expression 
 cf his ? — Alas ! Happy were it for me, should you 
 be false — happy, should I be obliged to hate you 
 
 yet, oh, how wretched should I be, might I 
 
 not love you. (Charles presses her hand to his lips 
 with rapture.) Your kisses burn like lire. 
 
 Cha. My soul burns in them. 
 
 Ame. Go. — I may yet be saved. — The mind of 
 man is firm. — Let your firmness save me. Co.— 
 
 Cha. It cannot be. — I see you tremble — and 
 my firmness vanishes. Here I am fixed for ever. 
 {Riding his face in her bosom.) Here will I die. 
 
 Ame. (Quite confounded.) Away I — Leave me. 
 — What have you done, Count ? — Away with 
 those lips ! fShe struggles feebly against his violent 
 caresses.) An impious fire creeps through my 
 veins. (Weeping and in a tone of tenderness.) Must 
 you come from a distant country to destroy a pas- 
 sion, which had even defied the power of death I 
 (Clasps him with increasing fervour in her arms. ) 
 God forgive you, Count 1 
 
 Cha. (Si ill embracing her.) If such be the se- 
 paration of the soul and body, how blissful, how 
 rapturous must it be to die. 
 
 Ame. Here, where you now stand, has he 
 stood a thousand times, and at his side, I, who, 
 when at his side, forgot both heaven and earth. 
 Here, — here his eye wandered over the lovely 
 charms of nature — he seemed to feel how grate- 
 ful was the sight, and she appeared to dress her- 
 
ct IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 77 
 
 self more gayly while her prince admired her. 
 i Here he would listen to the celestial music- of the 
 nightingale. Here he would pluck fresh roses 
 for his loved Amelia. Here — here he pressed me 
 to his heart, and glued his lips to mine. (Charles, 
 no longer able to control his passion, presses his lips 
 to her's — she meets him with equal rapture, and they 
 remain for some time lost in ecstacy — Amelia then 
 sinks almost in a swoon, upon the seat of the ardour.) 
 Come, Charles, and be revenged. My oath is 
 broken. 
 
 Cha. (Steps from her with a frantic look.) This 
 must be some snare designed by hell for my de- 
 struction — I am so happy. (Gazes at her.) 
 
 Ame. (Espies her ring, and hastily rises.) What ? 
 Art thou still upon my finger — thou, that hast 
 been a witness of my perjury ? Away ! (Gives the 
 ring to Charles. ) Take it — take it, beloved sedu- 
 cer, and with it my soul's adored — my all — my 
 Charles. (Falls back.) 
 
 Cha. ( Becomes pale.) Almighty God, is this 
 thy sovereign will ? — It is the very ring I gave 
 her as a pledge of my affeclion. — She has return- 
 ed it. — Oh horrible ! 
 
 ' Ame. ( Alarmed.) Heavens ! What is the mat- 
 ter ? How wildly your eyes roll — and how pale 
 are your lips ! — Wretch that I am 1 Do you so 
 soon repent the blissful crime ? 
 
 Cha. (Suppressing his emotions.) Nothing — 
 nothing. ( Raising his eyes.) I am still a man. 
 ( Draws his ring from his hand and gives it to Ame- 
 lia. J Take this, sweet fury of my heart, and with 
 it my soul's adored- — my all — my Amelia. 
 
 Ame. (Springs from the seat.) Your Amelia! 
 
 Cha. ( Mouriifully.) Oh, she was a lovely girl, 
 and faithful as an angel. When I left her, she 
 gave me a ring, I her another, as pledges of our 
 mutual faith. She heard that I was dead, and 
 
 G 2 
 
78 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Aa in 
 
 remained constant to the dead. She heard again, 
 that I was living, and became faithless to the liv- 
 ing. I flew into her arms — my transports equalled 
 heavenly bliss. Think what my heart was doom- 
 ed to feel. She returned to me my ring — I her's 
 to her. 
 
 Ame. ( Looks with amazement on the earth.) 
 Strange 1 Dreadfully strange ! 
 
 Cha. True, my good child. — Man has much, 
 very much to learn, ere he can dive into the great 
 decrees of that Being, who laughs at his vows, 
 and weeps over his projects. — My Amelia is an 
 unfortunate girl. 
 
 Ame. She is — because she rejected you. 
 
 Cha. She is — because she loves me. How, if* 
 I were an assassin ? How if, for every kiss be- 
 stowed by her, I could recount a murder ? — Would 
 not my Amelia, then, be unfortunate ? 
 
 Ame. She would, but what you mention is im- 
 possible. He, whom you resemble, could not 
 bear to see a fly suffer. 
 
 Cha. What I have said, is true. There is a 
 world, in which the veil will be removed entirely, 
 and those who loved will meet again—with hor- 
 ror. Eternity is its name. Yes. My Amelia 
 is unfortunate, for when she thought she clasped 
 an angel in her arms, she held — a murderer. 
 
 Ame. (Overpowered with anguish.) Horrible ! — 
 I will weep for your sad fate. 
 
 Cha. {Takes her hand, and holds the ring before 
 her eyes.) Weep for your own. {Exit instantly. 
 
 Ame. {Recognizes the ring.) Charles 1 Charles ! 
 O heaven and earth 1 Swoons.) 
 
 Scene — changes to a forest, in which the ruins of a 
 tower are discernible. The moon shines bright, 
 and the Robbers are stretched on the earth. 
 Spiegelbfrg and Razman advance from the rest. 
 Raz. It is almost midnight, and our captain 
 
 is not yet arrived. 
 
Act IF. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 70 
 
 Spi. A word in confidence, Razman, Captain, 
 said you? Who made him our captain? Did he 
 not usurp the title, when it justly belonged to me? 
 What ! Are we to expose our lives, and buffet all 
 the storms of Fate, merely that we may be called 
 the slaves of Moor, — slaves, when we might be 
 princes ? By God, Razman, I'll bear it no longer. 
 
 Raz. Hell and damnation — nor I. But what 
 can we do ? 
 
 Spi. Can you ask that, who have dispatched 
 many a fine fellow ! Razman, if you be the man 
 I think you — he is missing — some begin to think 
 him lost — Razman, his hour is come. — How ! 
 Don't you spring into the air at the idea of being 
 free ? Why, you surely don't understand me. 
 
 Raz. The idea is tempting, I must own. 
 
 Spi. Right ! Follow me then. I observed the 
 road he took. Come. A brace of pistols seldom 
 fail, and then — 
 
 Schw. ( Springs up. ) Villain, I have overheard 
 you. I remember how you behaved in the forests 
 of Bohemia. Like a coward you began to skulk, 
 when the enemy appoached. At that time 1 swore 
 by my soul — -Down to hell, assassin ! ( Both draw 
 and begin to Jight.) 
 
 Robbers. ( Rising in confusion.) Murder! Mur- 
 der ! — Schweizer 1— Spiegelberg ! — Tear them 
 asunder. 
 
 Schw. (Stabs Spiegelberg.) There lie and rot. 
 — Be quiet, comrades. — Don't let this poltroon 
 disturb you. The scoundrel always hated the 
 captain, and has not one scar upon his whole bo- 
 dy. — He wanted to lie in ambush — to murder un- 
 seen. — Have we toiled thus long, to be sent out 
 of the world in that way ? Have we passed our lives 
 amidst fire and smoke, to be caught, like rats, 
 in a trap. 
 
 Gri. But, damn it — the captain will be in a 
 terrible fury. 
 
80 
 
 T II E ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Schw. Let me settle that. Schufterle ac~led 
 in the same way, and now he is gibbeted, as the 
 captain prophesied. ( A shot is heard. J 
 
 Gri. Hark ! a shot ! ( A second is heard.) An«« 
 other ! Huzza ! It is the captain. 
 
 Kos. Patience ! He must fire a third. ( A third 
 shot is heard.) 
 
 Gri. It is the ' captain. — Conceal yourself, 
 Schweizer, till we have explained to him — 
 
 Enter Charles. 
 
 Scfliv. ( Meets him.) You are welcome, cap- 
 tain. — I have been somewhat rash since you left 
 us. (Leads him to the dead body.) You shall de- 
 cide between this man and me. He wished to 
 waylay and murder you. 
 
 Cha. ( After a pause, during which his eyes have 
 been fixed upon the corpse. ) Wonderful and incom- 
 prehensible are thy ways, O God of vengeance. 
 — Was it not this man, who sung the syren song, 
 which made me what I am ? — Consecrate the sword 
 by which he fell, to the avenger. — Schweizer, this 
 was not done by you. 
 
 Schiv. By my soul it was, and the devil take 
 me, if I think it the worst thing I ever did. ( Throws 
 the sword upon the body nvith a look of dissatisfac- 
 tion.) 
 
 Cha. (In deep meditat'wn.) I understand thee 
 —heavenly Judge — I understand thee. — The 
 leaves fall from the branches.— The autumn of my 
 life is come. — Remove this body from my sight. 
 ( He is obeyed.) 
 
 Gri. Nov/, captain, give us orders. What 
 shall we do next ? 
 
 Cha. Soon — soon all will be accomplished— 
 Since I left you I have lost myself. Sound your 
 horns. I must recal former days to my mind, 
 and gather strength from the remembrance* 
 
THE ROBBERS. 
 
 81 
 
 Kos. It is midnight, captain, and three days 
 have elapsed since we closed our eyes. Sleep 
 hangs heavy on them. 
 
 Cha, Can, then, assassins taste the balm of 
 soft repose r Why am I not allowed to sleep ? 
 Sound your horns, I say. I must hear warlike 
 music, that my torpid spirit may awake. — ('The 
 Robbers play a march, while Charles walks to and 
 fro with gloomy mien. At length he suddenly inter* 
 rupts them,) No more !-— Good night. In the 
 morning I shall issue my commands. 
 
 Robbers. ( Stretch themsche on the earth.) Good 
 Jlight captain. ( They sleep.) 
 
 Cha. Goodnight forever. It is a night, to 
 
 which no morning will succeed.— Ye spirits 
 
 numberless of those, whom I have murdered, think 
 you that I shall tremble? Never, never. Your 
 tearful dying groans, your black and strangled 
 features, your horrid gaping wounds are but links 
 of an indissoluble chain, by which Almighty Fate 
 has bound me. My nurse's humours may have 
 caused them, my father's temper, or my mother's 
 blood. Why has no Perillus made a bull of me, 
 and fed me with the flesh of man. ( Raises a pis- 
 tol to his head.) Time and eternity embrace each 
 other over this little weapon. Dread key, which 
 locks behind me the prison of life and opens the 
 abode of everlasting freedom. Tell me, oh tell 
 me whither thou wilt lead me. — To some strange 
 land, which no one ever circumnavigated. Hu- 
 man nature shudders at the awful thought, while 
 busy fancy introduces unknown phantoms, and 
 
 appals, still more, the shrinking soul. Away 
 
 with these ideas ! Man must not hesitate. Be 
 what thou may'st, thou world without a na.me, 
 Moor shall still be faithful to himself. Be what 
 thou wilt, if I but take my soul. The external 
 form is but the colour which the fancy paints. 
 
82 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 I myself am my heaven or my hell. — ( Looking to- 
 wards the horizon. J Wert thou disposed, Creator 
 of the world, to place me in some blasted region, 
 which thou hadst banished from thy sight, where 
 darkness, solitude, and dreary desolation were 
 my only prospects — my visionary brain would 
 
 people the expanse. But such is not thy will. 
 
 — Perhaps, after having led me, step by step, 
 through scenes of misery and horror, thou wilt, 
 
 at last, annihilate me. May I not be able to 
 
 brake the thread of the next life, as easily as I 
 shall do it now ?— At all events it is a liberty, of 
 which I cannot be deprived in this world. ( Again 
 raises the pistol.)— — But hold 1 Am I not about 
 to die from the mean dread of living here in ago- 
 ny ? — Cowardly deed 1 Shall it be said, that Moor 
 was conquered by misfortune ? — No. I will brave 
 the malice of fate. ( Throws the pistol away.) My 
 pride shall triumph over every difficulty. (The 
 darkness increases and a distant clock strikes twelve.) 
 
 Enter Herman. 
 
 Her. Hark! How the nightcrows shriek ! — The 
 village clock has just struck twelve. All are asleep 
 but those who feel the pangs of a bad conscience, 
 and those who brood revenge. ( Knocks at the tow- 
 er.) Rise, man of misery. I have brought your 
 meal. 
 
 Cha. {Starts.) What means this ? 
 
 A voice from the tower. Who knocks ? Is it you, 
 Herman ? Is it my raven ? 
 
 Her. It is. — Climb to the grate and eat. — 
 What a dreadful noise the owlets make!— Old 
 man, — you like your food, I hope. 
 
 Voice. It is most welcome, Herman — I was 
 very hungry. Oh thou, who sendest my raven, 
 accept my thanks for this food in the wilderness.— 
 
 Her. Silence ! Hark !— -I hear a noise. — The 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 S3 
 
 wind whistles through the chinks of the tower, 
 and makes my teeth chatter. — Hark ! again I heard 
 a noise. I could fancy some one was asleep and 
 snoring. — You have company, old man Hush 1 
 
 Voice, Do you see any one ? 
 
 Her. Farewel ! — Farewel ! — I must be gone — 
 Descend into the dungeon again. Your deliverer 
 — your avenger is near. (Going. J 
 
 Cha. Hold ! 
 
 Her. Who's there ? 
 
 Cha. Hold ! Answer me. Who art thou ? For 
 what purpose earnest thou hither ? Speak. 
 
 Her. {Aside.) One of his spies, no doubt. It 
 matters not. Fear is become a stranger to me. 
 (Draws his sword.) Villain, defend thyself. Thou 
 hast a man before thee. 
 
 Cha. ( Strikes Herman's sword, which jiies from 
 his grasp.) I will have an answer. Of what avail is 
 this sword-play ?— -Thou didst speak of vengeance 
 is my occupation — mine alone of all who dwell 
 on earth. — What mortal dares to interfere with 
 my vocation ? 
 
 Her. (starts back.) By heaven, he was not 
 born of woman. His blow was like the stroke of 
 death. 
 
 Voice. Herman, to whom are you speaking ? 
 
 Cha. There is some one in the tower. A dread- 
 ful mystery lurks here. (Rushes to the tower.) 
 This sword shall unravel it. 
 
 Her. (Approaches, trembling.) Terrible stran- 
 ger, art thou the demon of this forest, or one of 
 those dread spirits, who wander through the low- 
 er world observing every midnight a6l ? If the lat- 
 ter, oh welcome to this dungeon. 
 
 Cha. Thou art right. I am the angel of des- 
 olation, but am, nevertheless, flesh and blood like 
 thyself. If some prisoner be confined here by the 
 power of man, I will release him. Where is the 
 door ? 
 
84, 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IK 
 
 Her. Belzebub would as easily burst open the 
 portal of heaven as you this. The villain's cun- 
 ning- is superior to a mortal's strength. 
 
 Cha. But not superior to a robber's cunning. 
 ( Draws forth a bunch of keys.) I thank thee, hea- 
 ven, for having placed me at the head of robbers. 
 These keys deride the power of hell. ( Opens the 
 door, Jin old man steps forth pale and horridly ema- 
 ciated. Charles starts back.) My father ! 
 Dreadful phantom ! 
 
 Count. Oh God, accept my thanks. The hour 
 of deliverance is arrived. 
 
 Cha. Shade of the venerable Moor, what has 
 disturbed thee in thy tomb ? Hast thou taken with 
 thee to the other world some crime, which bars 
 thy passage through the gates of Paradise ? I will 
 pray, I will order masses to be read that thy wan- 
 dering spirit may be sent to its abode. Hast thou 
 buried the gold of widows and of orphans, and 
 art doomed to wander here at midnight ? I will 
 tear the subterraneous treasures from the dragons 
 which defend it, even if they vomit the flames of 
 hell at me. Or comest thou to reveal to me the 
 secrets of eternity ? Speak, oh speak. My colour 
 will not change with fear. 
 
 Cou. I am not a spirit. — Touch me Thou 
 perceivest I live — and wretchedly I live. 
 
 Cha. What 1 Wert thou not buried ? 
 
 Cou. Alas, no. A dog was buried in the vault 
 of my forefathers, and I, for three long months, 
 have languished in this gloomy tower, where no 
 sunbeam ever shines, no wholesome breath of air 
 can penetrate — where my companions are the 
 croaking raven and the shrieking bird of night. 
 
 Cha. Heaven and earth 1 Who did this I 
 
 Her. A son, 
 
 Cou. Oh, do not, do not curse him. 
 Cha. A son ! {Furiously rushing tonvards Her- 
 man.) Liar ! Villain ! — A son 1 Repeat that word 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 B5 
 
 lilid ten times will I plunge my sword into thy 
 slanderous throat. A son ! 
 
 Her. Yes — if it rouse all hell — I say Am son. 
 
 Cha. {As if petrified.) Oh eternal chaos ! 
 
 Con. If you be a man, if you possess a human 
 heart, listen to me, mighty and unknown deliverer. 
 Listen to the sorrows and the sufferings which my 
 sons have heaped upon their father. — For three 
 ■ sad dreary months I have uttered my complaints 
 to these deaf walls, and none but echo answered 
 to my groans. If, therefore, you be a man — if 
 you possess a human heart, oh listen to me. 
 
 Cha. Wolves would be tame, when thus con- 
 jured. 
 
 Cou. I lay upon the bed of sickness, and scarce- 
 ly had regained a portion of my former strength, 
 when a man appeared, who told me that my first- 
 born sen had fallen in the field of battle, and at 
 i the hour of death declared his father's curse had 
 i driven him to despair. 
 
 Her. It was false. I was the villain, who 
 | pretended to have witnessed it. Bribed by the 
 gold and promises of Francis, I became the mes- 
 isenger, whose tidings were to hinder all enquiries 
 after Charles, and, if possible, to end your days. 
 
 Cou. You 1 You 1 Gracious God 1 I was de- 
 ; ceived, then ? 
 
 Cha. {Turns anvay in the greatest agitation.') 
 I How dreadfully the day begins to dawn ! 
 
 Her. Tread on me — crush me like a poison- 
 [ous adder — I consented to destroy you — I inter- 
 cepted all letters from your Charles — destroyed 
 ;those written to him by yourself, and substituted 
 others couched in the language of hatred and re- 
 sentment. Thus were you imposed upon — thus 
 was your eldest son banished from your heart. 
 
 Cha. {In a tone of dreadful anguish.) And hence 
 that son became a robber and a murderer. {Strikes 
 (vol. ii.) H 
 
86 
 
 THE R0BBLR3. 
 
 Act XV. 
 
 his breast and forehead.) Fool ! Blockhead ! Dolt! 
 — A villain's arts have made thee a thief and an 
 incendiary. {Walks to and fro ivith looks of horror 
 and distraction.) 
 
 Cou. Francis ! Francis ! — But I will not curse 
 him. — To be thus deceived 1 — Blind dotard that I 
 was ! 
 
 Cha. (Suddenly stops. ) While my father was 
 confined in tlds tower — ( Suppressing his emotion.) 
 I have no right to complain. — (Turns to the Count, 
 and endeavours to appear composed. J Proceed. 
 
 Con. When this intelligence was brought, I 
 swooned. Doubtless I was supposed to be dead, 
 for when my senses returned, I found myself up- 
 on a bier, clad in a shroud. I knocked at the top 
 of the coffin — which was opened. It was mid- 
 night, and my son Francis stood before me. 
 « What 1" cried he, with a voice of thunder, "will 
 you live for ever ?" and instantly again shut the 
 coffin. These words overpowered me. When I 
 awoke, I felt the coffin raised and carried away. 
 At length it was opened, and I found myself at 
 the entrance of this tower. At my side stood 
 Francis and the man, who had brought me my 
 Charles's bloody sword.— I embraced my son's 
 
 knees — prayed — entreated — conjured him in 
 
 vain. His flinty heart was dead to pity. i " Down 
 with the dotard 1 roared he, " I have been plagued 
 with him too long'' — upon which I was cast 
 into the dungeon, and my son Francis locked the 
 door. 
 
 Cha. It is not possible. You must be mistaken. 
 Cou. Oh that I were.! Hear the sequel of my 
 story, but be not incensed. Thus I lay full twenty 
 • hours in dreadful solicitude. No mortal ever ven- 
 tures hither, for it is universally believed that 
 the spirits of my ancestors wander at midnight 
 through these ruins, rattling their chains, and 
 
Jet IV. THE ROBBERS. 87 
 
 I chaunting songs of death. At length I again 
 f heard the door open. This man appeared. He 
 ; brought me bread and water; told me that I was 
 i doomed to die by hunger, and added that his life 
 | was in danger, should it be discovered that he 
 supplied me with food. Thus has my life been 
 i preserved, but my remnant of strength was un- 
 able to oppose the chilling blast — the fetid air— ■ 
 the unutterable anguish of my mind. A thousand 
 times have I prayed that I might be allowed to 
 die ; but doubtless the measure of my punishment 
 was not filled — or some happiness awaits me ere 
 I quit this world — else, why is my life thus mira- 
 culously prolonged ? — But it is just that I should 
 suffer. My Charles I My Charles ! 
 
 Cha. Enough ! {To the Robbers^) Rise ! Ye 
 logs — ye idle, senseless lumps of clay ! Rise, I 
 say. Will none of you awake ? {Fires a pistol over 
 them.) 
 
 Rob, {Starting from their sleep.) Holla ! What 
 now? What's the matter? 
 
 Cha. Could not this horrid story wake yon 
 from your slumbers ? Methinks it might have 
 roused the dead. Look here 1 The laws of this 
 world are become a game at dice. The bands of 
 nature have been rent asunder. Discord* is let 
 loose, and stalks triumphant. A son has slain 
 his father. 
 
 Rob. What says the captain ? 
 j. 4 Cha. Slain ! No. That is too mild a term. A 
 son has butchered, racked, flead his father. Where 
 shall I find words ? He has committed a crime, 
 at which even the cannibal would shudder— -a 
 Icrime, of which no devil would have thought. In 
 this tower has a son confined his own father. Oh 
 
 see, see — he faints. In this tower — cold — naked 
 
 [hungry — thirsty — oh see, see — this is the father 
 (—-this is my father. 
 
8? 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Rob. ( Rush forward and surround the old man.) 
 Your father ! Your father ! 
 
 Scfiiv. (Approaches with reverence^ and kneels.) 
 Father of my captain, let me kiss thy feet. My 
 dagger is ready to avenge thy wrongs. 
 
 Cha. Ay — horribly, most horribfy shalt thou 
 be avenged, much injured venerable man. Thus 
 I destroy for ever the tie of fraternity. (Tears 
 his coat from top to bottom.) Thus, in the face of 
 heaven I curse each drop of blood, which flows in 
 the veins of him, who was my brother. Hear me, 
 oh moon and stars ! Hear me, ye spirits of the 
 night, who witnessed the abominable act! Hear 
 me, terrific judge, whose lightnings pierce 
 through darkness to avenge the injured — thus I 
 kneel before thee — prostrate I raise my arm to- 
 wards thy throne, and swear may Nature drive 
 
 me like a hideous monster from her boundaries, 
 ifl greet the light of day until my sword has drank 
 the heart's blood of this fell parricide — until the 
 purple current stains the earth, and spreads its 
 noisome vapours through the air. ( Rises. J 
 
 Rob. Glorious 1 Glorious ! Who can call us 
 Villains, now ? By all the fiends of hell we never 
 yet have been so well employed. 
 
 Cha. True — and by the dreadful groans of 
 those, whom we have murdered — of those who 
 were devoured by fire, or crushed beneath the 
 tower at Leipzig — no thought of rapine shall find 
 place in our minds, till each of us has dyed his 
 garment purple in the blood of the foul villain. 
 \ow never dreamt that it would be your lot to ex- 
 ecute the great decrees of heaven. The clue of 
 destiny, so long confused, is now unravelled. 
 This day does an invisible power dignify our oc- 
 cupation. Offer up your prayers and thanks to 
 Him, who lias exalted you to this honourable 
 rank ; who has deigned to appoint you the dread- 
 
Act IV. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 89 
 
 Ful agents of his dark decrees. Bare your heads 
 i — prostrate yourselves in the dust — and rise hal- 
 lowed men. (They kneel.) 
 
 Schw. Now, Captain, issue your commands. 
 We are ready. 
 
 Cha. Rise, Schweitzer, and touch these sa- 
 cred locks. C Leads him to the Count, and places 
 a lock of hair in his hand. J You recollect, that 
 once, when overpowered and breathless, I had 
 sunk updn my knee, you cleft the skull of a Bo- 
 hemian, who had already raised his sword to slay 
 me. At that time I promised you a royal recom- 
 pence, but have never been able to discharge the 
 obligation. 
 
 Schw. You made this promise, I allow, but 
 let me for ever be your creditor. 
 
 Cha. No, Schweitzer— -to-day I have it in my 
 power to pay the debt. No mortal ever was so 
 Jiighly honoured. I appoint thee the avenger of 
 my father's wrongs. 
 
 Schw. C Rises.) Great captain, you have to- 
 day made me for the first time proud. Command 
 me. How, where, and when shall I make the 
 attack ? 
 
 Cha. The moments are precious. You must 
 ( depart instantly. Select from the band as many 
 as you please, and proceed to the villain's castle. 
 Drag him from his bed, though he be asleep, or 
 in the arms of a wanton. Seize him at the ban- 
 quet — tear him from the crucifix. But mark my 
 words, and let them not escape your memory at 
 the decisive moment. He must be delivered to 
 me alive. Should any one attempt to wound him, 
 or to hurt a hair of his^head, that man shall pe- 
 rish by this arm. I'll tear him piecemeal, and 
 feed the hungry vultures with his carcase. I must 
 have him whole and uninjured. If you bring him 
 thus, your recompence shall be a million. I'll 
 H 2 
 
90 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 plunder some monarch, at the peril of my life, in 
 order to obtain it. If you have understood me, go. 
 
 Schiu, Enough, Captain 1 There is my hand. 
 You shall see both of us or neither. Follow me, 
 comrades. 
 
 (Exeunt Schweitzer, Herman and several Robbers, 
 Cha. ( To the rest.) Disperse yourselves ia 
 the forest. I shall stay here. 
 
 EKD OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
ict V. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 91 
 
 a c r v. 
 
 jcene— A gallery in which are seen doors to vari- 
 ous apartments. Francis rushes from one of them. 
 
 Fra. Betrayed ! Betrayed ! A thousand spirits 
 lave started from their graves. All the empire of 
 leath is in motion, and on every side my ear is 
 ortured with the name of murderer. Ha ! Who 
 moves there ? 
 
 Enter Daniel. 
 
 Dan. Heaven have mercy on us ! Is it you, 
 my Lord, whose shrieks echo through the gallery, 
 and rouse all who sleep ? 
 
 Fra. Sleep ! Who permitted you to sleep ? 
 iLet every one instantly arise — let every one clothe 
 himself in armour, and load his musket. — Didst 
 thou not see them flit along the corridors ? 
 
 Dan. Whom, my Lord ? 
 
 Fra Whom 1 blockhead ! whom ! Canst thou 
 thus coldly ask me whom ?— Oh, the sight thril- 
 led through my very marrow. Spirits of the damn- 
 ed ! — What is the hour of night ? 
 
 Dan. The watchman has just called two. 
 
 Fra. Two ! Will this night, then, extend to the 
 day of judgment. Did you hear no noise in the 
 neighbourhood — no shout of triumph — no gallop- 
 ing of horses ? Where is Charles — the Count 1 
 mean ? 
 
 Dan. I do not know, my Lord. 
 
 Fra. Not know 1 Thou art in the plot, then. 
 I'll tear thy entrails piecemeal, villain. What 1 
 have my dependents too* — have even beggars con- 
 spired against me ? Heaven— hell — every thing 
 conspires against me. 
 
 Dan. Count Moor! 
 
92 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Jet V. 
 
 Fra. No I will not tremble. It was but a 
 dream. The dead cannot awake from their eter- 
 nal sleep. Who says that I tremble and am pale ? 
 — «I feel easy and well. 
 
 Dan. You are pale as death — your voice faul- 
 ters, my lord. 
 
 Fra. Yes — I am somewhat feverise — my sur- 
 geon shall bleed me in the morning. 
 
 Dan. Oh,' you are very ill — 
 
 Fra. True — I am ill. — My disorder affects my 
 brain, and is the cause of these terrific dreams ; 
 but dreams mean nothing, Daniel, dreams mean 
 nothing. — I had a merry dream just now. (Faints.) 
 
 Dan. Gracious God? What can this mean? 
 George ! Conrad ! Bastion ! Martin ! Rouse your- 
 self, my lord. (Shakes him.) I shall be suspected 
 of having murdered him. God have mercy on me ! 
 
 Fra. Away ? away ! Why dost thou shake me 
 thus vile ghastly spectre ?— The dead cannot 
 awake from — 
 
 Dan. Merciful heaven I He knows not what 
 he says. 
 
 Fra. (Raises himselj slowly.). Where am I ? 
 You here, Daniel ! What did I say, just now ?— 
 Pay no regard to it — for it was faise, be it what 
 it might. — Come hither. Raise me. It was only 
 a kind of fit, in consequence of wanting resU 
 
 Dan. I'll call your surgeon, my lord. 
 
 Fra. Hold 1 Seat yourself at my side, upon 
 this sofa. — You are a sensible, a worthy man. 
 Listen to me. 
 
 Dan. Another time, my lord. Let me lead 
 you to bed. Repose is necessary. 
 
 Fra. No. Listen to me, Daniel, and laugh at 
 me. Methought I had be*en feasting at a splen- 
 did banquet. My heart was elated, and 1 lay 
 stretched on the platform, with sensation the most 
 pleasing, when suddenly — suddenly — but laugh 
 at me, I charge you. 
 
Act v. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Dan. Proceed, my lord. 
 
 Fra. Suddenly my ear was assailed by a tre- 
 mendous peal of thunder. I started up, and s.i\r 
 the whole horizon wrapped in flames. Mountains, 
 cities, and forests, melted like wax in a furnace, 
 while a terrific hurricane swept before it the ocean, 
 : the heavens, and the earth. 
 
 Dan. Horrible ! It is the description of the 
 last day. 
 
 Fra. Pshaw ! nonsense ! — Then a person stept 
 ; forth with scales in his hand, which he held be- 
 Itween east and west, and said: "Approach, ye 
 I children of dust. I weigh the thoughts of man." 
 
 Dan. God have mercy on me ! 
 
 Fra. All turned pale. Fearful expectation 
 beat in every breast. — My name was first heard. 
 The sound issued from the bowels of the moun- 
 tain. My blood congealed with terror — my teeth 
 chattered — -my knees smote each other. 
 
 Dan. Oh ! God forgive you ! 
 
 Fra, That did he not. An old man appeared, 
 pale — emaciated — bent towards the earth, by sor- 
 rows and distress. Raging hunger had compel- 
 led him to eat his own arm. At his approach all 
 shuddered, and turned away. I knew the man. 
 He cut a lock from his hoary head, and threw it 
 towards me. Instantly a voice thundered through 
 the smoke : " Mercy, mercy to all sinners upon 
 earth. Thou alone art rejected." — (A long pause.) 
 Now, why do you not laugh ? 
 
 Dan. Can I be expected to laugh, when my 
 flesh creeps ? Dreams are sent by heaven. 
 
 Fra. Pshaw, pshaw ! Talk not thus. Call me 
 a fool, a blockhead — call me any thing, clear Dan- 
 iel—laugh at me — I beseech you laugh at me. 
 
 Dan. Dreams are sent by heaven. 1 will 
 pray for you. (Exit, 
 
 Fra. Mean, vulgar prejudice and superstition ! 
 
94 THE ROBBERS. Act W 
 
 — It has never yet been proved that any eye, above 
 this earth, observes what passes on it. What 
 makes me just now think of this subject ? — Is 
 there an avenging judge above the stars ? Alas, I 
 fear there is. Dreadful, horrible idea I — To ap- 
 pear this very night before the avenging judge- 
 No, no, no. — 3oiitu.de and silence reign beyond 
 this world.- It must not, shall not, be otherwise. 
 
 —•Yet should it, notwithstanding. Why do 
 
 I tremble thus ? — To die J — Why am I alarmed 
 
 at this idea? Oh should I be obliged to give 
 
 account of all my actions and should my judge 
 be just 
 
 Enter a Servant, hastily. 
 
 Ser. My lord, Amelia has escaped, and the 
 count has suddenly disappeared. 
 
 Enter Daniel, much alarmed. 
 
 Dan. Count Moor, a troop of horsemen has 
 this instant galloped into the court. The whole 
 village is in motion. 
 
 Era. Ring the alarm-bell. Let every one hasten 
 to the chapel, and pray for me. I will release all 
 the prisoners. Threefold I will repay what I have 
 taken from the helpless. Go — call my confessor, 
 that he may give me absolution. — Go, I say. {The 
 tumult becomes more audible.') 
 
 Dan. God forgive me my sins ! May I believe 
 what I hear ? You who always ridiculed religion. 
 
 Era. No more. — Death, Daniel, death It 
 
 is too late. (Schweitzer is heard without.) Pray 
 for me 1 Oh pray for me. 
 
 Dan. Yes, I always told you that when the fa- 
 tal day arrived— 
 
 Schvj. [Without,) Down with them 1 Burst the 
 gates open. I see a light. He must be there. 
 
 Era. {Kneels.) Hear my prayer, Almighty- 
 God. It is the first I ever uttered. Hear me 
 Almighty God I 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 05 
 
 Schw. {Still in the court.) Drive them back, 
 jcomrades. Back, you damned clogs. I am the 
 ■devil, and am come for your master. Where is 
 ,the black fellow and his troop ? Grimm, station 
 lyour men at distances from each other round the 
 castle. Storm the ramparts to the east, 
 i Gri. Hurl the fire-brands. The scoundrel will 
 appear when he smells the flames. 
 
 Fra. {Prays.) Oh Lord God 1 I have not been 
 a common murderer — I have not been guilty of 
 [any trifling crimes. 
 
 Dan. God have mercy on us ! Even his prayers 
 are crimes. ( Firebrands and stones are jhroiun *n- 
 to the castle. J 
 
 Fra. I cannot pray. — Here — here — (Striking 
 his breast and forehead. J all is so dreary. ( Rises.) 
 >;o. — I will not pray. 
 
 Dan. Jesus Maria 1 Help! Kelp i The whole 
 castle is in flames. 
 
 Fra. Daniel — obey me — take this sword, and 
 Iplunge it to my heart, that I may not be made 
 |the sport of these vile rascals. ( The fire spreads 
 on all sides.) 
 
 Dan. Heaven forbid ! I should not like to send 
 (any one too soon to heaven — far less to — 
 
 ( Runs out. 
 
 Fra. (After a pause during 'which he has follow- 
 ed Daniel with a look of horror and despa'r.) To 
 Hell, thou wouldst have said — and rightly wouldst 
 have said — Is this the triumphant tumult of the 
 demons who await me ? — Hark 1 — They approach 
 
 — they have entered the castle. Why does this 
 
 jmurderous weapon make me tremble ? — Ha ! The 
 gates are broken. — Escape is impossible. Wel- 
 come, Hell. ( Springs into the fames.) 
 
THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Scene— The forest and tower as at the end of the 
 fourth act. The Count is discovered sitting up- 
 on a stone. Charles stands near him. Several 
 Robbers are seen at a distance in the Forest. 
 Cha. And you loved this other son ? 
 Con. Heaven knows how sincerely. Oh, why 
 did I listen to the falshoods of that monster Fran- 
 cis: I wasonce an enviable parent — blessed with 
 most hopeful children — but oh, in an unlucky 
 hour,, that demon Envy entered into the breast 
 of my younger son. I listened to the serpent, and 
 lost both my children. ( Hides his face — Charles 
 walks from him.) — Deeply do I feel the truth of 
 thy words, dear Amelia. The spirit of vengeance 
 spoke from thy lips. Alas, yes. In vain do I 
 stretch forth my arms to embrace my son. In 
 vain do I wish to grasp the warm hand of my 
 Charles. (Charles presents his hand, with averted 
 countenance. J Oh that this were his hand ! But he 
 is dead — buried far from his native home — he can 
 never hear his father's lamentations. — Wretch 
 that I am 1 — I have no son to close my eyes. I 
 must die in the arms of a stranger. 
 
 Cha. ( In most violent agitation.) It must be 
 so. The decisive moment is arrived. {To the 
 Robbers.) Leave me. — and yet — can I restore to 
 him his son ? — Alas, no. 
 
 Cou. Why do you mutter thus, my generous 
 friend ? 
 
 Cha. Your son — yes, old man— your son is— 
 lost for ever. 
 
 Cou. True, true. 
 
 Cha. ( Raising his eyes towards heaven.) Sup* 
 port my sinking soul. — Grant me but fortitude to 
 bear this trial. — ( Aloud. ) Yes, your son is lost 
 for ever. 
 
 Cou. Stranger, stranger, did you release me 
 from the tower only to remind me of my sorrows? 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 97 
 
 Cha. ( Aside.) How, if I were to snatch his 
 blessing— to steal it, like a thief, and escape with 
 the precious prize. (Sinks on his knee at the feet 
 of the Count.) 'Twas I, who liberated thee, ve 
 nerable man, I crave thy blessing. 
 
 Con. ( Presses him to his heart.) Think that 
 a father blesses thee — and I will think I bless my 
 Charles. — Thou, too, canst weep, I see. 
 
 Cha. (In great emotion.) Yes, I will think it 
 is a father's blessing. ( Hangs on the Count's neck, 
 A pause ensues. At length a confused noise is heard, 
 and torches are seen at a distance. Charles starts 
 from the Count's arms.) Hark ! Vengeance calls 
 to me. They come. ( Gazes awhile at the old 
 man — then looks towards the approaching Robbers 
 with grim ferocity.) Inflame me, suffering lamb, 
 with the murderous fury of the tiger. I will of- 
 fer a sacrifice to thee, which shall make the stars 
 grow dim, and petrify all animated nature. (The 
 torches become more visible — the noise more audible. 
 Several pistols are fred.) 
 
 Cou. Merciful heaven ! What means this dread- 
 ful noise ? Are my son's creatures coming to drag 
 me to the scaffold ? 
 
 Cha. (Folding his hands with fervour.) Listen, 
 oh heavenly Judge, listen to the prayer of an as- 
 Isassin. Make this wretch immortal. Let not 
 the first stroke of this sword destroy him. No. 
 Let me enjoy his lengthened agonies. Let me 
 feast on the convulsions of his tortured frame. 
 
 Cou. What are you muttering, stranger ? 
 
 Cha. I am praying. (The wild noise of the ap- 
 proaching Robbers is heard.) 
 
 Cou. Oh think of Francis in your prayers. 
 
 Cha. (Suppressing his fury.) Be assured I do. 
 
 Cou. But is that the tone of supplication ? 
 Cease, cease. I shudder at such prayers. 
 
 (VOL. II.) I 
 
OS THE ROBBERS. Act 
 
 Enter Schweitzer, and other Robbers, conduc 
 ing Francis, who is in irons. 
 
 Schw. Triumph, Captain I I have fulfilled 
 vow. — Here is the villain. 
 
 Gri. We snatched him from the flames. 
 
 Kos. And reduced his castle to ashes. 
 
 Cha. (sifter a dreadful pause, approaches Fran'i 
 cis.) Dost thou know me ? Francis rivets his eycM 
 on the earth, and returns no answer. Charles leads 
 him to the Count.) Dost thou know this man? 
 
 Fra. ( Starts back, with a look of horror. J Light- 
 nings blast me ! 'Tis my father. 
 
 Cou. (Turns away.) Go. — God forgive thee 1 I 
 will forget all. 
 
 Cha. (With terrific sternness.) And may my 
 curse hang to that prayer like tons of lead, that 
 it may never reach the ear of Mercy. — Dost thou 
 know this tower, too ? 
 
 Fra. (With violence to Herman. ) Monster! 
 Has thy hatred to our race pursued my father 
 even to this tower. 
 
 Her. Bravo 1 Bravo 1 The devil is not so wick- 
 ed as to let his friends perish for want of a lie. -.- 
 
 Cha. Enough 1 Conduct this old man further 
 into the forest. That which must now be done, 
 shall not be interrupted by a father's tears. (Count 
 is led away,) Come nearer, ye banditti. (They\ 
 form a semicircle round Charles and Francis, and 
 lean upon their muskets. J Now — not another word. 
 As I hope for mercy, the man who dares to move! 
 his tongue till I command it, dies on the spot.— 
 Silence. 
 
 Fra. (Transported with fury, rushes towards 
 Herman. ) Villain, villain 1 Oh that I could spit 
 a flood of poison on thee 1 ( Bites his chains.) 
 
 Cha. (With dignified majesty.) I stand here, 
 appointed by the Eternal Judge, to execute his 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 99 
 
 office upon earth. The sentence I shall pass is 
 such as all creation will approve. The tribunal 
 is formed of villains, and I, the greatest, am its 
 head. ,Let your daggers speak your sentiments. 
 Let every one compare his actions with those of 
 this wretch, and if, then, there be among you 
 one who does not feel himself a saint, let him 
 withdraw and break his dagger. ( All the Robbers 
 mrow down their daggers unbroken. Charles turns 
 to Francis.) Non thou mayst be proud, for to-day 
 thou hast converted sinners into angels. — One 
 dagger still is wanted. (Draws forth his own.) 
 His mother was also mine. (To Kosinski and 
 Schweitzer.) Be you his judges. ( Breaks his 
 dagger, and walks aside in great emotion. J 
 
 Schw. ( after a pause. J 1 feel a very school-boy, 
 and rack my mind in vain. Numerous as are the 
 enjoyments of 'life, the torments of death seem 
 to be few. (Stamping with violence.) Kosinski, 
 speak. I can devise no torture, which I think 
 sufficient. 
 
 Kos. Shame on you, grey-beard ! Cast a glance 
 at the tower — let that inspire you. I am but a 
 scholar. — Don't make me feel ashamed of my 
 tutor. 
 
 Schw. I am grown grey amidst scenes of hor- 
 ror, but, at present, I feel a beggar in ideas. I 
 i thank you, comrade. Was not this tower the 
 place in which he exercised his cruelties ? Do we 
 not stand as judges before this tower ? Down 
 with him ! There let him die and rot. 
 
 Rob. (With shouts of joy.) Right ! Right ! 
 Down with him into the dungeon ! 
 
 Fra. ( Rushes into his brother's arms.) Save me 
 from the claws of these assassins. Save me, bro- 
 ther. 
 
 Cha. {With stem solemnity.) Thou didst make 
 me their leader. (Francis starts back alarmed.) 
 Canst thou still ask me to save thee I 
 
ICO 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act V, 
 
 Rob. (With increasing eagerness*) Down with 
 him ! To the dungeon with him ! 
 
 Cha. ( Approaches him ivith a dignified mei?i f 
 and a look of sorrow.) Son of my father, thou hast 
 robbed me of celestial happiness. Be that crime 
 pardoned. The tortures of hell await thee as a 
 son — as a brother / forgive thee. ( Embraces him, 
 and hastens away. The Robbers, with frantic 
 shouts of delight, plunge Francis into the dungeon, 
 Charles returns.) It is accomplished. Accept 
 my thanks, Almighty Ruler of the world. The 
 dreadful deed is done, {A pause ensues, during 
 which he appears to be meditating some great design.) 
 Should Providence have decreed, after so far lead- 
 ing me upon the path of blood, that this tower 
 shall be the goal of my career, i bend to his de- 
 cree and willingly obey. — I rely upon the mercy 
 of my God, and rejoice that my work is at an 
 end. How gloriously the hero dies, whom victo- 
 ry has crowned. This was the greatest action of 
 my life—'tis right that it should be the last. 
 Amidst the gloom of night I will expire. Con- 
 duct my father hither. ( Exeunt Robbers. 
 
 Re-enter Count and Robbers. 
 
 Cou. Whither will you lead me ? Where is 
 
 my son ? 
 
 Cha. {Meets him with dignified composure.) Each 
 planet and each grain of sand has its appointed 
 place in the creation — your son, too, has his. 
 Compose yourself, and be seated. 
 
 Cou. {Bursts into tears.) No longer a son—- no 
 longer a son in the world. 
 
 Cha, Compose yourself, and he steated. 
 
 Cou. Oh ye compassionate barbarians ! You 
 drag a dying father from his dungeon, that you 
 may tell him he is childless. Let your compas- 
 sion do still more 1 Replace me where I was, 
 I beseech you. 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 101 
 
 Cha. (Grasps his haryd with fervour and raises 
 it towards heaven.) Blaspheme not, old man. Ac- 
 cuse not that Being, whom I to-day have wor- 
 shipped with sincerity. Men, more wicked far 
 than you, have this day been allowed to approach 
 the throne of God. 
 
 Cou. Murderers approach the throne of God ! 
 
 Cha. (Incensed.) Not another word, I do com- 
 mand thee. (In a milder tone.) If even sinners 
 feel the influence of heavenly Kindness, shall 
 saints despair of feeling it ? Where could you 
 find words to atone for such a sin, were God this 
 day to baptize for you a son. 
 
 Cou. (With asperity.) Are sons to-day baptiz- 
 ed with blood ? 
 
 Cha. Yes. Providence can baptize Avith blood, 
 and does so to-day. The ways of heaven are 
 dreadful and mysterious — but tears of joy await 
 us, when we have reached the point of destination. 
 
 Cou. Where shall I shed them ? 
 
 Cha. (Rushes into his arms.) On the breast of 
 Charles. 
 
 Cou. (With a shout of transport.) My Charles 
 alive ? 
 
 Cha. He is alive — and has been sent hither to 
 release and to avenge you. This (Pointing to 
 the tower) was the reward bestowed upon you by 
 the favoured son — this (Pressing him to his heart) 
 is the vengeance of the son whom you abandoned. 
 
 Rob. There are people in the forest. We hear 
 voices. 
 
 Cha. Call the rest. (Exeunt Robbers.) I must 
 be resolute, and dash the cup of joy from my lips 
 ere it be converted into poison. 
 
 Cou. Are these men your Iriends ? I almost 
 fear their looks. 
 
 Cha. I will answer any question but this, my 
 father. Do not ask this. 
 
 i 2 
 
THE ROBDERS. 
 
 Jet 
 
 Enter Amelia, with dishevelled hair, followed by 
 the Robbers. 
 
 Ame. They say his voice has raised the dead — 
 they say mv uncle is alive. — Charles I Uncle I 
 Where shall I find them ? 
 
 Cha. (Shuddering. ) What demon brings that 
 image to my view ? 
 
 Cou. (Raises himself.) Amelia! my niece ! 
 
 Ame. ( Ruslies into his arms.) Do I again 
 behold you dearest uncle— and my Charles too ? 
 
 Cou, Yes. Charles is alive — You — I — all. 
 
 Cha. (In a phrenzy to the band.) Away com- 
 rades. The archfiend has betrayed me. 
 
 Ame. (Releases herself from the Count's em- 
 brace, and clasps Charles in her arms.) I have him 
 again 1 Angels of bliss ! I have him again ! 
 
 Cha. Tear her from my neck. Murder her— > 
 murder him — me — every one. Let all the world 
 perish. 
 
 Ame. Dearest Charles ! — The transport over- 
 powers him. Why am I thus cool ? Am I not as 
 happy as himself? 
 
 Cou. Come, children. Your hand, Charles—- 
 and your's Amelia. Oh, I little thought that so 
 much bliss awaited me. I will unite you for ever. 
 
 Ame. Oh ecstasy indescribable ! Mine, mine 
 for ever ! Ye powers of heaven, release me from 
 this load of bliss, lest I should sink beneath the 
 weight of it. 
 
 Cha. (Who has torn himself from her arms.) 
 Away ! away ! Most unfortunate of brides ! Look 
 
 at these men — ask them — listen to them Most 
 
 unfortunate of fathers ! Let me fly far away, and 
 hide myself for ever. 
 
 Ame. Fly ! Whither ! Why ? A life of ecstasy 
 awaits you and you wish to fly ? 
 
 Cou. Can my sou wish to fly — my son — Ame- 
 lia's husband? 
 
£gt f, THE ROBBERS. 103 
 
 Cha. Too late 1 — In vain ! — Curst; 1112, my fa* 
 
 ther. Ask me no more questions. — Die, Amelia 
 
 die my father — rescued by me, to be by me 
 
 destroyed. These thy deliverers are robbers and 
 assassins. Thy son is — their captain. 
 
 Cou. God of heaven I My children! (Falls, 
 l and instantly expires, Amelia stands rooted to the 
 \spot, and all the Robbers preserve a dreadful si- 
 lence. ) 
 
 Cha. The souls of those whom I murdered 
 amidst the enjoyments of love — of those whom I 
 
 strangled in their sleep — of those Ha 1 ha ! 
 
 ha ! Do you hear the powder-magazine ? — Do you 
 j observe that roof falling upon the helpless woman, 
 who is in childbed? Do you see those flames creep* 
 j ing round the cradle of the infant ? That is the 
 1 hymeneal torch. Hear you those shrieks ? That 
 is the bridal music. Oh, he does not forget — he 
 
 I claims his due therefore away from me, all 
 
 joys of love. This is retaliation. 
 
 Ame. ( Awaking from her reverie. ) What have 
 I done, father of all, what have I done ? 
 
 Cha. This is more than man can bear. I who 
 have seen death in its every shape, and never was 
 appalled — shall I now be taught to tremble by a 
 woman ? — No. It shall not be. I will drink blood, 
 and bid defiance to the tyrant Fate. (Going.) 
 
 Ame. ( Throws herself into his arms. ) Murder- 
 er ! Demon I I cannot lose thee, angel. 
 
 Cha. (Stops with an astonished air.) Am I 
 awake ? — Am I mad ? — Has hell devised some new 
 method of tormenting me ? She hangs upon the 
 neck of an assassin. 
 Ame. For ever. 
 
 Cha. She still loves me — loves me with all my 
 crimes. Then am I pure as is the light of day. 
 A child of light weeps upon the neck of a pardon- 
 ed demon. The Furies can no longer lash me 
 
101. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 with their serpents — the power of hell is annihi- 
 lated — I am happy. ( Hicks his face in her bosom,) 
 
 Gri. ( Approaches with a furious look,) Hold, 
 traitor. Instantly quit her embrace, or I will 
 speak a word that shall convulse thy frame. 
 
 Schw, ( Places his sword between Charles and 
 Amelia.) Remember the forest of Bohemia. Trai- 
 tor? Where are now your vows? Have you forgotten 
 that in your defence we risked our lives — our 
 honour — every thing? Did any one of us escape 
 without wounds? Did we not stand like rocks? 
 And did not you raise your arm, and swear never 
 to forsake us, as we had not forsaken you ? Trai- 
 tor ! Can a woman make you false to your oath? 
 
 Rob, (Tear open their cloaths,) Look here — I 
 and here — and here. Do you know these scars ? 
 We bought you with our heart's blood. OurV 
 you are, and shall remain, though angels try tq 
 tear you from us. Come with us. A victim for a 
 viclim I A woman for the band ! 
 
 Cha. Be it so. I wished to return to virtue, 
 but He, who reigns in heaven, forbids it. Roll 
 not your eyes thus wildly, dear Amelia. God has 
 millions of beings created by himself, and wants 
 not me. He can easily spare one — that one am I. 
 (Turns to the band.) 
 
 Ame. ( Holds him back,) Stay, 1 beseech you. 
 A single blow — strike but a single blow. Draw 
 your sword, and be compassionate. 
 
 Cha, Compassion dwells among the beasts of 
 the forest. I will not murder thee. 
 
 Ame, (Embracing his knees,) Oh, for heaven's 
 sa ke — for mercy's sake — I ask you not, for affec- 
 tion — but for death. See, my hand trembles. I 
 have not courage to guide the fatal weapon. For 
 you it is easy — for you are accustomed to it. 
 Plunge your sword into my heart — and I shall be 
 happy. 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE ROBBERS. 
 
 105 
 
 ! Cha. (With great sternness.) And why must 
 !you alone be happy ? — Begone : Moor cannot slay 
 a woman. 
 
 Ame. Inhuman wretch I You pass by those 
 Jvvho are weary of existence, and murder none but 
 the happy. {To the Robbers, in a tone of suppli- 
 cation.) Have compassion on me, men of blood. 
 There is a ferocious scowl upon your foreheads, 
 which to the wretched is consoling. Fire at me. 
 i Your leader is a boaster and a coward. {Some of 
 Ithe Robbers take aim at her.) 
 
 Cha. {Enraged.) Away, ye demons ! ( Walks 
 forward with a majestic mien,) Who dares to break 
 iinto my sanctuary ? She is mine. ( Draws her to 
 him, and puts his arm round her waist.) Now let 
 heaven and hell attempt to part us. Love scorns 
 the power of oaths. ( Raises her into the air, and 
 with dauntless look holds her before the band.) Who 
 will dare to separate what nature has united ? 
 " Rob. ( Again taking aim.) We will. 
 
 Cha. (With a smile of contempt.) Impotent 
 reptiles ! ( Places Amelia upon a stone — she is al- 
 most bereft of every faculty.) Look up, my bride. 
 No priestly blessing will unite us, but I know 
 something better. {Removes the handkerchief from 
 Amelia's neck, and exposes her bosom to the Rob- 
 bers. J Look at these heavenly charms. (With 
 mournful tenderness ) Do they not even melt the 
 hearts of murderers ? ( After a pause, in a milder 
 tone.) Look at me, murderers. — I am young.— 
 I love and am beloved — I adore and am adored. 
 I have reached the gate of Paradise. {With great 
 emotion.) Will my comrades drive me back? (Rob- 
 bers laugh.) Charles summons his resolution, and 
 looks at them with dignity and sternness.} Enough 1 
 —Thus far nature has prevailed — now let the 
 man appear. I am an assassin, and (Walking to- 
 ward than with indescribable majesty ) your cap- 
 
106 
 
 THE RODDERS. 
 
 tain. Traitors, dare you raise your arms against \ 
 your captain ? ( In a commanding tone. J Ground 
 your muskets ! 'Tis your leader, who addresses 
 you. (The Robbers are ala-med, and throw their 
 arms down.) Right !, Now you are mere children ■ 
 — I am free. Moor must be free in order to be 
 great. I would not exchange the triumphant 
 sensations which I now enjoy, for an elysium of 
 love. (Draws his sword.) Call not that phrcn- 
 zy, which you are incapable of calling great. De- 
 spair outstrips the tardy course of calm philoso» 
 phy. A deed like this will not allow deliberation 
 to precede it. I will reflect when it is done. 
 ( Plunges the sword into Amelia's breast.) 
 
 Rob. (Clap their hands.) Bravo 1 Bravo ! Thy 
 honour is redeemed thou king of robbers. 
 
 Cha. (Leans over Amelia.) Now she is mine 
 —mine forever — or eternity is a mere blockhead's' 
 whim. With my sword have I obtained my bride, 
 in spite of all the dragons with which Fate, my 
 deadly foe, had guarded her. Many, many a 
 time shall this our earth revolve around the sun, 
 
 ere he shall behold another deed like this. 
 
 Sweet must it be, Amelia, thus to receive your 
 death from your beloved. 
 
 Jlme. (Weltering in blood.") Most sweet. Stretch- 
 es forth her hands and dies.) 
 
 Cha. Now, miserable reptiles — are you satis* 
 fied ? Had you hearts hard enough to claim a sa- 
 crifice so great? Your sacrifice to me was a life 
 of infamy — the victim I have offered up to you 
 was an angel. (Throws his sword into the midst 
 of them with disdain.) Banditti — we are even. 
 Over this corpse I claim my liberty-— and grant 
 you your's. 
 
 Rob. (Crowd round him.) We will never for- 
 sake you. — we will be obedient till death. 
 
 Cha. No, no, no. My mission is accomplish- 
 
Act V. 
 
 THE 
 
 a o b k b s . 
 
 107 
 
 :d. My genius whispers to me that I may not 
 proceed. I have reached the goal of my career. 
 Take back this blood-stained plume. (Throws 
 it down. J Let him who chuses to be your captain, 
 take it up. 
 
 Rob. Coward! Where are now your mighty 
 projects ? Were they mere bubbles, which a wo- 
 man's dying groan could burst? 
 
 Cha. {With dignity.) Dare not to scrutinize what 
 Moor has done. This is my last command. Now, 
 form a circle round me, and listen to your dying- 
 captain's testament. {Rivets his eyes upon the 
 hand.) You have been faithful to me — faithful 
 Deyond example. Had virtue bound you as firm- 
 ly to each other as guilt, you had been heroes, 
 and your names had never been uttered but with 
 veneration. Go, and devote your talents to the 
 service of a monarch, who is contending for the 
 rights of man. With this blessing I disband you. 
 — Schweitzer and Kosinski, stay. ( The Robbers 
 walk away slowly and much affected.) 
 
 i Manent Charles, Schweitzer, and Kosinski. 
 
 Your hand, Kosinski — and your's Schweitzer. 
 \(To Kosinski.) Young men, you are still uncon- 
 jtaminated. Among the guilty you alone are guilt- 
 lless. {To Schweizer.) Deeply have I bathed this 
 .hand in blood. 'Twas I who did it and with this 
 ! cordial grasp I claim my own. Schweitzer you 
 are free from guilt. ( Raises their hands with fer- 
 vour.) Father of the world, I restore them to thee. 
 They will serve thee most faithfully than those 
 who never fell. (Kosinski and Schweitzer embrace 
 each other with warmth.) Not now — not now, my 
 friends. Spare me at this decisive hour. To day 
 I am become possessed of an immense domain, 
 j Divide it between you — become good citizens, 
 and, if for ten whose comfort I have blasted, you 
 
108 
 
 T11K ROBBERS. 
 
 Act 
 
 confer happiness on one, my soul may still be sav- 
 ed. Go. — No farewel — in another world we may 
 meet again. Go, go — ere my resolution fail me. 
 {Both conceal their faces and exeunt.) I too am a 
 good citizen. Have I not fulfilled a law the most 
 horrible ? Have I not faithfully executed the ven- 
 geance it enjoined ? I remember that when I first 
 came hither, I observed a poor disbanded officer, 
 who was working in the field, that he might sup- 
 port a numerous family. A large reward is offered 
 to the man who shall deliver the terrific robber 
 Moor into the hands of justice. This officer shall 
 have it. (Exit, 
 
 FINIS. 
 
jftesco, 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 BY FREDERICK SCHILLER. 
 
Dramatic pwscma^ 
 
 Andreas Doria, Duhe of Genoa. 
 Giancttmo Doria, his Nephew. 
 Lomellino, a Friend of the Dorias. 
 Fiesco, Count o^Lavagna, -> 
 Verrina, 
 "Bourgognino, 
 
 Calcagno, V 
 
 Sacco, 
 
 Zenturione, 
 
 Zibo, 
 
 Asserato, 
 
 Romano, a Painter. 
 
 Muley Hassan, a iMoor of Tunis. 
 
 Leonora, Wife o/Fiesco. 
 
 Julia, Countess Dowager Imperial, Sister of the yo 1 
 Doria. 
 
 Bertha, Daughter o/'Verrina. 
 
 Several Nobles, Citizens, Germans, Soldiers, Thieves. 
 SCENE, Genoa.— Time, the year 1547. 
 
 Rosa, 
 Arabella, 
 
F IE S C O. 
 
 a c r i. 
 
 Scene I. — A saloon in Fiesco's house. The dis- 
 tant sound of dancing and music is heard. 
 Leonora, masked, and attended by Rosa and 
 Arabella, enters hastily — tears off her mask. 
 
 Leo. l3AY no more — not a word more. It is as 
 :Iear as clay. — This quite overcomes me — 
 Arab. My lady ! 
 
 Leo. What, before my eyes ! with a known 
 :oquet ! and in the sight of the whole nobility of 
 Genoa. — Rosa — Arabella — before my weeping 
 kyes. 
 
 Rosa. Consider it only as a piece of gallantry, 
 [t was no more. 
 
 Leo. Gallantry ! What! Their busy interchange of 
 looks — the anxious watching of each other's glan- 
 ces — the kiss eagerly and long imprinted on her 
 laked arm, its fervor marked by a deep spot of 
 glowing crimson. Ah, and the transport that en- 
 i.vrap'd his soul, when with fixed eyes he sate 
 ike painted ecstasy ; as if the world around him 
 •ffere blown away, and nought remained in the 
 eternal void, but he and Julia. Gallantry ! Poor 
 hing ! Thou hast never loved. Think not, that 
 hou canst teach me to distinguish gallantry from 
 ove. 
 
 I Rosa. No matter, Madam — to lose a husband 
 s to gain ten lovers. 
 
 Leo. To lose 1— Is this slight shock of sensi- 
 >ility a proof that I have lost Fiesco ? Go, hate- 
 
4 rrEsco. Act I, 
 
 ful slanderer ! Never again appear before me ! 
 'Twas an innocent frolic — perhaps a piece of gal- 
 lantry — Say my dear Arabella, was it not so ? 
 
 Arab. Doubtless it was, Madam. 
 
 Leo. (In a reverie.) Is it so ? Does she then 
 know herself the mistress of his heart ! Does her 
 name lurk in his inmost thoughts, meet him in 
 every movement of his mind ? — What ideas are 
 these ? Whither will they lead me ? Can it be, 
 that this beauteous majestic world is to him no- 
 thing, but the precious diamond, whereon her 
 image — her image only is engraved ? Love her ! 
 Love Julia ! Oh ! Your arm — support me, Ara- 
 bella ! {A pause, music is again heard.) 
 
 Leo. (Starting.) Hark ! Was not that Fiesco's 
 voice, which from the tumult penetrated even 
 hither ? Can he laugh, while his Leonora weeps 
 in solitude ? Oh, no, my child, it was the coarse 
 loud voice of Gianettmo. 
 
 Arab. It was, Signora — but, come into another 
 apartment. 
 
 Leo. You change colour, Arabella — you are false. 
 Iu your looks, in the looks of all the inhabitants of 
 Genoa, I read a something — a something which 
 — (hiding her face) — oh, certainly they know 
 more, than a wife's ear should be acquainted 
 with ! 
 
 Rosa. Ah, how does jealousy magnify every 
 
 trifle ! 
 
 Leo. When he was still Fiesco, when in the 
 orange-grove, where we damsels walked, I saw 
 him — a blooming Apollo matured into the manly 
 beauty of Antinous ! — Such was his noble and 
 sublime deportment, as if the illustrious state of 
 Genoa rested alone upon his youthful shoulders. 
 Our eyes stole trembling glances at him, and 
 shrunk back, as if with conscious guilt, whenever j 
 they encountered the lightning of his looks. Ah j 
 
rrEsco. 
 
 5 
 
 Arabella, how we devoured those looks ! with 
 vhat anxious envy, did every one count those, 
 jjhat were directed to her companions ! they fell 
 imong us, like the golden apple of discord — ten- 
 Ijler eyes burned more fiercely — soft bosoms beat 
 wore wildly — jealousy burst asunder ail our bonds 
 «>f friendship — 
 
 I Arab. I remember it well.- AH the females 
 |pf Genoa contended for a prize so beauteous. 
 
 Leo. And now to c ill him mine ! giddy, won- 
 flfocus fortune ! — to call the boast of Genoa mine ! 
 H — who from the chissel of the exhaustless artist, 
 IfNature, sprang forth all-perfect, combining every 
 ■greatness of his sex in the most lovely union. 
 ■ Hear me, damsels ! I can no longer conceal it— 
 Ihear me ! I confide to you something — a thought i 
 ■[—when I stood at the altar with Fiesco, when 
 Ihis hand lay in mine r a thought y too daring 
 lifor woman, rushed across me. 4 'This Fiesco, 
 | whose hand now lies — in thine — thy Fiesco" — But 
 Bluish ! lest any. one should hear us thus boasting 
 of my husband — "This, thy Fiesco" — ah why: 
 lean you not share my feelings ! — " will free 
 Genoa from its tyrants." — 
 
 I Arab. And this thought came to a female mind 
 'iamid the nuptial ceremonies? 
 
 Leo. Yes, my Arabella, — well may 'st thou be 
 |l astonished — to the bride it came, even in the joy 
 [of the bridal day. I am a woman, but I feel the 
 f nobleness of my blood. I cannot bear to see these 
 
 proud Dorias thus overtop our family. The good 
 | old Andreas — it is a pleasure to esteem him — He 
 
 may indeed, unenvied, bear the ducal dignity ; 
 I but Gianettino is his nephew — his heir — And Gi- 
 
 anettino has a proud and wicked heart. Genoa 
 
 trembles before him, and Fiesco — Fiesco— weej> j 
 
 with me, damsels ! — loves his sister. 
 Arab. Alas 3 my wretched mistress 1- 
 k 2- 
 
6 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act 
 
 Leo, Go now, and see this demi-god amid the 
 shameless circles of debauchery and lust 1 he£ 
 the vile jests and wanton ribaldry, with which h< 
 entertains his base companions ! That is Fiesci 
 Ah, damsels, not only Genoa has lost its here 
 but I have lost my husband— 
 
 Rosa, Speak lower 1 some one is coming 
 through the gallery. 
 
 Leo, Ha 1 'Tis Fiesco — let us hasten away- 
 thc sight of me might for a moment interrupt his 
 happiness — (She hastens into a side apartment, Th 
 maids jolloiv her,) 
 
 Scene II. — Gianettino Doria masked, in 
 green cloak, and the Moor, enter in conversation. 
 
 Gian, Thou hast understood what I have been 
 saying ? 
 
 Moor. Well— 
 Gian, The white mask— 
 Moor. Well — 
 
 Gian. I say, the white mask— 
 
 Moor. Well— well— well— 
 
 Gian. Dost thou mark me ? Dire£l it here- 
 ( pointing to his breast.) 
 
 Moor, Give yourself no concern. 
 
 Gian, And let the blow be hard — 
 
 Moor, He shall be satisfied. 
 
 Gian, That the poor Count may not have 
 lone to suffer. 
 
 Moor, With your leave, Sir, a word — at what 
 •weight do you estimate his head ? 
 
 Gian, What weight? An hundred sequins— . 
 
 Moor, Poh ! A trifle ! 
 
 Gian, What art thou muttering there ? 
 
 Moor, I was saying it is light work. 
 
 Gian, That is thy concern — He is the very 
 loadstone of sedition — Mark me, sirrah ! — let thy 
 blow be sure — 
 
Act I. i-iesco. 7 
 
 Moor, But, Sir, I must to Venice, immedi- 
 ately after the deed. 
 
 Gian, Then take my thanks beforehand. ( He 
 throws him a bank note.) In three days, at farthest, 
 he must be cold. ( Exit, 
 
 Moor. ( Picking up the note.) Well, this is 
 surely dealing upon credit, to trust the simple 
 word of such a rogue as I am. (Exit* 
 
 Scene III. — Calcagno, behind him Sacco, both 
 in black cloaks. 
 
 Cal. I perceive thou watchest all my steps. 
 
 Sacco. And I observe thou wishest to conceal 
 them from me. Attend, Calcagno ! For some 
 weeks past I have remarked the workings of thy 
 countenance. They bespeak a different secret than 
 that, which concerns the interests of our country. 
 Brother, I should think, that we might mutually 
 exchange our confidence, without a loss on either 
 side. What say'st thou ? wilt thou be sincere ? 
 
 Cal. So truly, that thou shalt not need to dive 
 into the recesses of my soul : my heart shall fly 
 half way to meet thee on my tongue — I love the 
 Countess of Fiesco. 
 
 Sacco. That at least, I should not have disco- 
 vered, had I made all possibilities pass in review 
 before me. Thy choice itself my mind is tortur- 
 ed to account for ; but its success would over- 
 whelm me with astonishment. 
 
 Cal. They say-, she is a pattern of the strictest 
 virtue. 
 
 Sacco. They lie. She is the whole volume to 
 the text of absurdity. Calcagno, thou must choose 
 one or the other — either to give up thy heart, or 
 thy profession. 
 
 Cal. The Count is faithless to her ; and of all 
 the arts that may seduce a woman, the subtlest 
 is jealousy. A plot against the Dorias will at the 
 
s 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act I.. 
 
 same time occupy the Count, and give me easy- 
 access to his house. Thus, while the shepherd 
 guards against the wolf, the fox shall unobserved, 
 make havoc of the poultry. 
 
 Sacco. Incomparable brother ! receive my thanks L 
 a blush is now superfluous, and I can tell thee 
 openly, what just now I was half ashamed to think* 
 I am a beggar, if the government be not soon, 
 overturned. 
 
 Cal. What, are thy debts so great? 
 
 Sacco, So immense, that even one tenth of 
 them would more than swallow up ten times my 
 income. A convulsion of the state will give me- 
 breath, and if it do not cancel all my debts, at 
 least 'twill stop the mouths of bawling creditors. 1 
 
 Cal. I understand thee : and if, amidst this* 
 bustle, Genoa should be freed, Sacco will be hail'd 
 1- is country's saviour. Let no one trick out to me 
 the thread-bare tale of honesty, when I see the 
 fate of empires hang on the bankruptcy of a pro- 
 digal, and the lust of a debauchee- By Heaven r 
 Sacco, this looks like the hand of Providence, to< 
 heal the corruptions in the heart of the state by 
 the vile ulcers on its limbs* Is thy design unfold- 
 ed to Verrina ? 
 
 Sacco. As far as it can be unfolded to a pa-- 
 triot. Thou knowesthis iron integrity, which ever 
 tends to that one point, his country. His hawk- 
 like eye is now fixed on Fiesco, and he has half 
 conceived a hope of thee, to join the bold con- 
 spiracy. 
 
 Cal. Oh, he's sagacious 1 Come, let's seek 
 for him, and blow up the flame of liberty within 
 his breast by our accordant spirit.- {Exeunt* 
 
ict I. 
 
 Icene IV. — Julia, and Fiesco, in a white mask, 
 following her. 
 
 Julia, My servants! — footman! — 
 
 Fies. Countess, whither are you going? — What 
 ;o you intend ?— 
 
 Julia. Nothing — nothing at all. — {To the ser- 
 vants ivho enter, and immediately retire.) — Let my 
 :arriage draw up— 
 
 Fies. Pardon me, it must not — You are of- 
 ended— 
 
 Julia. Oh, by no means — Away — you tear my 
 . Iress to pieces. — Offended ! Who is here, that 
 an offend me ? Go, pray go — 
 
 'Fies. (Upon one knee.) Not till you tell me, 
 vhat impertinent — 
 
 Julia. Fine 1 — This is very fine. — Oh, that the 
 Countess of Lavagna might be called to view this 
 :harming scene ! How, Count ! is this like a 
 msband ! This posture would suit well the cham- 
 )er of your wife, when she turns over the journal 
 )f your caresses, and finds a void in the account, 
 ilise, Sir, and seek those, to whom your services 
 nay prove more acceptable, — Rise — unless you 
 hink your gallantries will excuse your wife's im- 
 pertinence. 
 
 Fies. ( Jumping up. J Impertinence! To you ? 
 > Julia. To break up ! To push away her chair ! 
 To turn her back upon the table — that table, Count, 
 where I was sitting — 
 ; Fies. 'Tis inexcusable. 
 
 Julia. And is that all ? O admirably played ! 
 Am I, then, to blame, because the Count sees 
 with discerning eyes ? 
 
 Fies. If they are dazzled, Madam, 'tis only 
 oy your beauty. 
 
 Julia. Away with compliment, where honor 
 s concerned — Count, I insist on satisfaction— 
 Where shall I find it, in you, or in my uncle's, 
 rengeance ? 
 
TO 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act 
 
 Fies. Find it in the arms of love — Of 
 that would repair the offence of jealousy. 
 
 Julia. Jealousy I Poor thing ! What woi 
 she wish for ? {Admiring herself in the glass.) 
 it not compliment enough, when I declare 
 taste jr.y own ? Doria, and Fiesco ! — If Doru 
 niece approve the Countess of Lavagna's choic 
 it is sufficient honor. (In a friendly tone, oj 
 ing the Count her hand to kiss.) Count, supp( 
 I should approve it ? 
 
 Fiesco. Cruel Countess ! Thus to torment 
 I know, divine Julia, that respect is all I o\\\ 
 to feel for you. My reason bids me bend a si 
 jecTs knee before the race of Doria ; but 
 heart adores the beauteous Julia — My love is cri- 
 minal, but 'tis heroic ; for it o'erleaps the boun- 
 daries of rank, and soars toward the sun of ma- 
 jesty. 
 
 Julia. O ill-contrived excuse ? Whilst his 
 tongue deifies me, his heart beats beneath the 
 picture of another. 
 
 Fies. Rather say, it beats indignantly against 
 it, and would shake off the odious burden. (Tak- 
 ing the picture o/* Leonora which is suspended by a 
 sky-blue riband from his breast, and delivering it to 
 Julia.) Place your own image on that altar, and 
 you will instantly annihilate this idol. 
 
 Julia. This sacrifice indeed deserves my 
 thanks — So, my slave, henceforth bear your 
 badge of service. (Hangs her own picture about his 
 neck — and exit.) 
 
 Fies. Julia loves me — Julia — I would not envy 
 even a god. Let this night outdo the pleasures 
 of the gods. Joy shall attain its summit. Ho ! 
 within there ! (Servants come running in.) See 
 that the floor drink Cyprian nectar — Let the 
 strains of music rouse midnight from her leaden 
 slumber — Let a thousand burning lamps mock 
 
Act L 
 
 tiesco. 
 
 I 
 
 >ut the morning sun — Let pleasure reign su- 
 n-erne — an( l l et the Bacchanal dance so wildly 
 )eat the ground, that the dark kingdom of the 
 ihadcs below may tremble at the uproar ! — (Exit 
 hastily — An allegro, during which the back scene 
 )pens, and discovers a grand illuminated saloon, 
 nany masks dancing— At the side, drinking and pi ay- 
 ng tables, surrounded ivith company, J 
 
 Scene V. — Gianettino, almost intoxicated, Lo- 
 
 MELLINO, ZlBO, ZeNTURIONE, VERRINA, 
 
 Calcagno, all masked,— 'Several other Nobles 
 and Ladies, 
 
 Gian, Bravo 1 Bravo ! These wines glide down 
 charmingly. — The dancers perform a merveille,— 
 jo one of you, and publish it throughout Genoa, 
 hat I am in good humour, and that every one 
 nay enjoy himself. By my birth, this day shall 
 )e marked in the calendar as fortunate, and un- 
 lcr it shall be written — To-day the Prince was 
 nerry. — 
 
 'The guests lift their glasses to their mouths — A ge- 
 neral toast of " The Republic," — Sound of trum- 
 pets,) 
 
 Gian, The Republic ? {throwing his glass vio~ 
 ently on the ground,) There lie its fragments. 
 Three black masks suddenly rise, and collect about 
 
 jIANETTINO.J 
 
 Lorn, (Supporting Gianettino on his arm,) 
 VI y Lord, you lately spoke of a young girl, whom 
 'ou saw in the church of St. Lorenzo. 
 
 Gian, I did, my lad 1 and I must know her 
 art her. 
 
 Lorn, That I can manage for your Grace. 
 Gian, Can you ? Can you ? — Lomellino, you 
 vere a candidate for the procuratorship.— .You 
 i;ihall have it. — 
 
 Lorn, Gracious Prince, it is the dignity in the 
 
12 rinsco. 
 
 state, more than threescore noblemen seek it, ant 
 all of them more wealthy and honorable than you 
 Grace's humble servant. — 
 
 Gian. By the name of Doria, you shall be pro 
 curator — {the three masks come forward) — Wha 
 talk you of nobility in Genoa? Let them all thro\ 
 their ancestry and honors into the scale, one hai 
 from the white beard of my uncle will make i 
 kick the beam. — It is my will — You shall be pre 
 curator. — That's sufficient to bear down the vote 
 of the whole senate. 
 
 Lorn. {In a low voice.) The damsel is the onl 
 daughter of one Verrina. 
 
 Gian, The girl is pretty, and in spite of all th 
 devils in hell, I must possess her. 
 
 Lorn. What, my Lord ! the only child of th 
 most obstinate of our opponents ? 
 
 Gian, What care I for your opponents? Sha 
 I have my passion thwarted by the anger of a va: 
 sal ? 'Tis as vain, as to expect the Tower shoul 
 fall, when boys pelt it with muscle-shells, (m 
 three black masks step nearer, with great emotion*. 
 What ! Has the Duke Andreas gained his sew 
 in battle for their wives and children, only thi 
 his nephew should court the favor of these scow 
 drels ? By the name of Doria they swallow tft, 
 fancy of mine, or I will plant a gallows over til 
 bones of my uncle, on which the liberty of Gem 
 shall breath its last. ( The three masks step back I 
 disgust. ) 
 
 Lorn. The damsel is at this moment alon ! 
 
 Her father is here, and one of those three mask 1 
 Gian. Excellent ! Bring me instantly to her.-| 
 Lorn. You expect perhaps to meet a girl i 
 
 light deportment, but you will see a woman 1 
 
 sensibilty. 
 
 Gian. Force is the best rhetoric — Lead me 'I 
 ner — Would I could see that republican dog th I 
 
ict I. tiesco. 1 3 
 
 urst attack the bear Doria — {going, m eels Fiesco 
 t the door,) Where is the Countess ? 
 
 Scene VI. — Fiesco and the Former. 
 
 Fies, I have handed her to her carriage— 
 takes Gianettino's hand, and presses it to his 
 reast.) Prince, I am now doubly your slave- To 
 ou I bow, as sovereign of Genoa — to your lovely 
 ister, as mistress of my heart. 
 
 Lorn, Fiesco is become a mere votary of plea- 
 ure. The great world has lost much in you. 
 
 Fies. But in giving up the world, I have lost 
 lothing. To live is to dream, and to dream plea- 
 antly is to be wise. Can this be done more cer- 
 .\inly amid the thunders of a throne, where the 
 wheels of government creak incessantly upon the 
 ortured ear, than on the heaving bosom of an 
 namoured woman ? — Let Gianettino rule over 
 |>enoa ; Fiesco shall devote himself to love. 
 
 Gian. Away, Lomellino I It is near midnight. 
 The time draws near — Lavagna, we thank thee 
 :>r thy entertainment — I have been satisfied. — 
 I Fies, That, Prince, is all that I can wish. 
 
 Gian. Then good night ! To-morrow we have 
 
 party at the palace, and, Fiesco is invited— 
 Come, procurator ! 
 
 Fies. Ho ! Lights there !— Music ! — 
 
 Gian. (Haughtily, rushing through the three 
 nasks.) Make way there for Doria ! 
 
 One of the three Masks. 
 
 (Murmuring indignantly.) Make way? — In hell 
 -Never in Genoa. 
 
 I The guests. The Prince is going — Good night, 
 .avagna ! — (They depart.) 
 
 VOL. II.) 
 
 L 
 
u 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 A 
 
 Scene VII.— 'The three black Masks a 
 Fiesco. 
 
 Fies. I perceive some guest here, who d 
 share the pleasure of the feast. 
 
 Masks. No. Not one of us. 
 
 Fies. Is it possible, that my attention sh 
 have been wanting to any one of my guests ? Qu 
 servants 1 Let the music be renewed, and nlltji 
 goblets high ! I would not, that my friends shoul* 
 find the time hang heavy. Will you permit m 
 to amuse you with fireworks? Would you chus 
 to see the frolics of my harlequin ? Perhaps yo 
 Avould be pleased to join the females. Or shal 
 we sit down to faro, and pass the time in play 
 
 A mask. We are accustomed to spend it in oc 
 tion. 
 
 Fies. A manly answer 1 Such as bespeaks Vei 
 rian. 
 
 Verri. {Unmasking.) Fiesco can more easil; 
 f.nd out his friends beneath their masks, than the; 
 can discover him in his disguise. 
 
 Fies, I understand you not. — But what meanj 
 that crape of mourning around your arm ? Ca 
 death have robbed Verrina of a friend, and Fies 
 co know not the loss ? 
 
 Verri. Mournful tales ill suit Fiesco's joyftj 
 feasts. 
 
 Fies. But if a friend — (Pressing his hand warm 
 Ij) Friend of my soul ! For w hom must we bot 
 
 mourn ? 
 
 Verri. Both ? — Both ? Oh, 'tis too true we bot 
 have sufferecl—^yet not all sons lament their mc 
 ther. 
 
 Fies. 'Tis long since your mother was mir 
 gled with the dust. — 
 
 Verri. Did not Fiesco call me brother, becaus 
 we both were sons of the same country ? 
 
iit L fie sco. J 13 
 
 I Fies. Oh, is it only that ? You meant then but 
 ) jest ? The mourning dress is worn for Genoa 1 
 frue, she lies indeed in her last agonies. The 
 bought is new and singular. Our cousin begins 
 ) be a wit. 
 
 Verr'u Fiesco ! I spoke most seriously. 
 
 'Fies, Centainly — certainly. — .A jest loses its 
 oint, when he who makes it, is the first to laugh. 
 -But you? You looked like a mute at a funeral* 
 Vho could have thought, that the austere Ver- 
 j.na should in his old age become such a wag ? 
 | Sacco. Come, Verrina. — He never will be 
 urs.— r 
 
 Fies. Let us enjoy ourselves— -Let us a6l the 
 [art of the cunning heir, who walks in thfl fu- 
 |eral procession with loud lamentations, laughing 
 b himself the while, under the cover of his hand- 
 lerchief. 'Tis true, we may be troubled with a 
 arsh step-mother. — Be it so — we let her scold, 
 )llow our own pleasures. 
 
 Verr'u Heaven, and earth ! Shall we then do 
 otliing ? What is become of you, Fiesco ! Where 
 m I to seek that determined enemy of tyrants ? 
 "here was a time, when but to see a crown would 
 ave been torture to you. O, degraded son of the 
 epublic ! By Heaven, I would spurn immortality, 
 [ time could so debase my soul. 
 
 Fies. O rigid censor ! — Let Doria put Genoa 
 li his pocket, or sell it to the robbers of Tunis, 
 [why should it trouble us ? We will revel in floods 
 1 Cyprian wine, and taste the sweet caresses of 
 ur fair ones. 
 
 Verri. Are these your serious thoughts ? 
 I Fies. Why should they not, my friend ? Think 
 I ou 'tis a pleasure to be the foot of that many- 
 igg'd monster, a republic ? No — thanks be to 
 
 im, who gives it wings, and deprives the feet of 
 Ikeir functions 1 Let (iianettmo be the duke, af- 
 
16 ^> FIESCO. Act f, 
 
 fairs of state shall ne'er lie heavy on our heads. 
 
 Verri. Fiesco ! Is that your real meaning? 
 
 Fies. Andreas adopts his nephew as a son, and 
 makes him heir to his estates ; what madman will 
 dispute with him the inheritance of his power? 
 
 Verri. Away, then, Genoese! {Leaves Fiesco 
 hastily the rest follow.) 
 
 Fies. Vcrrina ! Verrjna ! Oh, this republican 
 is as hard as steel ! 
 
 Scene VIII. — Fiesco. A Mask entering, . 
 
 Mask, Have you a minute or two to spare, La- 
 
 vagna ? 
 
 Fies, An hour, if you request it. 
 Mask. Then condescend to walk into the fields 
 with me. 
 
 Fies. It wants but ten minutes of midnight. 
 
 Mask. Walk with me, Count, I pray — . 
 
 Fies. I will order my carriage — 
 
 Mask. That is useless — I shall send One horse: 
 we want no more, for only one of us, I hope, 
 will return. 
 
 Pies. What say you ? 
 
 Mask. A bloody answer will be demanded oi 
 
 you, touching a certain tear. 
 Fies. What tear r 
 
 Mask. A tear shed by the Countess of La- 
 vagna — I am acquainted with that lady, and de- 
 mand to know, how she has merited to be sacri- 
 ficed to a worthless woman ? 
 
 Fies. I understand you now ; but let me ask ; 
 who 'tis that offers such a challenge ? 
 
 Mask. It is the same, that once adored the 
 lady Zibo, and yielded her to Fiesco. 
 
 Fies. Scipio Bourgognino ! 
 
 Bonrg. (Unmasking. ; And who now standi 
 here to vindicate his honor, that yielded to a ri 
 val base enough to tyrannize over innocence. 
 
FIE SCO. 
 
 17 
 
 i Fies. ( Embraces him with ardor, ) Noble youth ! 
 hanks to the sufferings of my consort, which 
 ave drawn forth the manly feelings of your 
 oul ; I admire your generous indignation — hut I 
 efuse your challenge. 
 
 H Bourg, Does Fiesco tremble to encounter the 
 
 first efforts of my sword ? 
 
 :| Fies, No, Bourgognino ! against a nation's pow- 
 li:r combined, I would boldly venture, but not a- 
 ;ainst you. The fire of your valor is endeared to 
 f|ne by a most lovely object — The will deserves a 
 ijaurel ; but the deed would be childish. 
 
 Bourg. Childish, Count 1 women can only 
 ■weep at injuries. 'Tis manly to revenge them. 
 
 Fies, Well said — but fight I will not. 
 I Bourg, Count, I shall despise you. 
 
 Fies, By Heaven, youth, that thou shalt ne- 
 [jver do — not even if virtue fall in value, shall I 
 [(become a bankrupt, (laking him by the handy 
 rlxvith a look of earnestness. Did you ever feel for 
 |me — what shall I say — respect ? 
 
 Bourg, Had I not thought, you were the first 
 ■of men, I should not have yielded to you. 
 
 Fies. Then, my friend, be not so forward to 
 I despise a man, who once could merit your res- 
 Ipecl. It is not always, that the eye of the youth- 
 ful artist can comprehend the master's vast de- 
 | sign- Retire, Bourgognino, and take time to 
 I weigh the motives of Fiesco's conduct ! [Exit 
 i Bourgognino, in silence,! Go I noble youth ! if 
 | spirits such as thine break out in flames, let the 
 i Dorias see, that they stand fast 1 
 Scene IX. Fiesco. The Moor entering with 
 
 an appearance of timidity, and looking round cau- 
 tiously, 
 
 Fies, What would 'st thou have ? who art thou ? 
 Moof, A slave of the republic. 
 
 l 2 
 
18 riEsco. Act 
 
 Fies. Slavery is a wretched state. What dc 
 thou want ? 
 
 Moor, Sir — I am an honest man. 
 
 Fies. Well may'st thou assume this veil, 
 may not be superfluous — but, what would'st tl 
 have ? 
 
 Moor, ( Approaching A/m— Fiesco draws bad 
 Sir, I am no villain. 
 
 Fies, 'Tis well that thou say'st that — and 
 — 'tis not well either — What dost thou seek ? 
 
 Moor, ( Still approaching,) Are you the Coi 
 Lavagna ? 
 
 Fies. The blind in Genoa know my steps — wl 
 would'st thou with the Count ? 
 
 Moor, Be on your guard, Lavagna ! ( close 
 him.) 
 
 Fies. ( Passing hastily to the other side.) Th 
 indeed, I am. 
 
 Moor. ( Again approaching. ) Evil designs ^ 
 formed against you, Count. 
 
 Fies. C Retreating.) That I perceive* 
 
 Moor. Beware of Doria ! 
 
 Fies, ( Approaching him, ivith an air of confi- 
 dence,) Perhaps my suspicions have wronged thee, 
 my friend — Doria is indeed the name I dread. 
 
 Moor. Avoid the man, then — can you read ? 
 
 Fies. A pleasant question I Thou hast known, 
 it seems, many of our nobles — what writing hast 
 thou ? 
 
 Moor, Your name inscribed in the fatal list of 
 those who are doom'd to die. ( Presents a paper y 
 and draws close to Fiesco, who is standing before a 
 looking-glass, and glancing over the paper — the 
 INI oo r steals round him, draws a dagger, and is 
 going to stab, ) 
 
 Fies, (Turning round dexterously, and seizing 
 the Moor's arm.) Stop scoundrel ! {Wrests the 
 dagger from him.) 
 
Act L FIESCO. If 
 
 Moor. (Stamps in a frantic manner.) Damna- 
 tion ! — Pardon I 
 
 Fies. (Seizing him calls with a loud voice.) 
 Stephano Drullo ! Antonio ! (holding the 
 Moor by the throat.) Stay, my friend ! — what 
 hellish villany ! (Servants enter.) Stay, and an- 
 swer — thou hast performed thy task but badly. 
 Who pays thy wages I 
 
 Moor. ( After several fruitless attempts to escape.) 
 You cannot hang me higher, than the gallows are. 
 
 Fies. No — be comforted — not on the horns- 
 of the moon ; but higher than ever yet were gal- 
 lows — Yet hold ! Thy scheme was too politic to 
 I be of thy own contrivance : speak, fellow ! who 
 hired thee 1 
 
 Moor. Think me a rascal, Sir, but not a fool. 
 ■ Fies. What, is the scoundrel proud ? Speak, 
 sirrah I — Who hired thee I 
 
 Moor. (Aside.) Shall I alone be called a fool ? 
 Who hired me i — 'Twas but a hundred miserable 
 sequins — Who hired me, did you ask I — Prince 
 Gianettino. 
 
 Fies. A hundred sequins i And is that the 
 value set upon Fiesco's head ? Shame on the 
 Prince of Genoa 1 Here, fellow — ( taking money 
 from a scrutore ) are a thousand for thee. Tell 
 thy master he is a mean assassin. ( Moor looks 
 \at him with astonishment.) 
 
 Fies* What dost thou gaze at ? 
 If Moor takes up the money — lays it down — takes. 
 
 it up again, and looks at Fiesco with increased 
 
 astonishment.) 
 
 Fies. What dost thou mean ? 
 Moor. ( Throwing the money resolutely upon the 
 'able.) Sir, that money I have not worked for— .1 
 , leserve it not. 
 
 , Fies. Blockhead, thou hast deserved the gal- 
 ows j but the offended elephant trambles on me% 
 
20 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 not worms. Thy life hangs on a word of mine 
 •—were it of more importance, thou should'st 
 die. 
 
 Moor, ( Bowing.) Sir, you are too good — 
 Ties. What, toward thee ! God forbid ! No, 
 I am amused to think a nod of mine can preserve 
 or annihilate such petty villains. That 'tis, which 
 saves thee. Mark my words — I take thy failure as 
 an omen of my future success — 'tis this thought 
 that renders me indulgent, and preserves thy 
 life. 
 
 Moor. Count, your hand ' you shall find me 
 not ungrateful. If any man in this country has a 
 throat too much — command me, and I'll cut it 
 gratis. 
 
 Fies. Obliging scoundrel ! He would show his 
 gratitude by cutting throats ! 
 
 Moor. Men, like me, Sir, receive no favor 
 without acknowledgment. We know what ho- 
 nor is. 
 
 Fies. The honor of assassins ! 
 
 Moor. — Is perhaps more to be relied on, than 
 that, which men of character pretend to. You 
 break your oaths made in the name of God. We 
 keep ours made to the devil. 
 
 Fits. Thy villany amuses me. 
 
 Moor. I am happy to meet your approbation. 
 Try me — you will find in me a man, who is a 
 thorough master of his profession. Examine me 
 —I am versed in every branch of villany, through 
 all its different degrees. 
 
 FieS. So — there are laws and system then,] 
 even among thieves. What canst thou tell me I 
 of the lowest class ? 
 
 Moor. O Sir, they are petty villains, mere! 
 pickpockets. They are a miserable set. Theiil 
 trade never produces a man of genius-— 'tis con I 
 
FIESCO. 
 
 21 
 
 fined to the whip and workhouse— and at most 
 can lead but to the gallows. 
 
 Fies. A noble object 1 I should like to hear 
 something of a superior class. 
 
 Moor, The next are spies and informers- 
 tools of importance to the great, who from their 
 secret information derive their own supposed om- 
 niscience. These villains insinuate themselves 
 into the souls of men like leeches, to suck out 
 their secrets — they draw poison from the heart, 
 and spit it forth against the very source, from 
 whence it came. 
 
 Fies. I understand thee— go on — 
 
 Moor. Then come the conspirators, villains 
 that deal in poison, and bravoes that rush upon 
 their victims from some secret covert. Cowards 
 they often are, but yet they sell their souls to the 
 devil ; and even here they are treated scurvily. 
 The hand of justice binds their limbs to the rack, 
 or plants their cunning heads on spikes — this is 
 the third class— 
 
 Fies. But speak ! When comes thy own ? 
 
 Moor. Patience, my Lord — that is the very 
 point I am coming to — Already have I passed 
 through all the stages that I mentioned : my ge- 
 nius soon soared beyond their limits. 'Twas but 
 last night I made my trial in the third— This even- 
 ing I attempted the fourth — and was a bungler. 
 
 Fies. And how do you describe that class ? 
 
 Moor. They are men, who press right on- 
 ward to their object, cutting their way through 
 danger. They strike at once, and by their first 
 salute, save him, whom they approach, the trou- 
 ble of returning thanks for a second. Briefly, 
 they are called the swiftest messengers of hell: 
 and when Beelzebub is hungry, at the first hint, 
 they send his victims to him smoking in their 
 blood. 
 
FIESCO. 
 
 Act L 
 
 Fies. Thou art an hardened villain — such a 
 tool I want. Give me thy hand — thou shalt serve 
 me. 
 
 Moor. Do you speak in earnest or in jest ? 
 
 Fies. Most seriously — and I'll pay thee yearly 
 a thousand sequins. 
 
 Moor. Done, Lavagna ! — I am yours. Away 
 with common business — employ me in whate'er 
 you will — I'll be your setter, or your blood -hound 
 —your fox, your viper — your pimp, or execu- 
 tioner. I'm prepared for all commissions— ex- 
 cept honest ones — in those I am as stupid, as a 
 block. 
 
 Fies. Fear not ; I would not set the wolf to 
 guard the lamb. Go thou through Genoa to-mor* 
 row and sound the temper of the people. Nar«.< 
 rowly inquire what they think of the government,, 
 and of the house of Doria — What of me, my de- 
 baucheries, and romantic passion. Charge their 
 heads with wine, until their secret sentiments 
 flow out. Here's money — lavish it among the 
 m an uf a clu r e r s — 
 
 Moor. Sir ! — 
 
 Fies, Be not afraid — no honesty is in the case. 
 Go, collect what help thou canst. To-morro\* 
 I will hear thy report. ( Exit J 
 
 Moor. Rely on me. It is now four o'clock . 
 in the morning, by eight to-morrow you shall 
 hear as much news as twice seventy spies can 
 furnish. (Exitl 
 
 Scet:e X. — An apartment in the house o/Verrina. 
 
 Bertha on a couch, supporting her head on her 
 hand — Verrina enters with a look of dejection, 
 
 Ber. (Starts up frightened.) Heavens I He is 
 here ! 
 
 Ver. ( Stops, looking at her with surprise. ) My 
 daughter, affrighted at her father ! 
 
Act I. 
 
 F1ESC0. 
 
 33 
 
 Ber. Fly ! Fly ! or let me fly ! Father, your 
 sight is dreadful to me. 
 
 Ver. Dreadful to my child ! — my only child ! 
 
 Ber. No — you must seek another — I am no 
 more your daughter. 
 
 Ver. What, does my tenderness distress you I 
 
 Ber. It weighs me down to the earth. 
 
 Ver. How, my daughter ! do you receive me 
 thus ? Formerly, when I came home, my heart 
 overburden 'd with the weight of sorrows, my 
 Bertha meeting me smiled them away. Come, 
 embrace me, my daughter ! Reclined upon thy 
 glowing bosom, my heart, when chilled by the 
 sufferings of my country, shall grow warm again. 
 Oh, my child, this day I have bidden farewel to 
 all the pleasures of nature, and thou alone re- 
 mainest to me. 
 
 Ber. Wretched father ! 
 I Ver. (Eagerly embracing her.) Bertha I my 
 only child ! Bertha ! my last remaining hope ! 
 The liberty of Genoa is lost — Fiesco is lost — and 
 thou ( pressing her more strongly , with a look of 
 mdespair) may'st be dishonour'd I 
 
 Ber. (Tearing herself from him.) Great God ! 
 |:You know, then — 
 
 Ver. What ? 
 ! Ber. My virgin honor— 
 
 Ver. What ? 
 I Ber. Last night— 
 
 Ver. Speak ! What ! 
 
 Ber. Force ! — ( sinks down by the side of the 
 ■ sofa.) 
 
 Ver. (after a long pause — with a hollow voice. J 
 One Word more, my daughter, though it be thy 
 I (last — Who was it ? 
 
 Ber. Alas, what an angry death-like paleness ! 
 t Great God, support me ! How his words faulter ! 
 llHow his whole frame trembles J 
 
24 fiesco. Act L 
 
 Ver. I cannot comprehend it — Tell me, my 
 
 daughter — Who ? 
 
 Ber. Compose yourself, my best, my dearest 
 father ! 
 
 Ver. For God's sake— Who ! 
 Ber. A mask- — 
 
 Ver. No ! That cannot be — the thought is 
 idle — What a fool am I, to think that all the 
 poison of my life can flow but from one source 1 
 (Firmly, addressi?ig himself to Bertha.) What 
 v. r as his stature, less than mine, or taller ? 
 
 Ber. Taller. 
 
 Ver. (Eagerly.) His hair ? Was it black and 
 curled ! 
 
 Ber. As black as jet, and curled. 
 
 Ver. (Retiring from her in great emotion.) 
 God ! my brain 1 my brain ! — His voice I 
 
 Ber. Was deep and harsh. 
 
 Ver. What colour was — no, I'll hear no more 
 —His cloak!— What colour? — 
 
 Ber. I think, his cloak was green. 
 
 Ver. ( Covering his face with his hands, falls on 
 the couch.) No more — This can be nothing but 
 a dream. 
 
 Ber. (Wringing her hands.) Merciful Hea- 
 ven ! Is this my father ? 
 
 Ver. (After a pause, with a forced smile.) Right 
 —It serves thee right — coward Verrina ! The 
 villain broke into the sanctuary of the laws — This 
 did not rouse thee. Then he violated the sanc- 
 tuary of thy honor — (Starting up.) Quick ! Ni-j 
 colo ! Bring me hither balls and powder — but 
 stay — my sword were better. (To Bertha.) Say: 
 thy prayers ! — Ah ! what am I going to do ? 
 
 Ber. Father, you make me tremble. 
 
 Ver. Come, sit by me, Bertha I (In a solemi 
 manner.) Tell me, Bertha, what did that grey- 
 hair'd Roman, when his daughter— like you— i 
 
\4ct L fie sco. 25 
 
 iow can I speak it I — fell a prey to ignominy ? 
 Tell me, Bertha, what said Virginius to his dis- 
 lonored daughter ? 
 
 i Ber. ( Shuddering.) I know not what he said — 
 Ver, Foolish girl ! Nothing did he say — but 
 'rising hastily, and snatching up a sword ) he seiz- 
 ed an instrument of death — 
 
 Ber, (Terrified, rushes into his arms,) Great 
 iod ! — What would you do, my father! 
 , Ver, (Throwing away the sword,) No — There 
 s still justice left in Genoa. 
 
 Scene XI. — Sacco, Calcagno, the Former. 
 
 i Cal* Verrina, quick! prepare! to-day begins 
 he election. Let us to the Senate-House to choose 
 he new Senators. The streets are full of people, 
 'ou will undoubtedly accompany us — to behold 
 jhe triumph of our liberty. 
 
 J Sacco, (To Calcagno. ) Dost thou see that 
 word ? Verrina has wildness in his looks — and 
 ;3ertha is in tears. 
 
 Cal, By heavens, it is so. Sacco, some strange 
 invent has happened here. 
 J Ver, Be seated.-^- 
 
 \ Sacco. Your looks, Verrina, fill us with appre- 
 hension. 
 
 I Cal, I never saw you thus before — Your grief, 
 should have thought presaged the ruin of our 
 
 ountry-— but Bertha also is in tears. — 
 I Ver, Ruin ! — Pray sit down — ( they both seat 
 
 hemselves.) 
 
 . Cal. My friend, I conjure you. — 
 Ver, Listen to me.— 
 
 Cal, (To Sacco.) What are we to expect, 
 >acco ? 
 
 Ver, Genoese, you both know the antiquity 
 f my family. Your ancestors were vassals to my 
 ]>wn. My forefathers fought the battles of the 
 vol. ii.) M 
 
26 
 
 nr. sc<v 
 
 state, their wives were patterns of virtue to tt 
 sex. Honor was our sole inheritance, descendh 
 unspotted from the father to the son — Can 
 one deny it? 
 Succo. No. 
 
 Cal. No one, by the God of Heaven ! 
 
 Ver. I am the last of my family. My wil 
 has long been dead. This daughter is all she ^_ 
 me. You are witnesses, my friends, how I have 
 brought her up. — Can any one accuse me of ner 
 
 Cal. No. Your daughter is a bright example 
 to our females. — 
 
 Ver. I am old, my friends. On this my 
 daughter all my hopes were placed. Sould I los* 
 her, my race becomes extinct. — ( After a pause, 
 with a solemn voice.) I have lost her — My family 
 is dishonor'd. 
 
 Sacco and Calcagno. Forbid it Heaven ! 
 
 (Bertha, on the couch, appears much affected.) 
 
 Ver. No — Despair not, daughter ! These mei) 
 are just and brave — If they feel thy wrongs, they 
 will expiate them with blood. Be not astonished, 
 friends. — He who tramples upon Genoa, may 
 easily overcome a helpless female. 
 
 Sacco and Calcagno. (Starting up with great emo.- 
 tion.J Gianettino Doria! 
 
 Rer. (With a shriek, seeing Bourgognino eft 
 ter.J Cover me, walls, beneath your ruins !— * 
 My Scipio ! 
 
 Scene XII— Bourgognino — the Former. 
 
 Bourg. Rejoice, my love 1 I bring good tidings. 
 Noble Verrina, I come to lay my dearest hopes 
 at your disposal. I have long loved your daugh- 
 ter, but never dared to ask her hand, because my 
 whole fortune was entrusted to the treacherous 
 sea. My ships have just now reached the harbour 
 
Act I. 
 
 FIE SCO. 
 
 87 
 
 laden with valuable cargoes — Now I am rich — Be- 
 stow your Bertha on me — I'll make her happy. 
 
 Ver. What, youth ! Wouldst thou mix thy 
 heart's pure tide with a polluted stream ? 
 
 Bourg. ( Claps his hand to his sword, but sud- 
 denly draws it back.) 'Twas her father, that said it. 
 
 Ver. No— every rascal in Italy will say it. Are 
 you contented with the leavings of other men's 
 repasts ? 
 
 Bourg. Old man, do not make me desperate ! 
 Cal. Bourgognino 1 he speaks the truth. 
 Bourg. (Enraged, rushing towards Bertha.) 
 The truth ! Has the girl then mocked me ? 
 I Cal. Restrain your passion. The girl is spot- 
 less as an angel. 
 
 Bourg. By my soul's happiness, I comprehend 
 ilk not! — The girl is spotless yet dishonored?— 
 ■They look in silence on each other. Some horrid 
 dcrime hangs on their trembling tongues. — I con- 
 tjjure you, friends, mock not my reason. Is she 
 pure ? Is she truly so ? Who answers for her? 
 Ver. My child is guiltless. 
 
 Bourg. What 1 — Violence ! — ( Snatches the sword 
 \\from the ground.) Be all the sins of earth upon 
 my head, if I avenge her not ! — Where is the 
 ' spoiler ? 
 
 - Ver. Seek him, in the plunderer of Genoa — I 
 \\f He walks up and down the room in deep thought y 
 when stops — ) 
 
 [(If rightly I can trace thy counsels, O eternal Pro- 
 vidence ! it is thy will to make my daughter the 
 instrument of Genoa's deliverance. ( Approaching 
 her slowly, takes the mourning crape from his arm, 
 \\and proceeds in a solemn manner.) Before the heart's 
 i blood of Doria shall wash away this foul stain from 
 thy honor, no beam of day light shall shine upon 
 [ these cheeks. Till then ( throwing the crape over 
 hher ) be blind! (A pause— the rest look upon 
 Ifiim with silent astonishment, he continues solemn- 
 
28 fiesco. Act I, 
 
 (y, his hand upon Bertha's head.) Cursed be 
 the air, that shall breathe on thee ! Cursed every 
 human step, that shall come to sooth thy misery ! 
 — Down, into the lowest vault beneath my house ! 
 There whine, and cry aloud! (pausing with in- 
 ward horror. ) Be thy life painful as tortures of 
 the writhing worm — agonising as the stubborn 
 conflict between existence and annihilation. — This 
 curse lie on thee, till Gianettino shall have heaved 
 forth his dying breath. If he escape his punish- 
 ment, then may'st thou drag thy load of misery 
 throughout the endless circle of eternity 1 
 {A deep silence — horror is marked on the counten- 
 ances of all present. — Verrina casts a scrutinis- 
 ing look at each of them.) 
 
 Bourg. Inhuman father ! What is it thou hast 
 done ? Why pour fourth this horrible and mon- 
 strous curse against thy guiltless daughter? 
 
 Ver. Youth, thou say'st true — it is most hor- 
 rible. Now, which of you will stand forth and 
 speak of patience and delay ? My daughter's fate 
 is linked with that of Genoa. I am no more a 
 father, but a citizen. And who among us is so 
 much a coward, to hesitate in the salvation of his 
 country, when this poor guiltless being must pay 
 for his timidity with endless sufferings ? By hea- 
 vens, 'twas not a madman's speech. I've sworn 
 an oath, and till Doria feel the agonies of death, 
 I cannot pity my own child. No — not if, like an 
 executioner, I should invent unheard of torments 
 for her, or with my own hands tear her innocent 
 frame to pieces on the barbarous rack. You shud- 
 der — you stare me in the face as pale as ghosts. 
 Once more, Scipio — I keep her as an hostage for 
 the tyrant's death. Upon this precious thread do 
 I suspend thy duty, my own, and yours ( to Sac- 
 co and Calcagno.) The tyrant of Genoa must 
 fall, or Bertha must despair — I do not retract* 
 
to i. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 at 
 
 Bourg. {Throwing himself at Bertha's/^.) 
 Ie shall fall—shall fall a vi&im of Genoa. I will 
 is surely plunge this sword into Doria's heart, as 
 jpon thy lips I will imprint the bridal kiss. (Rises.) 
 
 Ver. Ye couple, the first that ever owed their 
 anion to the furies, join hands! — Wilt thou plunge 
 thy sword into Doria's heart I — Take her — she is 
 thine. 
 
 .Cat. (Kneeling.) Here another citizen of Genoa, 
 kneels down, and lays his faithful sword before 
 the feet of innocence* As surely may Calcagno 
 find the way to heaven, as this steel shall find its 
 way to Gianettino's bosom. (Rises.) 
 i Sacco. (Kneeling.) Last, but not least deter- 
 mined, Raffaelle Sacco kneels. If this bright 
 steel help not to unlock the prison doors of Ber- 
 itha, may 'st thou, my Saviour, shut thy ear against 
 'my dying prayers ! (Rises*) 
 
 Ver. Through me Genoa thanks you. Now 
 go my daughter — Rejoice, to be the mighty sa- 
 crifice for thy country !: 
 
 Bourg. (Embracing her, as she is departing* Go 1 
 confide in God — and Bourgognino. — The same 
 day shall give freedom to Bertha, and to Genoa. 
 
 (Bertha retires* 
 
 Scene XIII. — The Former — without Bertha., 
 
 Cat. Genoese, before we take another step,, 
 one word — 
 
 Ver* I guess, what thou would'st say. 
 
 Cal, Will four patriots alone be sufficient to 
 fdestroy this mighty Hydra? Shall we not stir up* 
 the people to rebellion, or dr-aw the nobles in to 
 i join our party ? 
 
 Ver* I understand thee. Now hear my advice 
 — I have engaged a painter, who has been long 
 exerting all his skill, to paint the fall of Appius 
 Claudius. That art Fiesco loves. to enthusiasm, 
 
 M- 2 
 
30 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act 
 
 and oft delights to elevate his mind by viewing i 
 sublime productions. We will send this pictu 
 to his house, and will be present when he co 
 templates it. Perhaps the sight may rouse 
 spirit. — Perhaps — 
 
 Bourg. Speak not of him. — Let us increase t 
 clanger, and not the means of help. So valor bid 
 I have long felt an impulse at my heart, strong 
 than I knew how to satisfy. Now — now I kn 
 what presses on me — a Tyrant I (The scene clos 
 
 E5TD OF THE FIRST ACT* 
 
Mji7. 1IE5C0. 31 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 •CENE I. — An antichamber in the palace ct/Tiesco* 
 Leonora and Arabella. 
 
 Ara. No, certainly. You were mistaken : your 
 yes were blinded by jealousy. 
 
 Leo. It was the living image of Julia. Do 
 lot endeavour to persuade me otherwise. My 
 iclure used to be suspended by a sky-blue riband : 
 ; lis was flame-coloured — My doom is fixM Lrre- 
 Qcably. 
 
 Scene II. — The Former and Julia. 
 
 Julia. The Count offered me his palace to see 
 le procession to the senate-house. The time 
 ill be tedious. You will entertain me, Madam, 
 hile the chocolate is preparing. 
 Arabella goes out, and returns soon afterward.) 
 
 Leo. Do you wish, that I should invite comp- 
 any to meet you ? 
 
 Julia. Ridiculous ! As if I should come hi- 
 iier in search of company. You will endeavour 
 > amuse me, Madam. — If you can do that, I shall 
 ave lost nothing. 
 
 Ara. Your splendid dress alone will be the 
 >ser. Only think, how cruel 'tis to deprive the 
 iger eyes of our young beaus of such a treat 1 
 .h i and the glitter of your sparkling jewels, on 
 hich it almost wounds the sight to look. Good 
 ravens 1 You seem to have plundered the whole 
 :ean of its pearls. 
 
 Julia. ( Before a glass.) You are surprised at 
 lat, Madam ! But hark ye, Madam : pray has 
 our mistress also hired your tongue ? Countess^ 
 is fine, indeed, to permit your servants thus to 
 jldress your guests. 
 
32 
 
 fiesco. 
 
 Act 
 
 Leo. 'Tis my misfortune, Signora, that 
 want of spirits prevents me from enjoying tl 
 pleasure of your company. 
 
 Julia. That's an ugly fault. To be dull 
 spiritless — Be active, sprightly, witty ! Yours 
 not the way to attach your husband to you. 
 
 Leo. I know but one way, Countess. Yoi 
 perhaps may be more efficacious in exciting syi 
 pathy. 
 
 Julia. How you dress, Madam I For shai 
 Pay more attention to your appearance ! Hi 
 recourse to art, where nature is unkind. ll 
 colour on those cheeks winch look so pale with 
 spleen. Poor creature ! Your countenance will 
 never find an admirer. 
 
 Leo. {To Arabella.) Congratulate me, girl. 
 It is impossible I can have lost Fiesco ; or if I 
 have, the loss must sure be trilling. {The cho- 
 colate is brought, Arabella pours it out. J 
 
 Julia. Do you talk of losing Fiesco ? GajM 
 God ! How could you ever conceive the vain idea 1 
 of possessing him ? Why, my child, aspire to L 
 such a height ? — A height, where you cannot but 
 be seen, and must be compared with others. In- 
 deed, my dear, he was a scoundrel or a block- 
 head, who joined you with Fiesco. (Taking het 
 hand with a look of compasion. ) Poor soul 1 The 
 man, who mixes with the assemblies of fashiona- 
 ble life, could never be your match. (She takes 
 a dish of chocolate. J 
 
 Leo. {Smiling at Arabella.) If he were, he 
 would not wish to mix with such assemblies. 
 
 Julia. The Count is handsome, fashionaMHI 
 elegant. He was so fortunate, as to form con' 
 nexions with people of rank. The Count is live- 
 ly, and high spirited. — Suppose, he comes home 
 warm from the midst of a iashionable circle, 
 what does he meet? His wife receives him witfc 
 
ct II. 
 
 riEsco. 
 
 35 
 
 vulgar tenderness ; damps his fire with a chil- 
 ng kiss, and measures out her attentions to him 
 pith a niggardly economy. Poor husband ! Here, 
 blooming beauty smiles upon him— Mere, he is 
 isgusted by a peevish sensibility. Signora, Sig- 
 ora, for God's sake, consider, if he have not 
 )St his understanding, what will he choose ? — 
 
 : Leo. You, Madam — If he have lost it. 
 
 Julia. Good 1 This sting shall return into 
 our own bosom. Tremble for your mockery ! 
 
 . iut before you tremble— blush ! 
 
 I Leo. Do you then know, what it is to blush, 
 ignora ? But, why not ? 'Tis a toilet-trick. 
 Julia. Oh, see ! This poor creature must be pro- 
 ofed, if one would draw from her a spark of wit. 
 Veil — -Let it pass, this time. Madam, I only 
 poke in jest. Give me your hand, in token of 
 
 Reconciliation. 
 
 Leo. Countess, my anger ne'er shall trouble you. 
 Julia. That's generous indeed. I would en- 
 eavour to imitate your conduct. Countess, do 
 ou not think I must love that person, whose 
 mage I bear constantly about me ? 
 
 I Leo. What do you say ?— At least it seems a 
 
 ■ ioubtful proof. 
 Julia. I think so too. The heart needs not 
 
 i .ie assistance of the senses ; and real sentiment 
 eeks not to strengthen itself by outward orna- 
 
 [Iftent. 
 
 I Leo. Heavens ! Where did you learn such a 
 ruth ? 
 
 I Julia. 'Twas in mere compassion that I spoke 
 t;. for observe, Madam, the reverse is no less 
 ertain. Such is Fiesco's love for you— {Gives her 
 he picture, laughing maliciously.) 
 
 I Leo. My picture 1 Given to you ! —Cruel 
 
 ; 'iesco ! — . 
 
34 FIESCO. j 
 
 Julia, Have I retaliated ? Have I ? Now, 
 am, have you any other sting to wound me wit 
 —Be comforted : he gave me the picture in 
 of madness. \_Exeunt Julia and Arabell, 
 
 Scene III. — Leonora, Calcagno entering, 
 
 Cal, Did not the Countess Imperiali depe 
 anger, Madam ? 
 
 Leo, No — This is unheard of cruelty. 
 
 Cal, Heaven and earth ! — Do I behold yoi 
 tears ! 
 
 Leo, Thou art a friend of my inhuman — Al 
 Leave my sight 
 
 Cal, Whom do you call inhuman ? 1 
 
 affright me 
 
 Leo, My husband — Is he not so ? 
 
 Cal, What do I hear !— 
 
 Leo, Tis but a piece of villany, comraoi 
 enough among your sex — 
 
 Cal, {Grasping her hand,) Lady, I have a heat 
 for weeping virtue. 
 
 Leo, You are a man — Your heart is not forme 
 
 Cal, For you alone — Yours only — Would 
 that you knew how much, how truly yours 
 
 Leo, Man, thou art untrue Thy word 
 
 would be refuted by thy actions 
 
 Cal, I swear to you 
 
 Leo, A false oath Cease ! The per 
 
 juries of men are so innumerable, 'twould tin 
 the pen of the recording angel to write then 
 clown. If their violated oaths were turned intoai 
 many devils, they might storm heaven itself 
 and lead away the angels of light as captives. 
 
 Cal. Nay, Madam, your anger makes ym 
 unjust. Is the whole sex to ans wer for the crinv 
 of one ? 
 
 Leo, I tell thee, in that one was centred a] 
 my affection for the sex. In him I will detest then 
 ail. 
 
ct IL 
 
 yiEsco. 
 
 35 
 
 Ceil. Countess, you once bestowed your hand 
 niss. Would you again make trial ; I know 
 lie, who would deserve it better. 
 Leo. The limits of creation cannot bound your 
 ishoods. I'll hear thee no more. 
 CaL Oh that you would retract this cruel sen- 
 uce in my arms I 
 Leo. Speak out — In thy arms I 
 CaL In my arms, which open themselves to 
 ceive a forsaken woman, and to console her for 
 ie love she has lost. 
 Leo. Love ! 
 
 CaL ( Kneeling before her.) Yes, I have said 
 
 j — Love, Madam Life and death lie on your 
 
 ngue. To call my passion criminal, would be 
 t break down the boundaries of vice and virtue, 
 jd to confound together heaven and hell in one 
 Ineral condemnation. 
 
 Leo* Hypocrite ! Was that the object of thy 
 se r compassion ? This attitude at once pro- 
 lims thee a traitor to friendship, and to love, 
 tgone, for ever from my eyes !— Detested sex ! 
 11 now I thought the only victim of your snares 
 s woman ; nor ever suspected, that to each 
 ler you were so false, and faithless. 
 CaL ( Rising, confounded. ) Countess ! 
 Leo. Was it not enough to break the sacred 
 ill of confidence ? but even on the unsullied 
 rror of virtue, this hypocrite breathes pesti- 
 ce, and would seduce my innocence to perjury. 
 Cal. Perjury, Madam, you cannot be guilty of. 
 [Leo. I understand thee— ^thou thoughtest my 
 unded pride would plead in thy behalf. Thou 
 1st not know that she, who loves Fiesco, feels 
 sn the pang that rends her heart, ennobling, 
 gone ! Fiesco's perfidy will not make Calcagno 
 e in my esteem— but— -will debase humanity. 
 
 (Exit) hastily* 
 
3-3 
 
 FIESC0. 
 
 Act 
 
 Cal. {Stands as if thunderstruck — looks after 
 . — then striking his forehead) — Fool that I am. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Moor and Fiesco. 
 
 Fies, Who was it that just now departed ? 
 
 Moor. The Marquis Calcagno. 
 
 Fies. This handkerchief was left upon the 
 fa. My wife has been here. 
 
 Moor. I met her this moment in great agi 
 tion. 
 
 Fies. This handkerchief is moist — Galea 
 here ? And Leonora agitated ? — This even 
 thou must learn, what has happened. 
 
 Moor. Miss Bella likes to hear, that she 
 fair. She will inform me. 
 
 Fies. Well — Thirty hours are past — Hast t 
 executed my commission ? 
 
 Moor. Thoroughly, my Lord. 
 
 Fies* Then tell me, how they talk of Do 
 and of the government. 
 
 Moor. Oh, most vilely. The very name o 
 Doria shakes them like an ague-fit. Gianettin< 
 is as hateful to them as death itself — there': 
 nought but murmuring. They say, the Frencl 
 have been the rats of Genoa, the cat Doria ha: 
 eaten them, and now is going to feast upon th< 
 mice. 
 
 Fies* That may perhaps be true. But do thej 
 
 not know of any dog against that cat ? 
 
 Moor. The town was murmuring much of i 
 certain — poh — I have forgot the name. 
 
 Fies. Blockhead 1 That name is as easy to bf 
 remembered, as 'twould be difficult to obtain it 
 Has Genoa more such names than one ? 
 
 Moor. No — It cannot have two Counts of La 
 vagna. 
 
 Fies. That is something — And what do the; 
 whisper about my present way of living . ? 
 
4ct IL 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 37 
 
 I Moor. Hear pie, Count of Lavagna ! Genoa 
 i bust think highly of you. They cannot imagine, 
 
 yky a descendant of the first family — with such 
 
 .dents and genius — full of spirit and popularity— 
 
 taster of four millions — his veins enrich'd with 
 | rincely blood — a nobleman like Fiesco, whom, 
 
 t the first call, all hearts would fly to meet — 
 Fies. (Turns away contemptuously*) To hear 
 
 uch things from such a scoundrel 1 
 Moor. Many lamented, that the chief of Ge- 
 
 oa should slumber over the ruin of his country. 
 
 aid many sneered. Most men condemned you. 
 
 .11 bewailed the state, which thus had lost you. 
 L Jesuit pretended to have smelt out the fox, 
 Ijiat lay concealed beneath the garb of quietness. 
 I Fies. One fox smells out another. — What say 
 
 ley to my passion for the Countess Imperiali ? 
 Moor. What I would rather be excused from 
 \ ppeating. 
 
 Fies. Out with it — The bolder, the more wel- 
 come. 
 
 I Moor. 'Tis not a murmur. At all the coffee- 
 ouses, billiard-tables, hotels, and public walks — 
 i the market-place, at the Exchange, they pro* 
 
 li.aim aloud — 
 Fies. What ? — I command thee. 
 
 I Moor. Retreating. That you are a fool. 
 Fies. Well, take this sequin for these tidings. 
 
 j'ow have I put on the fool's cap. How did the 
 
 Manufacturers receive my presents ? 
 Moor. Why, Mr. Fool, they looked like poor 
 
 > laves — 
 
 Fies. Fool ? — Fellow, art thou mad ? 
 Moor. Pardon! I had a mind for a 'few more 
 [jquins. 
 
 \ Fies. (Laughing, gives him another sequin.) 
 v T ell — "Like poor knaves." 
 
 roL, ii.) 9 N 
 
FIESCO. 
 
 Moor, Who receive pardon at the very bl( 
 They are your's, both soul and body. 
 
 Fies. I'm glad of it. They turn the s< 
 among the populace of Genoa. 
 
 Moor. What a scene it was ! Zounds ! I 
 most acquired a relish for benevolence. Tl 
 caught me round the neck like madmen, 
 very girls seemed in love with my black vise 
 that's as ill-omen'd as the moon in an eclij 
 Cold thought I, is omnipotent : it makes evei 
 Moor look fair. 
 
 Fies. Thy thought was better, than the 
 that gave it birth. These words are favours 
 but do they bespeak actions of equal import? 
 
 Moor. Yes — As the murmuring of the distj 
 thunder foretells the approaching storm, 
 people lay their heads together— they collect 
 parties — break off their talk whene'er a strangei 
 passes by — Throughout Genoa reigns a gloomj 
 silence — This discontent hangs like a threatening 
 tempest, over the republic — It only wants a wind 
 then hail and lightning will burst forth. 
 
 Fies, Hush — hark !— ■ What is that confusec 
 noise ? 
 
 Moor. ( Going to the window ) It is the tu- 
 mult of the crowd returning from the senate 
 
 house. 
 
 Fies, To-day is the election of a procurator- 
 Order my carriage ! It is impossible, that fll 
 sitting should be over. I'll go thither — It is im 
 possible it should be over, if things went right 
 Bring me my sword and cloak — where is my gold 
 en chain ? 
 
 Moor. Sir, I have stolen and pawned it. 
 Fies, That I am glad tb hear. 
 Moor. But, how ! Are there no more sequin; 
 
 for me ? 
 
 fies. No — You forgot the cloak. 
 
(ct II. fie sco. 39 
 
 Moor, Ah ! I was wrong in pointing out the 
 lief. 
 
 Fies, The tumult comes nearer. Hark! 'Tis 
 3t the sound of approbation. Quick ! — Unlock 
 ie gates — I guess the matter. Doria has been 
 .sh. The state already trembles on an unsteady 
 dance. There has surely been some disturbance 
 
 the senate-house. 
 
 Moor. (At the window.) What's here I They're 
 uning down the street of Balbi — A crowd of ma- 
 f thousands — the halberds glitter — Ah, swords 
 o ! — Halloo ! — Senators ! They come this way. 
 
 Fies. Sedition is on foot. Hasten amongst 
 em — Mention my name — Persuade them to 
 ime hither. (Exit Moon hastily. ) What, rea- 
 n, labouring like a careful ant, with difficulty 
 rapes together, the wind of accident collects in 
 :ie short moment. 
 
 :ene V. — Fiesco, Zenturione, Zibo, and 
 Asserato rush ing in. 
 
 Zibo. Count, impute it to our confusion that 
 m enter thus unannounced. 
 
 m Zen. I have been mortally affronted, by the 
 Euke's nephew, in the face of the whole senate. 
 jl^/M. Doria, then, has soiled the golden book 
 ■which each noble Genoese is a leaf. 
 \\Zent. Therefore come we hither — The whole 
 
 pbility is insulted in me The whole nobility 
 
 Ifust share in my revenge — In the defence of 
 ny own honor 1 should not need assistance. 
 llZ/fo. The whole nobility is in him provoked — 
 line whole nobility must spit forth flames. 
 
 Asser. The rights of the nation are trampled 
 ILder foot — The liberty of the republic has re- 
 lived a deadly blow. 
 I \Fies. You raise my expectation. 
 IjZifo. He was the twenty-ninth among the 
 ]i *0 
 
40 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 electing senators, and had drawn forth a gol 
 ball to vote for the procurator — Of the eight 
 twenty votes collected, fourteen were for me, 
 as many for Lomellino — His and Doria's w 
 still wanting — 
 
 Zent. Wanting 1 I gave my vote for Zil 
 Doria — Think of the wound inflicled on my 
 nor- — Doria — 
 
 Asser. — Such a thing was never heard of, si 
 the sea washed the Avails of Genoa. 
 
 Zent. — Doria drew a sword, which he had c 
 cealed under a scarlet cloak — Stuck it thro 
 ray vote — called to the assembly — 
 
 Zibo. " Senators, 'tis good for nothing, 'tis 
 pierced through — Lomellino is Procurator." 
 
 Zent. "Lomellino is Procurator." And threw 
 his sword upon the table. 
 
 Asser. And called out, " 'Tis good for not 
 ing" — and threw his sword upon the table. 
 
 lies. {After a pause.) On what are you 
 solved ? 
 
 Zent. The republic is wounded to its v 
 heart — On what are we resolved ? 
 
 Fies. Zenturione, rushes may be broken b 
 breath, the oak requires a storm. I ask, onvv 
 you are resolved ? 
 
 Zibo. Methinks the question should be, On 
 what does Genoa resolve \ 
 
 Fies. Genoa! Genoa! name it not — 'Tis brit- 
 tle, and will crack, where'er you touch it. Do 
 you reckon on the nobles ? Perhaps, because 
 they put on grave faces — look mysterious, when 
 state affairs are mentioned — Talk not of them ! 
 Their heroism is stifled among the bales of their 
 Levantine merchandise. Their souls hover 
 anxiously about their India fleet. 
 
 Zent. Learn to 'esteem our nobles more just- 
 ly. Scarcely was Doria's haughty action done, 
 
 3 
 
Act If. 
 
 FIKSCQ. 
 
 41 
 
 when hundreds of them rushed into the street, 
 ; tearing their garments — The senate was dis- 
 pers'd— 
 
 Fies. Like frighted pigeons, when the vulture 
 darts upon the dove-cote. 
 
 Zcnt, No — like powder-barrels, when a match 
 falls on them. 
 
 Zibo, The people are enraged. What may 
 we not expect from the fury of the wounded boar ! 
 
 Fies. {Laughing.) The blind, unwieldy mon- 
 ster, which at lirst rattles its heavy bones, threat- 
 ening with gaping jaws, to devour the high and 
 low, the near and distant, at last, Genoese, stum- 
 bles at a thread. No more ! the epoch of the mas- 
 ters of the sea is past. Genoa is sunk beneath the 
 splendor of its name. Its state is such as once 
 was Rome's, when, like a tennis-ball, she leapt 
 into the racket of young Octavius. Genoa can be 
 free no longer. Genoa must be foster'd by a 
 monarch. Therefore do homage to the mad- 
 brain'd Gianettino 
 
 Zent. Yes — when the contending elements are 
 reconciled, and when the north pole meets the 
 south — Come, friends ! 
 
 Fies. Stay — Stay — Upon what project are you 
 brooding, Zibo ? 
 
 Zibo. On nothing- 
 
 Fies. (Leading them to a statue.) Look at this 
 figure. 
 
 Zent. It is the Florentine Venus. Why 
 point to her ? 
 
 Fies. At least, she pleases you. 
 I Zibo. Undoubtedly, or we should be but poor 
 italians. But why this question now ? 
 '; Fies. Travel through all the countries of the 
 $lobe, and seek, among the living models, for 
 hat, which is most happily executed, in which. 
 
42 
 
 FIKSCO. 
 
 Act 
 
 the charms of this imagined Venus are 
 united — 
 
 Zibo. Then we perhaps may take her for o 
 reward ? 
 
 Fies. Then your search will have convicte 
 Fancy of deceit — 
 
 Zent. And what shall we have gain'd ? 
 
 Fies, Gain'd ? — The decision of the long p 
 tracted contest between Art and Nature. 
 
 Zent. And what then ? 
 
 Fies. Then? Then? (laughing.) Then y 
 will have forgotten to observe the fall of Genoa 
 liberty. (Exeunt all but Fiesc 
 
 Scene VI. — Fiesco alone. 
 
 (Tlie noise without increases.) 
 Fies. 'Tis well — 'tis well — The straw of t 
 republic has cought fire. The flames have sei 
 ed already on palaces and towers. Let it go on 
 Let the blaze be general ! Let the tempestuo 
 wind spread wide the conflagration ! 
 
 Scene VII. — Fiesco — Moor, entering in hasten 
 
 Moor. Crowds upon crowds 1 
 
 Fies. Throw open wide the gates. Let allj 
 that choose it, enter — 
 
 Moor. Republicans ! Republicans indeed I 
 They drag their liberty along panting like beasts 
 of burden, beneath the yoke of their magnificent 
 nobility. 
 
 Fies. Fools 1 Who believe Fiesco of Lavagna 
 will carry on, what Fiesco of Lavagna did not 
 begin. The tumult comes opportunely ; but the 
 conspiracy must be my own. They are rushing 
 hither — 
 
 Moor. (Going out.) Halloo I You beat the 
 walls down, there — (The people rush in — The 
 doors broken down. ) 
 
ctll. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 43 
 
 Scene VIII. — Fiesco — twelve Artisans. 
 
 All art. Vengeance on Doria I Vengeance 
 i Gianettino ! 
 
 Pies. Peace, my countrymen ! Your waiting 
 nis upon me bespeaks the warmth of your affec- 
 on ; but forbear these harsh expressions I 
 
 All. Down with the Dorias ! Down with them 
 oth the uncle, and the nephew ! 
 
 Fits, (counting them with a smile. J Twelve is a 
 lighty force ! 
 
 . Some of them. These Dorias must away— The 
 itate must be reformed. 
 First art. To throw our magistrates down 
 tairs ! — The magistrates ! 
 
 Second art. Think, Count Lavagna, — down 
 tairs, when they opposed him in the election — 
 
 All. It must not be endured— It shall not be 
 ndured. 
 
 Third art. To take a sword into the senate ! 
 First art. A sword — The sign of war — Into 
 lie chamber of peace — 
 
 ■ Second art. To come into the senate drest in 
 carlet ! Not like the other senators, in black. 
 
 First art. To drive through our capital with 
 Eight horses ! 
 All. A tyrant ! — A traitor to the country and 
 le government ! 
 
 Second art. To hire two hundred Germans 
 'omthe emperor, for his body-guard ! 
 
 First art. To bring foreigners in arms against 
 le natives — Germans against Italians— Soldiers 
 eside the laws ! 
 
 All. 'Tis treason — 'tis a plot against the liber- 
 r of Genoa. 
 
 First art. To have the arms of the republic 
 ainted on his coach I 
 
 Second art. The statue of Andreas placed in 
 he centre of the senate-house 1 
 
44 fie sco. Act 
 
 All. Dash them to pieces — Both the figure 
 
 and the man — 
 
 Fies. Citizens of Genoa, why this to me ? 
 
 First art. You shall not suffer it. You si 
 keep him clown. 
 
 Second art. You are a wise man, and shall 
 suffer it. You shall direct us by your counsel. 
 
 First art. You are a better nobleman. Y< 
 shall chastise them and curb their insolence. 
 
 Fies. You confidence is flattering. Can 
 merit it by deeds ? 
 
 All. Strike ! Down with the tyrant ! I 
 ns free ! 
 
 Fies. But — Will you hear me ? — 
 
 Some. Speak, Count ! 
 
 Fies. Genoese, the empire of the animals was 
 once thrown into confusion ; parties struggled 
 with parties ; till at last a bull-dog seized tl 
 throne. He, accustomed to drive the cattle 
 the knife of the butcher, ranged in a savage mi 
 ner through the state. He bark'd, he bit, anc 
 gnawed his subjects' bones. The nation mur- 
 mured : the boldest joined together, and killec 
 the princely monster. Now, a general assembly 
 was held to decide upon the important question, 
 j which form of government was best. There weft 
 three different opinions. Genoese, what would be 
 ' your decision £ 
 
 First art. For the people — 
 ^* All. For the people — 
 
 Fies. The people gained the question. The 
 government was democratical : each citizen had 
 a vote, and every thing was submitted to a ma- 
 jority. But a few weeks past, ere Man declared 
 war against the new republic. The state assem- 
 bled — horse, lion, tiger, bear, elephant, and 
 rhinoceros, stepped forth and roared aloud, To 
 arms I — The rest were called upon to vote. The 
 
ict II. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 45 
 
 imb, the hare, the stag, the ass, the tribe of 
 nsecls, with the birds, and timid fishes, cried 
 or peace. See, Genoese ! The cowards were 
 nore numerous than the brave : the foolish than 
 1 he wise. Numbers prevailed — the beasts laid 
 ■own their arms, and Man exacted contributions 
 rom them. The democratic system was aban- 
 loned. Genoese, what would you next have 
 •hosen ? 
 
 First and second art. A select government. 
 Fics. That was adopted. The business of the 
 
 • tate was all arranged in separate departments. 
 Volves were the financiers, foxes their secre- 
 
 : aries, pigeons presided in the criminal courts, 
 
 i nd tigers in the courts of equity. The laws of 
 hastity were regulated by the he-goats ; hares 
 Fere the soldiers, lions and elephants staid by 
 
 Ipe baggage. The ass was the ambassador of 
 
 llhe empire, and the mole inspector-general of 
 he whole administration.— Genoese, what think 
 ou of this wise distribution ? Those whom the 
 , r olf did not devour, the fox pillaged. Whoever 
 scaped from him was knocked down by the ass. 
 The tiger murdered innocents, whilst robbers 
 
 |.nd assassins were pardoned by the pigeon. And 
 t the last, when each had laid down his office, 
 he mole declared that all were well discharged. * 
 
 f!?he animals rebelled — •< Let us," they cried 
 manimously, " choose a monarch, endowed 
 
 with strength and skill, and who has only one"**^ 
 tomach to appease." And to one chief they all 
 id homage. Genoese — To one — but — ( rising 
 
 )nd advancing majestically ) that one was — The 
 ^ion. — 
 
 i All. (Shouting, and throwing up their hats. J 
 iravo ! Bravo 1 Well managed, Count Lavagna I 
 I First art. And Genoa shall follow that exam- 
 ple — Genoa also has its Lion. 
 
46 tiesco. Act I. 
 
 Ties* Tell me not of that Lion ; but go home, 
 and think upon him. (The Artisans depart 
 tumultuously.) It is as I would have it. The 
 people and the senate are alike enraged against 
 Doria : the people and the senate alike approve 
 Fiesco. Hassan ! Hassan ! I most take advan- 
 tage of this favorable gale. Hoa ! Hassan ! H as- 
 san ! I must augment their hatred — improve my 
 influence. Hassan ! Come hither ! Whoreson 
 of hell, come hither I 
 
 1 
 
 Scene IX. — Fiesco, — Moor, entering hastily 
 
 Moor. My feet are quite on fire with ru 
 ning — What is the matter now ? 
 
 Fies. Hear my commands ! 
 
 Moor. Whither shall I run first ? 
 
 Fies, I will excuse thy running this time. 
 Thou shalt be dragged. Prepare thyself — I intend 
 to publish thy attempted assassination, and deli- 
 ver thee up in chains to the criminal tribunal. 
 
 Moor. Sir ! That's contrary to agreement. 
 
 Fies. Be not alarmed. 'Tis but a farce. At 
 £his moment, 'tis of the utmost consequence, that 
 Gianettino's attempt against my life should be 
 made public. Thou shalt be tried before the cri- 
 minal tribunal. 
 
 Moor. Must I confess it, or deny ? 
 
 Fies. Deny. They will put thee to the tor- 
 ture. Thou must hold out against the first de- 
 gree — This, by the bye, will serve to expiate 
 thy real crime. At the second, thou may'st con- 
 fess. 
 
 Moor. The devil may play me a trick — Their 
 worships will perhaps desire my company a litt 
 longer than I should wish, and to conclude t. 
 farce, I should be broken on the wheel. 
 
 Fies. Thou shalt escape unhurt, I give th 
 my honor as a nombleman. I shall request 
 
Act II. FIESCO. 4| 
 
 have thy punishment left to my own discretion, 
 and than pardon thee, before the whole republic. 
 
 Moor. Well — I agree to it. They will draw 
 out my joints a little — but that will only make 
 them the more flexible. 
 
 Fies. Then scratch this arm with thy dagger, 
 till the blood follows. I will pretend, that I have 
 just now seized thee in the fact. 'Tis well — hal- 
 looing violently.) Murder ! Murder ! Guard the 
 passages I Make fast the gates I — ( He drags the 
 VIoor out by the throaty servants run across the 
 itage hastily.) 
 
 Scene X.— Leonora and Rosa enter hastily, 
 alarmed. 
 
 Leo. Murder, they cried — Murder.— The noise 
 ;ame this way. 
 
 Rosa. Surely 'twas but a common tumulty 
 iuch as happens every day in Genoa. 
 
 Leo. They cried murder I — and I distinctly 
 leard Fiesco's name. In vain you would deceive 
 ne — My heart discovers, what is concealed from 
 Jny eyes. Quick ! Hasten after them. See P 
 Tell me, whither they carry him. 
 
 Rosa. Collect your spirits, Madam. Arabella 
 s gone. 
 
 , Leo. Arabella will catch his dying look. The 
 appy Arabella ! Wretch that I am, 'twas I that 
 uurdered him. If I could have engaged his 
 • ieart, he would not have plunged into the world, 
 ior rush'd upon the daggers of assassins. — Ah — 
 he comes-— Away — Oh, Arabella, speak not to 
 ue I 
 
 Scene XI. — The Former — Arabella. 
 
 Arab. The Count is living and unhurt. I saw 
 um gallop through the city. Never did he ap- 
 ear more handsome. The steed, that bore him ? 
 
4o fiesco. Act 
 
 5 
 
 pranced haughtily along, and with its pr 
 hoof kept the thronging multitude at a dista 
 from its princely rider. He saw me as I passed, 
 and with a gracious smile, thrice kissed his hand 
 to me. ( Archly.) What can I do with th 
 kisses, Madam ? 
 
 Leo. Idle prattler ! Restore them to him. 
 
 Rosa. See now, how soon your color has 
 turned 1 
 
 Leo. His heart he throws away upon th 
 girls, whilst I am anxious to obtain a look ! 
 wives ! wives ! ( Ex< 
 
 Scene XII. — The palace of Andreas. 
 
 Gianettino, and Lomellino, enter hastilf^ 
 Gian. Let them roar for their liberty, as a 
 
 lioness for her young — I am resolved. 
 
 Lorn. But — most gracious Prince ! 
 
 Gian. Away to hell with thy Buts> thou thr 
 hours Procurator ! I will not yield a hair's bread 
 Let Genoa's towers shake their heads, and 
 ♦hoarse sea rebellow No, to it-— I value not U 
 opposing multitude. 
 
 Lorn. The people are indeed the^ fuel ; 
 the nobility blow up the flame. The whole re 
 public is in a ferment, people, and patricians. 
 
 Gian. Then will I stand upon the mount like 
 Nero, and entertain myself with looking at the 
 flames. 
 
 Lorn. Till the whole mass of sedition falls into 
 the hands of fome enterprising leader, who will 
 take advantage of the general devastation. 
 
 Gian. Poh ! Poh ' I know but one who can 
 be dangerous, and he is taken care of. 
 
 Lorn. His Highness comes— 
 
 Enter Andreas — ( both bow respectfully.) , 
 
 And. Signor Lomellino, my niece wishes to 
 take the air. 
 
ict 1L 
 
 riEsco. 
 
 49 
 
 Lorn. I shall have the honor of attending her. 
 
 (Exit Lomeli.ino. 
 Scene XIII. — Andreas and Giaxettino. 
 
 And. Nephew, I am much displeased with you. 
 Gian. Grant me a hearing, most gracious 
 incle 1 
 
 And. That I would grant to the meanest beg- 
 ;ar in Genoa, if he deserved it. Never to a vil- 
 ain, though he should be my nephew. It is suf- 
 cient favor, that I address thee as an uncle, not 
 s a sovereign. 
 
 ! Gian. One word only, gracious Sir ! 
 
 I And.. Hear first what thou hast done, then 
 [■tover me. Thou hast pulled down an edifice, 
 jluch I had labored forfifty years to raise — that 
 /hich should have been thy uncle's mausoleum, 
 is only pyramid — the affection of his country- 
 len. — This rashness Andreas pardons thee— . 
 
 Gian. My uncle, and my sovereign ! 
 
 And. Interrupt me not — Thou hast injured 
 aat most glorious work of mine, the Constituti- 
 n, which I brought down from Heaven for 
 irenoa, which cost me so many sleepless nights, 
 ) many dangers, and so much blood. Before 
 
 II Genoa, thou hast cast a stain upon my honor, 
 :i violating my institutions. Who will hold them 
 M?red if my own family despise them ? — This 
 )lly thy uncle pardons thee. 
 
 Gian. Sir, you educated me to be Duke of 
 jrenoa. 
 
 And. Be silent ! Thou art a traitor to the state 
 fid hast attacked its vital principle. Mark me, 
 by ! That principal is subordination. Because 
 le shepherd retiredrin the evening from his labor, 
 loughtest thou the flock deserted ? Because An- 
 reas' head is white with age, thoughtest thou, 
 ke a villain, to trample on the laws ? 
 
 Gian. Peace, Duke ! In my veins also boils the 
 vol. ul) O 
 
50 
 
 I" I E S C O. 
 
 blood of that Andreas, before whom France h; 
 trembled. 
 
 And. Be silent, I command thee. When 
 speak, the sea itself is wont to pay attentioi 
 Thou hast insulted the majesty of justice in i 
 very sancFuary. — Rebel I — Dost thou know wh; 
 punishment that crime demands ? — Now answer 
 (Gianettino appears struck, and fixes his ejes c 
 the ground without speaking. J 
 .And. Wretched Andreas! In thy own hea: 
 thou hast bred the canker of thy merit. I bui 
 up a fabric for Genoa, which should mock tl 
 lapse of ages, and am myself the first to cast 
 firebrand into it* Thank my grey head, whk 
 wishes to be lam in the grave by a relatdii 
 hand — Thank my unjust love, that I do not c 
 the scaffold pour out thy rebellious blood, to si 
 tisfy the violated laws. ( Exi 
 
 Scene XIV. — Gianettino looking after t) 
 Duke, speechless with anger. Lomellii.'o ente,, 
 
 ing breathless and t err i fed. — 
 
 Lorn. What have I seen 1 What have 
 heard ! Fly, Prince 1 Fly quickly ! All is lost- 
 
 Cian. What was there to lose ? 
 
 Lorn. Genoa, Prince. — I come from the ma: 
 ket-place. The people were crowding round 
 Moor, who was dragged along, bound wh 
 cords. The Count of Lavagna, with above thrc 
 hundred nobles, followed to the criminal court- 
 The Moor had been employed to assassinat 
 Fitsco, and in the attempt was seized. 
 
 Giatu What, are all the devils of hell 1< 
 loose at once ? 
 
 Lorn. They questioned him most sricFly coi 
 cerning his employer. The Moor confesse 
 nothing. They tried the first degree of tortur 
 He confessed nothing. They put him to tl 
 
ct II. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 si 
 
 cond. Then he spoke — He spdke — My graci- 
 is Lord, how could you trust your honor to 
 ich a villain ? 
 
 Gian. Ask me no question ! 
 \ Lom. Hear the rest I Scarcely was the word 
 roria uttered — I would sooner have ; seen my 
 line inscribed in the infernal register, than have 
 
 ard yours thus mentioned — Scarcely was it 
 
 tered, when Fiesco showed himself to the 
 Jople. — You know the man — with the voice of 
 |rsuasion, he commands, and plays the usurer 
 (th the hearts of the multitude. The whole 
 tsembly hung upon his looks, breathless with 
 iilignation. — He spoke little ; but bared his 
 Wfing arm. The crowd contended for the 
 Uing drops as if for relics. The Moor was given 
 I to his disposal — and Fiesco— a mortal blow 
 I us ! Fiesco pardoned him. Now the con > 
 led anger of the people burst forth in one tu- 
 ■iltuous clamor. Each breath annihilated a 
 Iria, and Fiesco was borne home amidst a 
 tl»usand joyful acclamations. 
 
 man. Let the flood of tumult swell up to my 
 ry throat — The Emperor /-—That sound alone 
 i .11 strike them to the earth, so that not a 
 [i rmur shall be heard in Genoa. 
 
 Lorn. Bohemia is far from hence. If the 
 (tjiperor hasten, he may perhaps be present at 
 liir funeral. 
 
 uan. ( Drawing forth a letter nvith a great 
 m* J 'Tis fortunate, that he is here already.— 
 A thou surprised at this ? And didst thou think 
 nr. mad enough to brave the fury of enraged 
 tiublicans, had I not known they were betray- 
 Buid sold ? 
 
 i\.om, I know not what to think ! 
 
 tian. But I have thought of something, 
 fj'ch thou couldst not know. My plan is form- 
 
52 riEsc©. | A 
 
 eel. Ere two da^s are past, twelve senators 
 fall. Doria becomes sovereign, and the Empei 
 Charles protects him. Thou seemest astoni 
 ed — 
 
 Lorn, Twelve senators ! My bosom tremble; 
 to encounter, twelve times, a deed so honibli 
 as murder. 
 
 Gian. Fool that thou art ! upon these victim* 
 shall I build my throne. I consulted with the mtn 
 ister of Charles, on the strong party, wl 
 France still has in Genoa, and by which 
 might a second time seize on it, unless 
 ^should be rooted out. This worked upon 
 Emperor — He approved my projects — And 
 shalt write what I will dictate to thee. 
 
 Lorn. I know not yet what 'tis, you purp< 
 
 Gian. Sit down, and write — 
 
 Lorn. But what am I to write? ( Seats himsel 
 
 Gian. The names of the twelve candidates 
 death— Francis Zenturione. 
 
 Lorn. (Writes.) In gratitude for his vote, 
 leads the funeral procession. 
 
 Gian, Cornelio Calva. 
 
 Lorn. Calva— 
 
 Gian. Michael Zibo. 
 
 Lorn. To cool him after his disappointmen 
 in the procuratorship. 
 
 Gian. Thomas Asserato, and his three bn 
 thers. (Lomki.lino stops.) 
 
 Gian. And his three brothers— 
 
 Lorn. (Writes.) Go on. 
 
 Gian. Fiesco of Lavagno. 
 
 Lorn. Beware of that black stone. If'jft, 
 stumble over it, it will be fatal to xpu. 
 
 Gian. Scipio Bourgognino. 
 
 Lom. He may celebrate elsewhere his wee 
 ding— 
 
Met IL ri£sc<y? ' 5S 
 
 G/jrt. Aye — Where I shalf be director of the 
 niptials. Raphael Sacco. 
 
 Lorn, I should intercede. ,for his life, until, 
 Re shall have paid my five thousand crowns. 
 'Writes.) — Death strikes the balance. 
 , Gian. Vincent Calcagno. 
 
 | Loin. Calcagno — The tweffth I write at my 
 i)wn risk, unless our mortal enemy be overlooked. 
 
 Gian. The end crowns all— -Joseph Verrina. 
 
 Lorn. He is the very head of the viper, that 
 hreatens us. (Offers the paper" tb Gianettino.J 
 liFwo days hence death makes a splendid feast, at 
 which twelve of the chief of Genoa's nobles will 
 ||>e present. 
 
 I Gian. ( Signs the paper. J 'Tis done — Two 
 [llays hence will be the ducal election. When 
 he senate shall be assembled for that purpose, 
 hese twelve shall on a sudden signal be laid low. 
 My two hundred Germans will have surrounded 
 he senate-house — At that moment, I enter, and 
 laim homage as the Duke. ( Rings the bell.) 
 
 Lorn. And what of Andreas ? . 
 
 Gian He is an old man. ( Enter a servant.) 
 f the Duke should ask for me, say I am gone 
 O mass. (Exit servant.) I must conceal the 
 levil, that's within, beneath a saintly garb. 
 ' %om. But, my Lord, the paper : 
 
 Gian. Take thou, and circulate it among our 
 [•arty. — This letter must be dispatched by express 
 o Levanto. 'Tis to inform Spinola of our intend- * 
 Id plan, and to direct him to reach the capital 
 arly in the morning. ( Going. ) 
 
 Lorn. Stop, Prince — There is an error in our' 
 alculation — Fiesco does not attend the senate. 
 , Gian. Genoa will easily supply one more 
 |ssassin — I'll see to that. ( Exeunt different ivajs. 
 
 o 2 
 
54 fie sco. Act II. ^ 
 
 Scene XV. — An antichamber in Fiesco's palace, w 
 Fie sco, with papers before him — and MooraI 
 
 Fies. Four gallies have entered the harbour, ! J 
 
 dost thou say ? » d 
 
 Moor, Yes, they're at anchor in the port. 
 Fiesjfr That's sell. Whence are these dBl 
 presses I «W 
 
 Moor. From Rome, Placentta, and France. 
 Fies, (Opens the letters, and runs over them. ) % 
 Welcome I Welcome news ! Let the messengers 
 be treated in a princely manner. 
 
 Moor. Hem ! — (Going.) m 
 Fies. Stop, stop, here's work for thee plenty, ] 
 Moor. Command me. I am ready to act the 
 setter, or the blood-hound. 
 
 Fies. I only want at present the voice of the 
 decoybird. To-morrow early, two thousand men 
 will enter the city in disguise, to engage in my 
 service. Distribute thy assistants at the gates, 
 and let them keep a watchful eye upon the stran- 
 gers that arrive. Some will be drest like pilgrims 
 on their journey, others like mendicant friars, or 
 Savoyards, or actors ; some as pedlars, and mu- 
 sicians ; most as disbanded soldiers, come to seek 
 xi livelihood in Genoa. Let every one be ask'd, 
 where he takes up his lodging. IHhe answe$ 
 At the Golden Snake, let him be treated as a 
 friend, and shown my habitation. Fellow, J{ 
 rely upon thy prudence. 
 
 Moor. Sir, you may rely on that, as much as 
 on my knavery. If a single head escape me, 
 pluck out my eyes, and shoot at sparrows with 
 them. (g 0l) \Z') 
 Fies. Stop — I've another piece of business for 
 thee. The arrival of the gallies will excite sus- 
 picion in the city. If any one inquire of thee 
 about them, say, thou has heard it whisper'dj 
 
ct JL 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 55 
 
 iat thy master intends to cruise against the 
 'urks. Dost thou understand me ? 
 Moor, Yes, yes, the basket has a specious 
 aver ; what is within, Heaven knows. ( Going. ) 
 Fies, Stop once more — Gianettino has new 
 _>asons to hate me, and lay snares against my 
 f e# Go — see among the fellows of thy trade, 
 thou canst not find out some plot on foot 
 gainst me. Visit the brothels — Doria often 
 equents them. The secrets on the cabinet are 
 mietimes lodg'd within the folds of the petti- 
 )at. Promise these ladies golden customers, 
 romise them thy master—let nothing be too 
 .cred to be used in gaining the desired infor- 
 ; j ation. 
 
 Moor, Ha ! luckily I am acquainted with one 
 'iana Buononi, whom I have served above a 
 war as procurer. The other day, I saw the 
 ■gnor Lomellino coming out of her house. 
 ' ' Fies, That suits my purpose well. This very 
 1 omellino is the key to all Doria's projects. To- 
 morrow thou shalt go thither. Perhaps he is 
 -night the Endymion of this chaste Diana. 
 Moor, One more question, my Lord. Sup- 
 ! pse the people ask me — and that they will, I'll 
 rlawn my soul upon it — suppose they ask, 
 illWhat does Fiesco think of Genoa ?" Would you 
 Ifill wear the mask ? — or — how shall I answer 
 * em ? 
 
 iLF/tfj. Answer ?— Hum ! — The fruit is ripe. 
 Ijhe pains of labor announce the approaching 
 Hrth. Answer, that Genoa lies upon the block, 
 I [id that thy master's name is — John Louis of 
 -ilesco — 
 
 i t Moor, That business shall be managed neatly 
 I r you, I'll pledge the credit of my profession 
 'In it. Now be alert, friend Hassan ! First to a ta- 
 in rn — My feet have work enough cut out for them. 
 
5 5 
 
 F1ESC0. 
 
 Act 
 
 I must coax my stomach to intercede with 
 legs. ( Hastening away— -returns.) Oh ! aprop 
 My chattering made me almost forget 
 circumstance. You wish'd to know, what pa 
 ed between Calcagno and your wife. A refus 
 Sir—That's all — (Jtuns off.) 
 
 Scene XVI. — Fiesco alone. 
 
 I pity thee, Calcagno — Didst thou think 
 should, upon so delicate a point, have been t 
 careless, had I not relied on my wife's virt 
 and my own superior merits ? I approve 
 passion. Thou art a good soldier. This 
 unite thy arm with mine, to the destruction 
 Doria. — Now, Doria, let us come to the conte 
 All the machines are ready for the grand attem 
 the instruments are tun'd for the tremend 
 concert — Nought is wanting, but to throw 
 the mask, and show Fiesco to the patriots 
 Genoa, {Some persons are heard approaching. j 
 Ha ! Visitors ! — Who can be coming to disturb 
 me ? 
 
 Scene XVII. — Fiesco, Verrina, Romano. 
 with a picture ; Sacco, Bourgognino, Cal* 
 
 CAGNO. 
 
 Fies. Welcome, my worthy friends ! What 
 important business brings you all hither I Are 
 you too come, my dear brother, Verrina ! — Ii 
 should almost have forgotten you, had you not 
 more frequently been present to my thoughts,, 
 than to my sight. I think I have not seen youJ 
 since my last entertainment. 
 
 Ver. Do not count the hours, Fiesco ! heavy 
 burdens have, in that interval, weigh'd down! 
 my aged head. But enough of this — 
 
 Fies. Not enough to satisfy the anxietyjB 
 friendship. You must inlorm me father whenj 
 
et II. 
 
 fiesco. 
 
 5 7 
 
 re are alone. (Addmssing Boixrgognino.J 
 Velcome, brave youth ! Our acquaintance is yet 
 •reen ; but my affection for thee is already ripe, 
 {as your esteem for me improv'd ? 
 
 Boxir, 'Tis on the increase. 
 i\ Fies. Verrina, it is reported, that this brave 
 oung man is to be your son-in-law. Receive 
 ny warmest approbation of your choice. I have 
 onvers'd with him but once ; and yet I should 
 •e proud to call him my relation. 
 
 Ver. That opinion might, on my daughter's 
 account, make me vain. 
 
 : Fies. Sacco, Calcagnoj all unfrequent visi- 
 ors — I should fear your absence were a proof, 
 hat I had been deficient in politeness. And here 
 /greet a fifth guest, v$ unknown to me indeed, 
 ( >ut sufficiently recommended by this worthy 
 prcle. 
 
 J Rom. He, my Lord, is but a painter, named 
 ftomano, who lives on what he steals from Na- 
 |ure. His pencil is his only coat of arms. And 
 Ike now comes hither to catch some features for 
 ' i head of Brutus. 
 
 I Fies. Give me your hand, Romano ! I admire 
 .he mistress, whom you serve. Art is the right 
 nand of Nature. The latter gave us being, but 
 twas the former made us men. What are the 
 subjects of your labor ? 
 
 Moor* Scenes from the heroic ages of anti- 
 quity. At Florence is my dying Hercules, at 
 Venice my Cleopatra, the Ajax furious, at 
 Rome ; where, in the Vatican, the heroes of past 
 times rise again to light. 
 
 Fies. And what just now employs you ? 
 
 Rom. Alas ! my Lord, I've thrown away my 
 pencil. The animation of my genius seemed 
 not to keep pace with the progress of my life. 
 
58 FIESCO. Act II. 
 
 The crown of popular applause shines but a 
 "while— This is my last production — 
 
 Fies. It could not come more opportunely. I 
 feel to-day a more than usual cheerfulness — A 
 sentiment of calm delight pervades my being, 
 and fits it to receive the impression of Nature's 
 beauties. Let us view your picture. I shall 
 feast upon the sight. Come, friends, we will 
 devote ourselves entirely to the artist. Place 
 your piclure. 
 
 Ver. ( Apart to the others.) Now, Genoese, 
 observe ! 
 
 Rom. (Placing the picture.') The light must 
 fall upon it thus — Draw up that curtain — Let fall 
 the other — Right. It is the story of Virginia, 
 and Appius Claudius. ( A long pause — all con- 
 template the picture.) 
 
 Ver. {With enthusiasm.) Strike, aged father I 
 Dost thou tremble, tyrant ? How pale you stand 
 there, Romans ! Follow him, senseless Ro- 
 mans ! The sword yet glitters — Follow we, sense- 
 less Genoese ! Down with Doria I Down with 
 him 1 (Striking at the picture.) 
 
 Fies. (To the painter, smiling.) Do you re- 
 quire more applause ? Your art transforms this 
 old man into a beardless dreamer. 
 
 Ver. Where am I ! What is become of me ! 
 They vanish'd away like bubbles. Thou here, 
 Fiesco I and the tyrant living ! 
 
 Fies. My friend, amidst this admiration, you 
 have overlook'd the parts most truly beauteous. 
 Does this Roman's head thus strike you ! Look 
 there ! Observe that damsel — what soft expressi- 
 on ! What a feminine delicacy ! How sweetly 
 touch'd are those pale lips ! How exquisite that 
 dying look ! Inimitable 1 Divine Romano ! And 
 that white dazzling breast, that heaves with the 
 last pulse of life. Draw more ' such beauties, 
 
Act II, 
 
 BIESCO. 
 
 59 
 
 Romano, and I will give up Nature, to worship 
 thy creative Fancy. 
 
 Bourg. Is it thus, Verrina, your hopes are 
 answered ? 
 
 Ver. Take courage, son ! The Almighty has 
 •ejected the arm of Fiesco. We will be his 
 nstruments. 
 
 Fics, ( To Romano.) Well — 'Tis your last work, 
 Romano — Your powers are exhausted — Throw 
 iway the pencil. Yet, whilst I am admjring 
 he artist, I forget to devour the work. I could 
 itand gazing on it, and disregard an earthquake, 
 fake away your picture — the wealth of Genoa 
 souldbe too little to pay for this Virginia — Take 
 ■ it away — 
 
 I Rom. Honor sufficiently rewards the artist— I 
 jjiresent it to you. . {Offers to go away,) 
 
 Fics. Stay, Romano I ( He walks majestically 
 fi and down the room seeming to rejlect on something 
 f importance — sometimes he casts a quick and pene- 
 rating glance at the others — at last he takes Ro- 
 iano by the hand, and leads him to the picture, J 
 ■Come hither, painter — So self-contented stand'st 
 tlhou there, because thou animatestthe dead can- 
 lass with unreal life, and, at no hazard, canst 
 [immortalize heroic deeds ? Thy boast is nothing 
 (Jut the glow of ficlion, the idle play of fancy : it 
 || ants a heart, a spring of daring action. Thou 
 I verthrowest tyrants on thy tablet, and art thy- 
 Ijelf a miserable slave. Thou freest nations with 
 lliy pencil, but thine own chains thou canst not 
 f reak asunder. — Go ! Thy work is trifling. Let 
 tippearance give way to reality ! {Overturning the 
 llicture,) I have done, what thou — hast only pain- 
 )jpd. {All struck with astonishment — Romano car- 
 'es away the picture in confusion,) 
 
60 
 
 FIE5C0. 
 
 Act I 
 
 Scene XVIII. — The Former, except Romano 
 
 Fies, — Did you suppose the lion slept, be 
 cause he ceas'd to roar ? Did your vain thought 
 persuade you, that none but you could feel th 
 chains of Genoa ? That none but you durst breal 
 them ? Before you know their weight, Fieso 
 had already broken them. He opens a scrutore 
 takes oat a parcel of letters, and throws them on th 
 table.) These bring soldiers from Parma — These 
 French money — These, four gallies from th< 
 pope — What now is wanting to hurl the tyran 
 from his throne ? Tell me, what think you wan 
 ting ? {All stand silent with astonishment.) Re 
 publicans, you waste your time in curses, whei 
 you should overturn the tyrant. (All but Veb 
 rina throw themselves at Fiesco's feet.) 
 
 Ver. Fiesco— my spirit bends to thine ; bu 
 my knee cannot. Thy soul is great — but—Rise 
 Genoese I {They rise.) 
 
 Fies. All Genoa was indignant at the effemi 
 nate Fiesco : all Genoa curs'd the profligate 
 Fiesco. Genoese, my amours have blinded tht 
 counning despot. My wild excesses served t< 
 guard my plans from the danger of an impruden 
 confidence. Conceal'd beneath the cloak of lux 
 ury, the infant plot grew up — Enough — I'n 
 known sufficiently to Genoa, in being known t< 
 you. I have attained my utmost wish. 
 
 Bourg. Am I, then, nothing ? 
 
 Fies. But let us turn from thought to action 
 All the engines are prepar'd — I can storm th( 
 city by sea and land. Rome, France, and Parma 
 cover me. The nobles are disaffected — Thi 
 hearts of the populace are mine. I have lull'd t< 
 sleep the tyrants. The state is ripe for revolution 
 We are no longer in the hands of Fortune. No 
 thing is wanting — Verrina is lost in thought- 
 
Act IL 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Bourg. Patience !— -I have a word to say, 
 which will more quickly rouse him than the trum- 
 pet of the last clay — (To Verrina.J Father ! 
 iwake ! — Thy Bertha will despair. 
 
 -Ver. Who spoke those words ?— Genoese, to 
 trms ! 
 
 '. Fies. Think on the means of forwarding our 
 ilan. Night has advanc'd upon our discourse : 
 ienoa is wrapt in sleep : the tyrant, wearied by 
 he sins of the day, sinks down to rest.— Watch 
 or your country ! 
 
 Bourg. Let us, before we part, consecrate 
 ur heroic union by an embrace ! (They form a 
 'rcle, with joined arms,) Here unite five of the 
 ravest hearts in Genoa, to decide their country's 
 iite. ( All embrace.) W^hen the universe shall 
 ill asunder, and the eternal sentence shall cut 
 ji twain the bonds of consanguinity and love — 
 'hen may this fivefold band of heroes still re- 
 pain entire ! {They separate.) 
 ; Ver. When shall w r e next assemble? 
 
 fies. At noon, to-morrow, I'll hear your 
 ^ntiments. 
 
 Ver. Well— at noon to-morrow. Good night, 
 iesco ! Come, Bourgognino — you will hear 
 >mething wonderful. {Exeunt Verrina and 
 
 OURGOGNINO. 
 
 Fies. (To the others.) Depart by the back - 
 ;ites, that Doria's spies may not suspect us. 
 
 (Exeunt Sacco and Calcagno 
 
 Scene XIX. — Fiesco alone. 
 
 What a tumult is in my breast 1 What acon- 
 )urse of dark, uncertain images ! Like guilty 
 retches stealing out in secret to do some hor- 
 d deed, with trembling steps, and blushing 
 ces bent toward the ground, these flattering 
 
 OL. II.) 
 
 P 
 
€2 
 
 V IK SCO. 
 
 Act //, 
 
 phantoms glide athwart my soul. Stay — Stay- 
 Let me examine you more closely — A virtuous 
 thought strengthens the heart of man, and bold- 
 ly meets the day— Ha ! I know you, robed in 
 the livery of Satan — Avaunt ! — ( a pause ) Fiesco 
 the Patriot I the Duke Fiesco ! — Peace 1 On this 
 steep prec ipice, the boundaries of virtue termi- 
 nate : here heaven and hell are separated. Here 
 have heroes stumbled, here have they fallen, and 
 left behind a name loaded with curses — Here, too. 
 have heroes paus'd, here check'd their course, 
 and risen to immortality. — To know the heart? 
 of Genoa mine ! To govern with a master's hand 
 this formidable state ! — O artifice of sin, thai 
 masks each devil with an angel's face ! Fatal 
 ambition ! Everlasting tempter ! Won by thy 
 charms, angels abandoned heaven, and Death, 
 sprung from thy embraces. Thy syren voice 
 drew angels from their celestial mansions. Mar 
 thou ensnarest with beauty, riches, power. T( 
 gain a diadem is great — To rejecTtit is divine !— 
 Perish the tyrant ! — Let Genoa be free — and 1 
 will be its happiest citizen. 
 
 LND OF THE SECOND ACT. 
 
Act III. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 63 
 
 ACT TIL 
 
 Scene I. — Midnight. A dreary wilderness. 
 Verrina and Bourgognino entering. 
 
 Bourg. Whither are you leading me, father? 
 The heavy grief that hung upon your mind, when 
 first you bade me follow you, still seems to la- 
 bor in your panting breast. Break this dread- 
 ful silence I — Speak \ I Avill go no further. 
 
 Ver. This is the place. 
 
 Bourg. You could not choose a spot more 
 awful. Father, if the deed you purpose be like 
 the place — Father — my hair will stand upright 
 with horror. 
 
 Ver. Yet it is bright and cheerful, to the 
 gloom that enwraps my soul. Follow me to yon 
 tchurch-yard, where Corruption preys on the 
 Imould'ring carcases, and Death holds his abhor- 
 ired feast — where shrieks of tormented souls de- 
 ilight the listening devils, and sorrow sheds her 
 (fruitless tears into the never filling urn.— There, 
 jmy son, where the condition of this world is 
 (changed, and God's indulgence ceases — there 
 'will 1 speak to thee in agony, and thou shalt 
 ,hear me with despair. 
 
 Bourg. Hear 1 what ? I conjure you, father. 
 Veri Youth ! — I fear — Youth, thy blood is 
 warm and rosy, thy flesh is soft and tender — . 
 Such natures are alive to human kindness — This 
 warmth of feeling melts my obdurate wisdom. 
 If the frost of age, or sorrow's leaden pressure 
 had check'd the sprightly vigor of thy spirits-— 
 If black congealed blood had closed the avenues 
 of thy heart against the approaches of humani- 
 ty — then would thy mind be suited to the Ian- 
 
64 Ft e sco. Act 111. 
 
 guage cf my grief, and thou wouldst look with 
 
 admiration on my project. 
 
 Bourg, I will hear it, and embrace it as my 
 own. 
 
 Ver, Not so, my son — Verrina will not wound 
 thy heart with it. O Scipio, heavy burdens lie 
 on me. A thought more dark and horrible" th 
 night, too vast to be contained within the brei 
 of man ! Mark me — my hand alone shall execute 
 the deed ; but my mind cannot support the 
 weighty secret. If I were proud, Scipio, I 
 might say, Greatness unshared is torture. It 
 was a burden to the Deity himself, and he crea- 
 ted angels to partake his counsels — Hear, Scipio! 
 
 Bourg, My soul devours thy words. 
 
 Ver, Hear 1 But answer nothing — Nothing, 
 young man 1 Observe me — Not a word — Fiesco 
 must die — 
 
 Bourg, Die ! — Fiesco ! — 
 
 Ver, Die — I thank thee, God, the word is 
 spoken — Fiesco must die. — My son — die by my 
 hand. — Now go ! There are deeds too high for 
 human judgment. They appeal alone to Hea- 
 ven's tribunal. Such a one is this. Go ! 1 nei- 
 ther want thy blame nor approbation. I know 
 my inward struggles, that is sufficient. But 
 hear ! These thoughts might weary out thy mind 
 even to madness.— Hear ! Didst thou observe yes- 
 terday, with what pride he viewed his greatness 
 reflected from our wondering countenances ! The 
 man whose smiles deceived all Italy, will he en- 
 dure in Genoa his equals ? Go ! 'Tis certain, 
 that Fiesco will overthrow the tyrant. — 'Tis as 
 certain, he will become a tyrant still more dan- 
 gerous. ( 'Exit hastily, Bourgognino looks after 
 him with speechless surprise^ then follows slowly,) 
 
Act III. TIE SCO. 65 
 
 Scene II.—- An apartment in Fiesco'^ house, 
 which affords a view of the sea and Genoa, Day- 
 break. 
 
 (lie sco alone.) The moon is clown. The 
 morning rises fiery from the sea. Wild fancies 
 • have despelled my sleep, and drawn together 
 all my faculties round one idea. Let me breathe 
 the pure fresh-blowing air — ( he opens a window r 
 . the town and sea appear red with the tint of mor- 
 ning.) — I, the greatest man in Genoa ! And 
 should not little souls bend down before the 
 great ? — But is not this to trample upon vritue !— 
 Virtue ? The elevated being feels not the vulgar 
 \ impulse. Shall he share the vulgar virtues 1 Can 
 [the armour, which encases the pigmy's feeble 
 i body, be suited to the giant ? {The sun rises over 
 |£Jenoa.)— This majestic city mine ! — To flame 
 I ibove it like the god of day 1 To spread over it 
 \ :he strong protection of a kingly arm ' To plunge 
 t'my ardent wishes into the unfathomable ocean of 
 / greatness ! — Surely, whate'er the guilt of the 
 i ittempt, 'twill be ennobled by a prize so splen- 
 . did I The petty thief meets only with contempt. 
 
 The plunderer of thousand is thought audaci- 
 - dus. — But he who seizes on a crown, gains 
 ieathless honor, As guilt extends its sphere, 
 r :he infamy decreases. To obey, or, to command i 
 K stand on the brink of a gulf which can be fil- 
 | ed by nothing human. In vain the conqueror 
 I ivould bring his trophies, the artist his sublime 
 )roduc~lions, the epicure his pleasures. To 
 )bey, or, to command 1 To exist, or, to be 
 mnihilated I — The space between them is as wide 
 .s from the lowest seraph to the Almighty. — 
 i ? orm that awful height to look securely down 
 ipon the busy scene, which fortune with capri- 
 ious sway directs ! To quaff the deepest 
 
 p 2 
 
66 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 draughts from the rich cup of pleasure 1 To hold 
 the law itself in chains, a frowning captive, and 
 see it struggle, with fruitless efforts, against the 
 power of majesty ! — To curb the stubborn pas- 
 sions of the people, and guide them like foaming 
 steeds, indignantly submitting to the bit ! — 
 With a breath to quell the rising pride of vassals, 
 whilst the Prince can, with the motion of his 
 sceptre, call to life even the dreams of his disor- 
 dered fancy ! Ah ! What thoughts are these I 
 which urge the astonished mind beyond the boun- 
 daries of nature. Prince ! on one moment hang 
 thy fairest hopes ! 'Tis the exalted station, that 
 gives to life its value. The murmurs, which 
 compose the thunder's sound, might singly lull to 
 sleep an infant ; their united crash can rend the 
 eternal vault of Heaven. — I am determined ! 
 Scene III. — Fiesco, Leonora. 
 
 Leo. Pardon me, Count. I fear, I interrupt 
 your morning rest. 
 
 Fies. Indeed, Madam, you surprise me very 
 unexpectedly. 
 
 Leo. That cannot happen between those 
 who live. 
 
 Lies. Charming Countess, you expose your 
 beauty to the rude breath of morning. 
 
 Leo. I know not, why I should preserve its 
 small remains, for grief to feed on. 
 
 Fies. Grief, my love ? I thought, that to be 
 free from cares of state was happiness — 
 
 Leo. It may be so — but my weak female 
 heart, even amidst this happiness is breaking. 
 I come, Sir, to trouble you with a trifling re- 
 quest, if you can spare a moment's time to hear 
 me. These seven months past I have indulged 
 the idle dream of being Countess of Lavagna. 
 It now has past away, and left a painful weight 
 upon my mind. Amid the pleasures of my in* 
 
Act III. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 67 
 
 nocent childhood, I must seek relief to my dis- 
 ordered spirits. — Permit me therefore, to return 
 into the arms of my good mother — 
 Fies. Countess ! 
 
 Leo, My heart is a poor trembling thing, 
 which you should pity. Even the least remem- 
 brance of my visionary joy might wound my 
 sickly fancy. I therefore restore the last me- 
 morials of your kindness to their just owner. 
 (She lays some trinkets on the table.) This too, 
 that like a dagger struck my heart— (presenting 
 a letter.) This too ! — (going to rush out of the 
 Yioor in tears, J And I will retain nothing but the 
 wound. 
 
 Fies. (Detaining her,) For God's sake, stay! 
 Leo, To be your wife was more than I de- 
 served. — But she, who was your wife, deserved 
 kt least respecl. How will the wives and maid- 
 ens of Genoa look down upon me ! " See," they 
 nil say, u how fades the haughty female, 
 whose vanity aspired to Fiesco !" — Cruel punish- 
 ment of my pride ! — I triumphed over my 
 i whole sex, when my Fiesco led me to the altar— 
 Fies, Madam ! 
 
 Leo, 'Tis well— He chanees color — I revive. 
 tr Fies. What only two days. Countess — Then 
 judge my conduct — 
 Leo. To be sacrificed. — Let me not speak it 
 | |n thy chaste presence, O thou virgin Day ! — To 
 j be sacrificed to a shameless wanton ! Look on me, 
 n my husband ! Ah, surely those eyes, that make 
 I J ill Genoa tremble, must hide themselves before 
 f|i weeping woman — 
 
 Fies, No more, Signora ! — No more — 
 Leo. To rend the heart of a poor helpless 
 emale I — Oh, it is worthy of that manly sex. 
 ntp these arms I threw myself, and on their 
 trength reposed my feminine weakness. — To 
 
68 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Ad III, 
 
 him, I trusted the heaven of my hopes. — Thel is 
 
 generous man bestowed it on 
 
 Fies. No — my Leonora i 
 
 Leo, My Leonora ! — Heaven, I thank theelfl 
 These were the sounds of love yet unalloyed. — 1 
 ought to hate thee, faithless man ! And yet I •! 
 fondly grasp the shadow of thy tenderness. — 
 Hate! said I r — hate Fiesco ? — Oh, believe It jfl 
 not 1 Thy perfidy may bid me die, but cannot 
 bid me hate thee. I did not know my heart— 
 (The Moor is heard approaching. J 
 
 Fies. Leonora ! — grant me one trifling favor— 
 
 Leo. Every thing Fiesco, — but indifference-*! 
 
 Fies. Well, well. — Till Genoa be two days 
 older, do not ask — Do not condemn nie — {leads 
 her politely to another apartment.) 
 
 Scene IV. Fiesco the Moor. 
 
 Fies. Whence come you, thus out of breath ! ! 
 
 Moor. Quick, my Lord ! 
 
 Fies. Has any thing run into the net ? 
 
 Moor. Read this letter. — Am I really here ? 
 Methinks Genoa is become shorter by twelve 
 streets, or else my legs are so much longer. You 
 change color — Yes, yes — They play at cards for 
 lives, and yours is the chief stake. How do you 
 like it ! 
 
 Fies. Thou woolly-pated rascal ! How comest 
 thou by the letter ? 
 
 Moor. Much in the same way, that your 
 Grace will gain the state. — An express was sent 
 with it toward Levanto. I smelt out the busi- 
 ness ; way-laid the fellow in a narrow pass, dis- 
 patched the fox, and brought the poultry hither— 
 
 Fies. His blood be on thee ! — As for the let- 
 ter, 'tis not to be paid with gold. 
 
 Moor. Yet I will be content with silver for 
 it. — Count of Lavagna I 'twas but the other day I 
 
ict III. 
 
 tiesco. 
 
 60 
 
 jotlght your life. To-day (pointing to the letter J I 
 lave preserved it. Now I think his Lordship and 
 
 he scoundrel are even. My further service is 
 in act of friendship — ( presents another paper)— 
 dumber two ! 
 
 .;Fies. Art thou mad ? 
 
 Moor. Number two — The Lion has not acted 
 oolishly in pardoning the mouse. Ah I 'Twas a 
 leed of policy. Who else could e'er have gnawed 
 he net with which he was surrounded ? Now, 
 »ir — How like you that ? 
 
 Fies. Fellow, how many devils hast thou in 
 >ay ? 
 
 Moor. But one, Sir, at your service ; and he 
 Is in your Grace's keeping. 
 
 Fies. What ! — Doria's signature ! Whence 
 ost thou bring this paper ? 
 
 or. Fresh from the hands of my Diana. I 
 ;ent to her last night, tempted her with your 
 harming words, and still more charming se- 
 uins. The last prevailed — She bade me call 
 arly in the morning. Lomellino had been there 
 s you foretold, and paid for his forbidden joys, 
 ith this deposit. 
 
 Fies. Oh these vile women's slaves ! They 
 ould govern kingdoms, and cannot keep a se- 
 ret from a harlot — By these papers I learn, 
 lat Doria and his party have formed a plot to 
 mrder me, with eleven senators, and to place 
 ianettino, on the throne. 
 
 Moor. Even so — And that upon the morning 
 fthe ducal election, the third of this month. 
 
 Fies. The night of our enterprise shall smo- 
 ler that morning in its very birth. Speed thee, 
 assan 1 My affairs are ripe. Collect our fel- 
 ws. We will prevent our adversaries in this 
 oody business. Be active, Hassan ! 
 
 Moor. I have a budget full of news beside. 
 
70 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act 111 
 
 Two thousand soldiers are smuggled luckily inu 
 the city. I've lodg'd them with the Capuchins,, 
 where not even a prying sun-beam can espy them 
 They burn with eagerness to see their leader! 
 They are fine fellows. 
 
 Fies. Each head of them shall yield to thee j 
 ducat. Is there no talk about my gallies ? 
 
 Moor. Oh, I've a pleasant story of them, my 
 Lord. Above four hundred adventurers whoB 
 the peace 'twixt France and Spain has left with i 
 out employ, besought my people to recomment 
 them to your Grace, to fight against the infidels 
 I have appointed them to meet this evening ii 
 the palace-court. 
 
 Fies. I could almost embrace thee, rascal. 
 A masterly stroke 1 Four hundred, said'st thou ?— 
 Genoa is in my power. Four hundred crown 
 are thine — 
 
 Moor. Ah, Fiesco ! We two will pull thi 
 state in pieces, and sweep away the laws as witl 
 a besom. — You know not how many heart) 
 fellows I have among the garrison — lads that i 
 can reckon on as surely as on a trip to hell. Nov, 
 I've so laid my plans, that at each gate we haft 
 among the guard at least six of our creatures 
 who will be enough to overcome the others b] 
 persuasion, or by wine. If you wish to risk a 
 blow to-night, you'll find the centinels all drench 
 ed with liquor. 
 
 Fies. Peace, fellow ! Hitherto I have move* 
 the vast machine myself. Shall I now beg fti 
 sistance from so vile a slave as thee I Give m\ 
 thy hand — Whate'er the Count remains indebted 
 to thee, the Luke shall pay. 
 
 Moor. And here, too, is a note from thi 
 Countess Imperiali. She beckon'd to me from 
 her window, when I went up, received me gra 
 ciously— asked me ironically if the Countess o 
 
ict III. riitsco. 71 
 
 Lftvagna had not been lately troubled with the 
 pleen — Does your Grace, said I, inquire but for 
 me person ? 
 
 Fies. Well — What answer made she ? 
 
 Moor, She answer, that she still lamented 
 he fate of the poor widow — that she was willing 
 o give her satisfaction, and meant to forbid your 
 trace's attentions. 
 
 Fies. Which, of themselves, may possibly 
 e ended before the day of judgment. Is that all 
 hy business, Hassan ? 
 
 Moor. My Lord, the affairs of the ladies are 
 ext to those of state. 
 
 Fies. Without a doubt, and these especially. 
 3ut for what purpose are these papers ? 
 
 Moor. To remove one plague by another. 
 Chese powders the Signora gave me, to mix one 
 ivery day with your wife's chocolate. 
 
 Fies. Gave thee ? 
 '! Moor. Donna Julia, Countess Imperiali — 
 
 Fies. If thou liest, rascal, I'll hang thee up 
 ilive in irons at the weathercock of the Lorenzo 
 Dwer, where the wind shall whirl thee nine 
 jimes round with every blast — The powders ? 
 
 Moor. I am to give your wife, mix'd with 
 er chocolate — So Donna Julia Imperiali order- 
 ed me. 
 
 Fies. Monster! monster ! —This lovely crea- 
 ure ! — Is there room for so much hell within a 
 i-male bosom ? And I forgot to thank thee, hea- 
 enly Providence, that hast frustrated it through 
 uch a devil. Wondrous are thy ways (To the 
 Ioor.J Swear to me to obey, and keep this 
 ecret. 
 
 Moor. Very well. That I can easily do — she 
 aid me ready money. 
 
 Fies This note invites me to her. I'll be with 
 ou, Madam, and bring you hither. Well 
 
fiesco. 
 
 Act III. 
 
 now haste thee, and call together the conspira- 
 tors. 
 
 Moor. This order I anticipated, and there- 
 fore at my own risk appointed every one to come 
 at ten o'clock precisely. 
 
 Fies. I hear the sound of footsteps, they are 
 here. Fellow, thy villany deserves a gallows of 
 its own, on which no son of Adam was ever yet j 
 suspended. Wait in the antichamber, till I call 
 for thee. 
 
 Moor. The Moor has done his work — The 
 Moor may go. ( Exit, 
 
 Scene V.— -Fiesco, Vereina, Bourgognino, < 
 
 Calcagno, Sacco. I 
 
 Fies. The tempest is approaching ; the clouds 
 rush together. Advance with caution. Let all 
 the doors be lock'd. 
 
 Ver. Eight chambers have I made fast behind 
 me. Suspicion cannot come within a hundred . 
 steps of us. 
 
 Bourg. Here is no traitor, unless our fear be- 
 come one. 
 
 Fies. Fear cannot pass my threshold. Wel- 
 come he, whose mind remains the same as yes- 
 terday. Be seated — 
 
 Bourg. I do not like to sit in cold deliberation, 
 when aclion calls upon me. 
 
 Fies. Genoese, this hour is eventful. 
 
 Ver. Thou has challeng'd us to propose a 
 plan for the dethroning of the tyrant. Demand 
 of us—- -we are here to answer thee. 
 
 Fies. First, then, a question, which as it comes 
 so late, you may think strange — Who is to fall 
 
 Bourg. The tyrants. 
 
 Fies. Well spoken. The tyrant. I entreat | 
 you weigh will the importance of the word — He I 
 who but pretends to trample on the liberties of I 
 
Act 111. 
 
 FIE5C©. 
 
 73 
 
 Genoa — who has it in his power — who else should 
 3e the tyrant ? 
 
 Ver. The first I hate, I fear the latter. Let 
 \ndreas Doria fall. 
 
 Cal. Andreas ? The old Andreas ! who per- 
 laps to-morrow may pay the debt of nature — 
 
 Sacco. Andreas ? — That mild old man ! 
 
 Fies. Formidable is that old man's mildness, 
 3 my friend — the brutality of Gianettino only 
 leserves contempt. " Let Andreas fall." There 
 spoke thy wisdom, Verrina 
 
 Bourg. The chain of iron and the cord of silk, 
 dike are bonds. Let Andreas perish. * 
 
 Fies. The sentence then is past upon the 
 incle and the nephew. Sign it — (They oil Sign. J 
 The question who is settled. — How, must be 
 T|iext determined. Speak first, Calcagno. 
 1 Cal. We must execute it, either as soldiers 
 >r assassins. The first is dangerous, because we 
 jnust have many confidants. 'Tis also doubtful, 
 >ecause the people's hearts are not all for us. To 
 i6l the second we have five good daggers. Two 
 lays hence, high mass will be performed in the 
 -.orenzo church — both the Dorias will be present, 
 n the house of God, even a tyrant's cares are 
 ull'd to sleep. — I have done. 
 
 [ Fies. Calcagno, your plan is politic, but 'tis 
 ietestable. Raphael Sacco, yours ? 
 I Sacco. Calcagno's reasons please me, but the 
 neans he chooses, my mind revolts at. It were 
 •etter, Fiesco, that you should invite the uncle 
 .nd the nephew to a feast, where encircled by 
 epublicans they might receive their death either 
 ipon the dagger's point, or from a draught of 
 'yprian wine. This method is at least convenient. 
 
 Fies. Ah, Sacco ! What if the wine, their 
 ying tongues shall taste, become for us tor» 
 
 ii.) 
 
 Q 
 
7*4 FIE SCO. Act III 
 
 ments of burning pitch in hell ? — Away with thi: 
 advice ! Speak thou, Verrina. 
 
 Ver. An open heart scorns a dissembling 
 countenance. Assassination degrades us to ban 
 ditti. The hero advances sword in hand. I pro 
 pose to give aloud the signal of revolt, and boldl) 
 rouse the patriots of Genoa to vengeance. 
 
 Bourg. And with armed hand wrest Fortune's 
 favors from her. This is the voice of honor. 
 ^Fies. And mine. Shame on you, Genoese ! 1 
 ( to Sacco and Calcagno) — Fortune has alre\d) 
 done too nmch for us, let something be our own & 
 Therefore open revolt 1 — And that, Genctese. 
 this very night — 
 
 CaL What ! To-night ! The tyrants are yell 
 too powerful, our force too small. 
 
 Sacco, To-night 1 And nought prepared ? Th<l 
 day declines. 
 
 Fies, Your doubts are reasonable, but reacl 
 these papers — (he gives them Gianettino'j pa I 
 pers.) Now, farewell thou proud and naught) 1 
 star of Genoa, that didst seem to fill the wholt I 
 horizon with thy brightness. Knewest thou not! 
 that the majestic sun himself must quit the hea I 
 vens, and yield his sceptre to the radiant moon 1 
 Farewell, thou star, Doria 1 
 
 JBourg. This is horrible. 
 
 CaL Twelve victims at a blow ! 
 
 Ver. To morrow in the senate-house ! 
 
 Bourg. Give me these papers, and I will rick 
 with them through Genoa, holding them up tel 
 view. The very stones will rise in mutiny, anc 1 
 even the dogs will howl against the tyrant. 
 
 All. Revenge 1 Revenge ! Revenge ! — Thi* j 
 very night ! 
 
 Fies. Now you have reach'd the point. Atl 
 sun-set I will invite hither the principal malcon- 1 
 tents — all those that stands upon the bloody Ustl 
 
III, FIESCO. 75 
 
 >f Gianettino. Besides, the Sauli, the Gentili, 
 Vivaldi, Vesodimari, all mortal enemies of 
 he house of Doria ; but whom the tyrant forgot 
 
 fear. They, doubtless, will embrace my plan 
 vith eagerness. 
 
 Bourg, I doubt it not. 
 
 Fies. Above all things, we must render our- 
 selves masters of the sea. Gallies and seamen I 
 lave ready. The twenty vessels of the Dorias 
 i t re dismantled, and may be easily surprised. 
 The entrance of the inner harbour must be blcck'd 
 ip, all hope of flight cut off. If we secure thia 
 ooint, all Genoa is in our power. 
 
 1 Ver. Doubtless. 
 
 I Fies, Then we must seize the strongest posts 
 n the city, especially the gate of St. Thomas, 
 fhich, leading to the harbour, connects our land 
 nd naval forces. Both the Dorias must be sur- 
 ris'd within their palaces, and kilPd. The bells 
 ust toll, the citizens be call'd upon to side with 
 >, and vindicate the liberties of Genoa. If For- 
 une favor us, you shall hear the rest in the senate. 
 Ver, The plan is good. Now for the distribu- 
 
 of our parts. 
 Fies, Genoese, you choose me, of your own 
 ;cord, as chief of the conspiracy. Will you 
 bey my farther orders ? 
 Ver, As certainly as they shall be the best. 
 Fies, Verrina, dost thou know the principle 
 all warlike enterprise ? Instruct him, Genoese, 
 is subordination. If your will be not subjecV 
 i to my own — Observe me well — If I be not the 
 ead of the association, I am no more a member. 
 
 Ver, A life of freedom is well worth some 
 ours of slavery. We obey. 
 Fies, Then leave me now. Let one of you 
 xonnoitre the city, and inform me of the 
 ength or weakness of the several posts. Let 
 
76 
 
 fiesco; 
 
 Act III 
 
 another find out the watch-word. A third must 
 see the gallies are prepared. A fourth conduct 
 the two thousand soldiers into my palace-court. 
 I myself will make all preparations here for the 
 evening, and pass the interval perhaps in play. 
 At nine precisely let all be at my palace to hear 
 my final orders- — 
 
 Ver. I take the harbour. 
 
 Bourg. I the soldiers. 
 
 CaL I'll learn the watch-word. 
 
 Sacco. I'll reconnoitre Genoa. ( Exeunt , 
 
 Scene VI. — Fiesco, Moor. 
 
 Pies* Did they not struggle against the word 
 subordination, as the insect against the needle i 
 which transfixes it ? Eut 'tis too late, republicans. J 
 
 Moor, My Lord — 
 
 Fies. (Giving him a paper.) Invite all those i 
 whose names are written here, to see a play this I 
 evening at my palace 
 
 Moor. Perhaps to act a part — and pay the ad-jl 
 mittance with their heads. 
 
 Fies. When that is over, I'll no longer detain 1 
 thee here in Genoa. (Going, throws himam 
 purse.) This is thy last employment. f£x«rJl 
 
 Scene VII. — Moor alone. 
 
 (Taking up the purse.) Are we then on these I 
 terms ? — u 1 will detain thee in Genoa no longer" | 
 — That is to say, translated from the Christian I 
 language into my heathen tongue, " When I J 
 am Duke, I shall hang up my friend the Moor I 
 upon a Genoese gallows." — Hum ! — He fears, 1 
 because I know his tricks, my talk may bring | 
 his honor into danger, when he is Duke. — When 1 
 he is Duke ? Hold, master Count ! That event 
 remains to be considered. Ah ! old Doria, thy I 
 life is in my hands — Thou art lost, unless I warn I 
 
Act III. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 77 
 
 thee of thy danger. Now if I go and discover the 
 plot, I save the Duke of Genoa no less than his 
 existence and his dukedom, and gain at least this 
 hat full of gold for my reward — But stay, friend 
 Hassan, thou art going on a foolish errand. Sup- 
 pose this scene of riot is prevented, and nothing 
 but good is the result — Psha ! what a cursed 
 trick my avarice would then have play'd me I 
 Come, Devil, help me to make out what promises 
 :he greatest mischief, to cheat Fiesco, or to give 
 .ip Doria to the dagger. If Fiesco succeeds, then 
 lienoa may prosper — Away !-— That must not be* 
 if this Doria escape, then all remains as 'twas 
 before, and Genoa is quiet — That's still worse. 
 \ye, but to see these rebels' heads upon the 
 >lock ! — Hum ! — On the other hand, 'twould be 
 utilising to behold the illustrious Dorias in this 
 j|:vening's massacre the victims of a rascally 
 Moor — No — This doubtful question a Christian 
 night perhaps resolve, but 'tis too deep a riddle 
 or my Moorish brains. I'll go propose it to some 
 earned man. (Exit. 
 
 ! jcene VIII. — An apartment in the house of the 
 Countess Imperi all 
 
 . fuLiA, in a disluibille. Gi ansttiko enters, agi_ 
 tated. 
 
 y : Gian. Good evening, sister- 
 
 Julia. It must be something extraordinary, 
 ; vhich brings the Prince of Genoa to his sister. 
 
 Gian. Sister, you are continually surrounded 
 >y butterflies, and I by wasps* How is it possi- 
 de, that we should meet ? Let us sit down. 
 
 Julia. You almost excite my curiosity. 
 
 Gian. When did Fiesco visit you last ? 
 
 Julia A strange question ! — As if I burdened 
 ay memory with such trifles. 
 
 Gian. However, you must tell me. 
 
'3 riEsco. Jet III. 
 
 J alia. Well — He was here yesterday. 
 Gian. And behaved without reserve ? 
 Julia, As usual. 
 
 Gian. As much a coxcomb as ever ? 
 Julia, Brother ! 
 
 Gian. I say — as much a coxcomb — 
 
 Julia. — Sir !— What do you take me for ? 
 
 Gian. — For a mere woman, wrapt up in her 
 
 nobility. This in confidence. No one is by to 
 
 hear us. 
 
 Julia. " In confidence !" — Impertinent ! You 
 presume upon the credit of your uncle. " No one 
 by to hear us I" 
 
 Gian. Don't be angry, my dear. I'm pleased 
 to hear that Fiesco is still a coxcomb. That's 
 what I wished to know. Your servant — (Going.) 
 
 Scene IX. — The Former, Lomellino 
 
 Lorn. Pardon my boldness, gracious Lady. 
 (To Gianettino.) Certain affairs which cannot 
 be delayed— 
 
 (Gianettino takes him aside. Julia sits down 
 angrily at the piano-forte, and plays an allegro. J . A 
 
 Gian, (To Lomellino.) Is every thing pre- 
 pared for to-morrow ? 
 
 Lorn, Every thing, Prince — But the courier, 
 who was dispatched this morning to Levanto, is 
 not yet returned, nor is Spihola arrived. Should 
 he be intercepted — I'm much alarmed — 
 
 Gian. Fear nothing. You have that list at hand I 
 
 Lorn. My Lord — The list ?— I do not know — 
 I think 'tis left at home. 
 
 Gian. Well — Would that Spinola were but 
 here. Fiesco will be found dead in his bed. I 
 have taken measures for it. 
 
 Lorn. But it will cause a great confusion. 
 
 Gian. In that lies our security. Common 
 crimes but move the blood, and stir it to re- 
 venge : atrocious deeds freeze it with terror, and 
 
ct UL 
 
 fiesco. 
 
 79 
 
 mihilate the faculties of man. You know the 
 bled power of Medusa's head — They who but 
 >oked on it were turned to stone. To animate this 
 one requires no common effort. 
 
 Lorn. Have you informed the Countess of it ? 
 
 Gian. Peace ! We must treat more tenderly her 
 lachment to Fiesco. When the fruit is gone, 
 le flavor will be soon forgotten. Come — I ex- 
 ecl this evening troops from Milan, and must 
 ive orders at the gates for their reception. (To 
 
 lia.J — Well, sister ; has the music charmed 
 way your anger ? 
 
 Julia* Go 1 You're a rude, unmanner'd creature. 
 
 (Gianettino going, meets Fiesco. J 
 
 Scene X.-—T/z<? Former, Fiesco. 
 
 i Gian. Ha ! 
 lies. Prince, you spare me a visit, which I 
 iist now proposed to pay. 
 
 I Gian. And I, too, Count, am pleased to meet 
 ou here. 
 
 Fies. ("Approaching Julia respectfully. J Your 
 harms, Signora, always surpass expectation. 
 
 Julia. Psha ! that's a doubtful compliment — 
 Sit — I'm in a dishabille — Excuse me, Count — 
 {■Going. J 
 
 I Ties. Stay, beauteous Lady. An undress best 
 ccomes the female form. Permit me to un- 
 •ose these tresses. 
 
 Julia. You men are always apt to cause con- 
 lsion. 
 
 Fies. (With a smile to Gianettino.) In dress, 
 i in the state — Is it not so ? (To Julia.) This 
 band too is awkwardly put on. Your Laura's 
 rill may strike the eye, but cannot reach the 
 ^art. Let me arrange it — ( She sits down, he 
 gulates her dress.) 
 
 Gian. ( Aside to Lomellino.J Poor fellow ! 
 
80 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Fies. (Engaged about her dress.) Surely 
 Countess, this will be a pattern to all the ladie 
 in Genoa. ( Leading her to a glass. May I hav< 
 the honor, Signora, of attending you abroad ? 
 
 Julia. Dissembling flatterer ! — I've a head-ache 
 and will stay at home — 
 
 Fies. Pardon me, Countess. You may be s< 
 cruel, but certainly you will not. — To-day a com 
 pany of Florentine comedians arrived at my pal 
 ace. Most of the Genoese ladies will be pre 
 sent this evening at their performance, and I an 
 uncertain, whom to place in the chief box, with 
 out offending others. There is but one expedi 
 tnt — ( making a low bow.) If you would condes 
 cend, Signora — , 
 
 Julia. (Confused^ retiringto aside apartment.)— 
 Laura ! 
 
 Gian. ( Approaching Fiesco.J Count, you re 
 member an unpleasant circumstance — • 
 
 Fies. I hope we've both forgot it. The acti 
 ons of men are regulated by their knowledge o'; 
 each other. It is my fault, that you know me sc 
 imperfectly. 
 
 Gian. At least, I shall never think of it with 
 out begging your pardon from my inmost soul 
 
 Fies* Nor I, without forgiving you from mj 
 inmost soul. — ( Julia returns, her dress a littl 
 altered. ) 
 
 Gian. Count, I just now recollect that you an 
 going to cruise against the Turks — 
 
 Fies. This evening we weigh anchor. On tha 
 account I had some apprehensions, from whicl 
 my friend Doria's kindness may deliver me. 
 
 Gian. Most willingly. Command my utmos' 
 influence. 
 
 Fies. The circumstance might cause a con 
 course toward the harbour, and about my palace 
 which the Duke your uncle might misinterpret. 
 
let JIT. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 8 1 
 
 Gian. I'll manage that for you. Continue your 
 reparations, and may success attend your enter- 
 rise ! ^ 
 
 Ties, I'm much obliged to you. 
 
 cene XI. — The Former. A German of the 
 
 Body Guard* 
 Gian* What's the matter ? 
 
 Ger. Passing by the gate of St. Thomas, I 
 bserved a number of armed soldiers hastening 
 ward the harbour. The gallies of the Count 
 iesco were preparing to put to sea- 
 
 Gian. Is that all ? Trouble yourself no more 
 bout it. 
 
 Ger, Very well. From the convent of the Ca- 
 uchins came also some suspicious people. They 
 ole cautiously across the market-place. From 
 leir appearance I should suppose them soldiers. 
 
 Gian. How officious is this blockhead I— .(To 
 omellino, aside. J — These are undoubtedly my 
 lilanese. 
 
 Ger. Does your Grace command, that they 
 hall be arrested ? 
 
 Gian. ( Aloud to Lomellino. J — Look to them, 
 
 omellino. — (To the Germ an. ) Begone ! — 'Tis 
 - lwell. — ( Aside to Lomellino.) Bid that German 
 ?ast be silent. (Exeunt Lomellino German.) 
 
 Fies. (In another part of the room with Julia 
 -looks toward Gi anettino.J Our friend Doria 
 ?ems displeased. May I know the reason ? 
 
 Gian. It's no wonder— So troubled as I am 
 ith these eternal messages. (Exit hastily. J 
 
 Fies. The play awaits us too, Signora. May I 
 ffer you my hand ? 
 
 Julia. Stay, let me take my cloak. I hope 
 is not a tragical performance. They always 
 uint me in my dreams. 
 
 Fies. Oh ! — 'Twill excite immoderate laughter, 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
88 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act IV 
 
 A C T IF. 
 
 Scene \.— .Night. The court of Fiesco's palace, 
 The lamps lighted. Persons carrying in arms, / 
 wing of the palace illuminated. An heap of armi 
 on one side of the stage. 
 
 Bourgognino leading a band of soldiers, 
 Bourg. Haiti let four centinels be stationed a1 
 the great gate. Two at every door of the palace, 
 ( The centinels take their posts. ) Let every one. 
 that chuses, enter, but none depart. If any one 
 attempt to force his way, run him through ! (Goes 
 with the rest into the palace. The centinels walk up 
 and down. A pause.) 
 
 Scene II.-— Zenturione entering, 
 
 Centinels at the gate. Who goes there ? 
 
 Zent, A friend of Lavagna. ( Goes across the 
 court to the door of the palace on the right, J 
 
 Centinel there. Back ! 
 (^Zenturione starts, and goes to the door on the 
 left,) 
 
 Centinel on the left. Back ! 
 
 Zent, (Stands still with surprise, A pause. Then 
 to the Centinel on the left,) My friend, which is 
 the way to the theatre ? 
 
 Centinel. I don't know. 
 
 Zent, (Walks up and down with increasing sur- 
 prise — then to the Centinel on the right.) My friend, 
 ' when dose the play begin ? 
 Centinel. I don't know. 
 
 Zent. ( Perceives the weapons alarmed.) Friend, 
 what mean these ? 
 
 Centinel. I don't know. 
 Zent. Strange ! 
 
 Centinels at the gate. Who goes there ? 
 
ict IV. 
 
 FIESCG. 
 
 83 
 
 Scene III. — The Former, Zibo. 
 
 Zibo. A friend of Lavagna. 
 
 Zent. Zibo, where are we ? 
 
 Zibo* What mean you ? 
 
 Zent. Look around you, Zibo ! 
 
 Zibo* Where ?— What ? 
 
 Zent. All the doors are guarded ! 
 
 Zibo, Here are arms — 
 
 Zent. No one, that will answer — 
 
 Zibo. 'Tis strange ! 
 
 Zent. What is it o'clock ? 
 
 Zibo. Past eight. 
 
 Zent, How cold it is ! 
 
 Zibo. Eight was the hour appointed. 
 
 Zent. Things don't go right here. 
 
 TLibo. Fiesco means to jest with us— 
 
 Zent, To-morrow will be the ducal election. 
 ,'ibo, things don't go right here. 
 
 Zibo, Hush ! Hush ! 
 
 Zent, The right wing of the palace is full of 
 ghts. 
 
 | Zibo. Do you hear nothing ? 
 
 I Zent, A confused murmuring within— and— 
 
 i Zibo, The sound of clattering arms— 
 
 Zent, Horrible ! Horrible 1 
 
 \ Zibo, A carriage — It stops at the gate, 
 i Centinels at the gate* Who goes there ? 
 
 ciene IV — The Former, Four of the As- 
 s erato Family* 
 
 Asser. A friend of Fiesco. 
 Zibo* They are the four Asserati. 
 Zent. Good evening friends ! 
 Asser. We are going to the play. 
 Zibo, A good journey to you i 
 Asser. Don't you go with us ? 
 
ElESCO. 
 
 Zent. Walk on. We'll only take the 
 awhile here. 
 
 Asser. 'Twill soon begin. Come! (Going,) 
 Centinel. Back ! 
 
 Asser. What does this tend to ? 
 Zent. (Laughing.) To keep you from th 
 palace. 
 
 Asser. Here's some mistake—- 
 
 Zibo. That's plain enough. 
 
 ( Music is heard in the right wing.) 
 
 Asser. Do you hear the symphony ? Thi 
 comedy is going to begin. 
 
 Zent. I think it has begun, and we are her 
 to act the fools. 
 
 Zibo. I'm not too warm— I'll hasten home 
 
 Asser. Arms here ? 
 
 Zibo. Poh ! — Mere play-house articles. 
 
 Zent. Shall we stand waiting, like ghost 
 upon the banks of Acheron. Come, let us IE 
 tavern ! ( All six go toward the gate.) 
 
 Centinels. ( Calling out loudly.) Back ! — Back 
 
 Zent. 'Sdeath ! We are caught. 
 
 Zibo. My sword shall open a passage — 
 
 Asser. Put it up. The Count's a man o 
 honor. 
 
 Zibo. We are betrayed — The comedy was 
 bait to catch us, and we're entrapp'd. 
 
 Asser. Heaven forbid ! I tremble for the event 
 
 Scene V. — The Former — Verrina, Saccc 
 and Nobles. 
 
 Centinels. Who goes there ? 
 
 Ver. Friends of the house. (Seven Noble 
 enter with him.) 
 
 Zibo. These are his confidants. Now all wi! 
 be explained. 
 
 Sacco. ( In conversation with Verrina.) 'Tis a 
 I told you. Lascaro is on guard at the St. Thorn? 
 
ict IV. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Z5 
 
 late, the best officer of Doria, and blindly devot> 
 d to him. 
 Ver. I'm glad of it. 
 
 Zibo. (To Verrina.) Verrina, you come 
 pportunely to clear up the mystery. 
 
 Ver. How so ? What mean you ? 
 
 Zent. We are invited to a comedy, 
 
 Ver. Then we are going the same way. 
 
 Zent. Yes — The way of all flesh. You see 
 :ie doors are guarded. — Why guard the doors ? 
 
 Zibo. Why these centinels ? 
 i Zent. We stand here criminals beneath the 
 allows. 
 
 Ver. The Count will come himself. 
 Zent. 'Twere best, that he made haste. My 
 atience begins to fail. 
 
 \All the Nobles walk up and down in the back- 
 ground.) 
 
 JSourg. ( Coming out of the palace, £<? Verrina.) 
 "ow goes it in the harbour ? 
 
 Ver. They're all got safe on board. 
 
 Bourg. The palace is full of soldiers, 
 
 Ver. 'Tis almost nine. 
 
 Bourg. The Count is long in coming. 
 
 Ver. And yet too quick to gain his wishes-*- 
 ourgognino ! — There is a thought, which free^ 
 ■s me. 
 
 Bourg. Father, be not too hasty. 
 \\Ver. It is impossible to be too hasty, where 
 
 flay is fatal. I must commit my second mur- 
 ■T, to justify the first. 
 
 Bourg. But — When must Fiescp fall ? 
 
 Ver. When Genoa is free. 
 
 I Centinels. Who goes there ? 
 Scene VI. — The Former, Fiesco. 
 Fies. A friend — (The Nobles bow — The Cen 
 nels present their arms.) Welcome mv worth 
 OL. II.) R 
 
S6 
 
 FIE5C0. 
 
 guests ! You must have been displeased at mj 
 long absence — Pardon me. — (In a low voice u\ 
 Yekrina.J Ready? 
 
 Ver. As you would wish. 
 
 Wies. ( To Bourgogkino.J And you ? 
 
 Bourg. Quite prepared. 
 
 Fies. ( To SaccoJ And you ? 
 
 Sacco, All's right. 
 
 Fies* And Calcagno ? 
 
 Bourg, Is not yet arrived. 
 
 Fies. ( Aloud to the Centinels.) Make fast! 
 the gates ! — ( He takes off his hat, and steps for* 
 ward with dignity toward the assembly, J 
 
 My friends — I have invited you hither to a play 
 —Not as spectators, but to ac\ in it a most im- 
 portant part- 
 Long enough have we borne the insolence oi 
 Gianettino Doria, and the usurpation of Andreas. 
 My friends, would we deliver Genoa, no time is 
 to be lost. For what purpose, think you, are 
 those twenty gallies, which beset our harbour? 
 For what purpose the alliances which the Dorias 
 have of late concluded? For what purpose the fo- 
 reign force, which they have drawn together, 
 even in the heart of Genoa ? Murmurs and exe-i 
 crations avail no longer. To save all, we must 
 hazard every thing. A desperate disease requiresi 
 a desperate remedy. Is there one base enough 
 in this assembly, to own an equal for his master? 
 — ( Murmurs, J — There is not one, whose ances- 
 tors did not stand round the cradle of infant Ge- 
 noa. What — By all that's sacred 1 What have 
 these two citizens to boast of, that they should 
 urge their daring flight so far above our heads? 
 (Increasing murmurs,) Every one of you is loud- 
 ly called upon to fight the cause of Genoa against 
 its tyrants. No one can yield a hair's breadth of 
 his rights, without betraying the soul of the whole 
 state. ( Interrupted by violent commotions — he pro? 
 
Act IV. 
 
 FIKSCO. 
 
 87 
 
 •eeds.J You feel your wrongs, then every tiling 
 s gained. I have already paved your way to glo- 
 •y — Genoese, will you follow ? I am prepared to 
 ead you. Those signs of war which you just 
 iow beheld with horror, must awaken your he- 
 •oism. Your anxious shuddering must warm in- 
 o a glorious zeal, that you may unite your efforts, 
 vith this patriotic band, to overthrow the tyrant. 
 Success will crown the enterprise, for all ourpre- 
 mrations are well arranged. The cause is just, 
 or Genoa suffers. The attempt will render us 
 mmortal, for it is vast and glorious— 
 
 Zent. Enough— Genoa shall be free ! Be this 
 >ur shout of onset- against hell itself— 
 
 Zibo. And may he, who is not roused by it, 
 >ant at the slavish oar, till the last trumpet break 
 lis chains— 
 
 Fies. Spoken like men — Now you deserve to 
 mow the danger, that hung over yourselves and 
 ienoa. (Gives them the papers of the Moor. J 
 Lights, soldiers! (The Nobles crowd about the 
 ights, and read-— Fiesco aside to Verrina.) 
 niend, it went as I could wish. 
 ! Ver. Be not too certain. Upon the left I saw 
 ountenances that grew pale, and knees that tot- 
 tered. 
 
 Zent. Twelve senators ! — Infernal villany ! Seize 
 ach a sword — ( All, except two, eagerly take up 
 he weapons, that lie in readiness. J 
 j Zibo. Thy name too, Bourgognino, is written 
 liere. 
 
 Bourg. Aye, and if Heaven permit, it shall be 
 ritten to-day upon the throat of Gianettino. ^ 
 
 Zent. Two swords remain — 
 
 Zibo. Ah ! What say'st thou ? 
 
 Zent, Two amongst us have not taken swords 
 
 Asser. My brothers cannot bear the sight of* 
 iood — pray spare them — 
 
88 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Ac n 
 
 'Lent. What ! Not a tyrant's blood ! Tea 
 them to pieces — Cowards ! Let the bastards b< 
 driven from the republic — (Some of the assembly 
 
 attack the two Asserati.J 
 
 Ties. Cease ! Shall Genoa owe its liberty t< 
 slaves ? Shall our pure gold be debased by thi: 
 alloy 1 ( He disengages them.) Gentlemen, yoi 
 must be content to take up your abode within mj 
 palace, until our business be decided. (To tiu 
 Centinels ) These are your prisoners : you an 
 swer Tor their safety. Guard them with loadec 
 arms. ( They are led off — a knocking heard at tht 
 gate. J 
 
 Ccntinel. Who is there ? 
 
 CaL (Without, eagerly.) Open the gate 1 A 
 frie nd — for God's sake open ! 
 
 Bourg. it is Calcagno — Heavens ! What car 
 this mean ? 
 
 Ties. Open the gate, soldiers. 
 
 Scene VIII. — The Former, Calcagno. I 
 
 CaL All's lost ! All's lost ! Fly every one that 
 can 1 
 
 Tourg. What's lost ? Have they flesh of brass, 
 
 and ar J our swords made of rushes ? 
 
 Fies. Consider, Calcagno — An error now is 
 fatal. 
 
 CaL Wc are betrayed — Your Moor, Lavagna, 
 is the rascal. I come from the senate-house. He 
 had an audience of the Duke. 
 
 'ier. (To the Centimels.J Soldiers, let me 
 rush upon your halberts. I will not perish by 
 the^hangman's hands. {The assembly show marks 
 of confusion.) 
 
 Fies. What are you about? 'Sdeath, Cal- 
 cagno ! — Friends, 'tis a false alarm. {To Cal- 
 cagno.) Woman that thou art, to tell these boys 
 
Act IV. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 It 9 
 
 :his tale. — Thou, too, Verrina ? — and thou, Bour- 
 gognino? Whither would'st thou go ? 
 
 Bourg. Home — to kill my Bertha — and then 
 return to fall with thee. 
 
 Fies. Stay ! Stay 1 Is this the valour, that 
 must punish tyrants ? Well didst thou play thy 
 part, Calcagno. Did you not perceive, that this 
 alarm was my contrivance ? Speak, Calcagno— 
 Was it not my order, that you should put these 
 Romans to this trial ? 
 
 Ver. Well, if you can laugh, I'll believe you 
 — or you must be more than mortal-*— 
 
 Fies. Shame on you, men, to fail in such a 
 boyish trial 1 Resume your arms — you must fight 
 most bravely to atone for this disgrace. {Aside 
 [to Calcagno.) Were you there yourself? 
 I Cal. {Low.) I made my way among the guards, 
 to hear, as was my business, the watch- word 
 from the Duke. As I was returning, the Moor 
 iwas brought — 
 
 Fies. {Aloud.) So the old man Is gone to bed 
 • — We'll drum him out of his feathers — ( Low. J 
 Did he talk long with the Duke ? 
 I Cal. {Low.) My sudden fright, and your im- 
 pending danger, drove me away in hasted 
 p Fies. {Aloud.) See, how our countrymen still 
 tremble — 
 
 i Cal. {Aloud.) You should have carried on 
 the jest. {Low.) For God's sake, friend, what 
 will this artifice avail us ? 
 
 1 Fies. 'Twill gain us time, and dissipate the 
 first panic. {Aloud.) Ho ! bring wine here ! {Low.) 
 Did the Duke turn pale ? (Aloud.) Wellgj^o- 
 thers, let us drink success to this night's enter- 
 tainment! {Low.) Did the Duke turn.pale ? 
 
 Cal. The Moor's first word must have been 
 Conspiracy ; for the old man step'd back as pale as. 
 ELshes. 
 
 a 2 
 
*0 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act IK 
 
 Fit"!, Hum ! the devil is an artful counsellor : 
 the Moor was cunning, he betray'd nothing till 
 the knife was at their throat. Now he's indeed 
 their saviour.) {Wine is brought, he drinks to the 
 assembly) — Comrades, success i {A knocking is 
 heard*) 
 
 Centinels. Who is without ? 
 
 A voice. A guard of the Dukes. (The No- 
 bles disperse about the court. J 
 
 Fies. No, my friends. Be not alarm'd — I ami 
 here — Quick remove these arms — Be men, I en-j 
 treat you — This visit makes me hope, that An-' 
 dreas still doubts our plot. Retire into the pa- 
 lace : recall your spirits. Soldiers throw open 
 the gate I ( They retire , the gates are opened.) 
 
 Scene VIII. — Fiesco {as if coming from the\ 
 palace.) Three German Soldiers bringing the 
 Moor, bound. 
 
 Fies. Who called for me ? 
 
 Germans. Bring us to the Count. 
 
 Fies. The Count is here, who wants me ? 
 
 German* ( Presenting his arms.) Greeting from 
 the Duke !— he delivers, up to your Grace, this- 
 Moor in chains, who hath basely slandered you : 
 the rest this note will tell. 
 
 Fies. {Takes it with an air of indifference.) Have 
 J not threaten'd thee already with the gallies? 
 {To the German.) Very well, my friend, rny 
 respecls to the Duke. 
 
 Moor. {Hallooing after them.) Mine too-— and 
 tell ^Ihe Duke, had he not made an ass his 
 mesWiger, he would have learnt, that two thou- 
 sand soldiers are concealed within these palace 
 "walls. 
 
 {Exeunt Germans, the Nobles return. 
 
let IV. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 91 
 
 icENE IX. — Fiesco, the Conspirators, Moor. 
 
 The Conspirators, Ha ! what means this ? 
 
 Fies. (Sifter reading the note.) Genoese, the 
 langer is past — but the conspiracy is likewise end- 
 d— 
 
 Ver. What ! — Are the Dorias dead ? 
 
 Fies. By heavens I I was prepar'd to encoun- 
 er the whole force of the republic, but not this 
 low. This old nerveless man, with his pen, an- 
 ihilates three thousand soldiers. Doria over- 
 omes Fiesco ! 
 
 Bourg. Speak, Count, we are amaz'd ! 
 
 Fies. {Reading.) " Lavagna, your fate re- 
 embles mine : benevolence is rewarded with in- 
 ratitude. The Moor informs me of a plot : I 
 end him back to you in chains, and shall sleep 
 D-night without a guard." ( He drops the paper- 
 he rest look at each other, ) 
 ij Ver. Well, Fiesco ? 
 
 Fies, Shall Doria surpass me in magnanimity ? 
 hall the race of Fiesco want this one virtue ? 
 Jo, by my life — Disperse — I'll go and own the 
 -hole— 
 
 Ver, Art thou mad ? Was then our enterprise 
 ome thievish a6l of villany ? Was it not our 
 ountry's cause ? Was Andreas the object of thy 
 atred, and not the Tyrant ? Stay ! I arrest thee 
 s a traitor to thy country.. 
 Conspirators. Bind him, throw him down-— < 
 Fies. (Snatching up his sivord, and making ivay 
 hrongh them. J Peace ! Who will be the first 
 o throw the cord around the tiger ? — See, Gen- 
 cse, I stand here at liberty, and might depart 
 nhurt : but I will not depart. My resolution's 
 hang'd. 
 
 Bourg. Have you consulted the voice of duty ? 
 
 Fies. Boy, thou may'st learn from my exam- 
 ple not to dictate to me — Peace, Genoese 1 our 
 ( lan remains unalter'd. (To the Moor, whose 
 
9* 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Jet 
 
 cords he cuts with a snvord.) Thou hast had 
 merit of creating a noble act — Fly !— 
 
 Cal. What ! shall that scoundrel live, 
 has betray 'd us all ? 
 
 Ftes. Live — though he has frighten'd all o 
 you. Away, my lad ! See, that thou turn thj 
 back on Genoa : they might wish to exercis( 
 their bravery upon thee. 
 
 Moor. So then, the devil does not forsake hi*' 
 friends. Your servant, Gentlemen. I see tha i 
 Italy does not produce my halter ; I must go seel 
 elsewhere for it. Exit laugliing 
 
 Scene X. — Fiesco, Conspirators. Enter So 
 
 VAN T. 
 
 Servant, The Countess Imperiali has alread) 
 ask'd three times for your Grace. 
 
 Fits. Ha ! then the comedy must indeed be-i 
 gin. Tell her I come directly. Desire my wift 
 to hasten to the concert-room, and there remair 
 conceaPd behind the tapestry. (Exit Servant ) Ir, 
 these papers your several stations are appointed 
 let each but act his part, the plan is perfect 
 Verrma will lead the forces to the harbour, 
 when the ships are seiz'd, will fire a shot, a 
 signal for the general attack. I now leave y 
 upon important business : when you shall h 
 a bell, come all together to my concert-roo 
 Meanwhile enjoy my Cyprian wine within. ( The^ 
 depart into the palace. J 
 
 Scene XI Leonora, Arabella and Rosa. 
 
 Leo. Fiesco promised to meet me here, anc| 
 comes not. 'Tis past eleven. The sound o 
 arms and men rings through the palace, and nc 
 Fiesco comes. 
 
 Rosa. You must conceal yourself behind the 
 tapestry — What can the Count intend ? 
 
 Leo, He directs me, and I obey. Whj 
 
\ci IV. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 93 
 
 hould I fear ? And yet I tremble, Arabella, 
 ml my heart beats with apprehension. Damsels, 
 dt Heaven's sake, do not leave me. 
 
 Arab, Fear nothing : we are too timid to aban- 
 Ion you. 
 
 Leo. Where'er I turn my eyes, strange shapes 
 ppear, with hollow and distracted countenances. 
 5n whomsoever I call, they tremble like crimi- 
 als, and withdraw from sight, into the thickest 
 loom, a fit retreat for guilty consciences. 
 Vhate'er they answer, falls from the trembling 
 ongue in doubtful accents. Oh Fiesco 1 what 
 orrid business dost thou meditate ! Ye heavenly 
 li'Owers ! watch over my Hesco ! 
 
 Rosa, Oh heavens ! what noise is that without? 
 Arab, It is the soldier, who stands there as 
 entinel. ('The Centinel without calls" Who goes 
 Mere ?"J 
 
 Leo, Some one approaches. Quick ! behind 
 he curtain — ( they conceal themselves,) 
 
 cene XII. — Julia and Fiesco, in conversation* 
 
 Julia, Cease, Count 1 Your passion no longer 
 icets with an indifferent ear ; but fires the raging 
 lood. Where am I ? Nought but seducing 
 .ight is here. Whither has your artful conver- 
 ation led me ? 
 
 ■Fies, To this spot, where timid love grows 
 old, and where emotions mingle unrestrained. 
 
 Julia, Hold, Fiesco I for Heaven's sake, say 
 o more ! 'Tis the thick veil of night alone, 
 rbich covers the glowing crimson of my cheeks, 
 lse would'st thou pity me. 
 
 Fies. Rather, Julia, thy blushes would inflame 
 iy feelings, and urge them to their utmost 
 eight. {Kisses her hand eagerly.') 
 
 Julia, Thy countenance is glowing as thy 
 r ords. Ah ! and my own too burns .with guilty- 
 re, Hence, I entreat thee, let us seek the light ! 
 
9 1 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act IV 
 
 The tempting darkness might lead astray tlu 
 senses, and in the absence of the modest day. 
 might stir them to rebellion. Haste, I conjure 
 thee, leave this solitude 1 
 
 Fies. Why so alarmed, my love ? you kno\i 
 your empire over me. 
 
 Julia. O man, eternal paradox ? then are 
 you truly conquerors, when you bow as captive; 
 before our self-conceit. Shall I confess, Fiesco i 
 It was my vice alone, that could protect my vir- 
 tue : it was my pride, that sav'd my honor 
 Thus far my principles prevailed : your art? 
 were foiled, until you rous'd my blood — then van- 
 ish'd principles — 
 
 Fies. And what loss was that ? 
 
 Julia. What loss ! no less than all, if 1 
 yield up my honor a slave to thy caprice. 
 
 Fies. And yet, my Julia, where could'st thou 
 bestow more worthily this treasure, than on my 
 endless passion ? 
 
 Julia. Most worthily ! most unprofitable—^ 
 How long, Fiesco, will this endless passion last? 
 But I've advane'd too far to hesitate. In my 
 charms I trusted, to captivate thee. To preserve 
 thy love, I fear they'll prove too weak. Alas! 
 what am I saying ! 
 
 Fies. You have urg'd two groundless charges, 
 at once accusing your charms, and my fidelity. 
 Which is the greatest crime ? 
 
 Julia. Deceit is base. P'iesco needs it not to 
 gain his Julia. — Hear, Fiesco 1 One word 
 more. — When we know our virtue is in safety, 
 we are heroines ; in its defence, no more than 
 children ; Furies, when we avenge it. Hear me! 
 Should'st thou strike me to the heart with cold- 
 ness — 
 
 Fies, Coldness, coldness ! Heavens ! what 
 does the insatiable vanity of woman look for, if 
 
ct IV. fif.sco. 59 
 
 he even doubt the man, that prostrate in the dust 
 dores her ? — Ha ! my spirit is awaken'd : my 
 yes at length are opened. — What was th're migh- 
 f sacrifice I Man dearly purchases a woman's 
 ighest favors by the slightest degradation. — Take 
 ourage, Madam : you are safe. 
 
 Julia, Count ! what mean you ? 
 
 Fies. True, Madam — You judge most rightly ; 
 r e both have risk'd our honor. I will await your 
 resence with my guests. (Going.) 
 
 Julia, Stay, art thou mad ? Must I then de- 
 lare a passion, which the whole race of man, 
 pon their knees, in tears, should not extort from 
 ly determined pride ? Alas ! in vain the dark- 
 ess strives to hide the blushes, which betray my 
 uilt — Fiesco — I wound the pride of all my sex — . 
 ly sex will all detest me — Fiesco — I adore thee— 
 
 Fies. {Laughing.) That I am sorry for, Sig- 
 mra— {rings the bell — draws the tapestry, and dis- 
 \wers Leonora.) Here is my wife — A lovely wo- 
 nan 1 embracing her.) 
 
 Julia. (With a shriek.) — Unheard of treachery ! 
 
 gene XIII.— 'The Conspirators, Ladies, 
 Fiesco, Julia and Leonora. 
 
 Leo. Oh my husband, that was too cruel ! 
 
 Fies. A wicked heart deserved no less. I 
 >v'd this satisfaction to your tears. (To the com* 
 my. ) No, my friends — I am not wont to kindle 
 iththe flames of irritation. The follies of man- 
 nd amuse me long ere they excite my anger ; 
 it this woman merits my whole resentment, 
 ehold the poison, whi ch she had mingled for my 
 sonora. (Shows the poison to the company — they 
 art with horror.) 
 
 Julia. Good I Good, Very good, Sir ! (Going.) 
 Fies. (Leads her back by the arm.) You must 
 ive patience, Madam ; something else re- 
 
96 FIE SCO. Act IV 
 
 mains. — My friends, perhaps, would gladly learn 
 why I debased my reason with the farce of love 
 for this unworthy woman. 
 
 Julia. It is not to be borne — But tremble ! 
 Doria rules in Genoa — And I am his sister — . 
 
 Fies. Poor, indeed, if that be the only sting ! 
 know, that Fiesco of La^agna has changed the 
 diadem of your illustrious brother for a halter, > 
 and means this night to hang the thief of the j 
 republic. ( She is struck with terror — he continues j 
 with a sarcastic laugh.) Ha ! that was unexpe£t- { 
 ed. 'Twas for this purpose, that I tried to blind t 
 the eyes of the Doiias. For this I stoop'd to a \ 
 disgusting passion — (pointing to Julia.) For j 
 this, I cast away this precious jewel — (pointing to j 
 Leonora ; ) and by the shining bait ensnared my j 
 prey. T thank you for your complaisance^ Sig- I 
 nora — (to Julia ; ) and return the trappings of j 
 my assumed character. [Delivers her the minia- j 
 ture with a bow.) 
 
 Leo. (To Fie sco.) She weeps, my Lodovico.il 
 May your Leonora, trembling, entreat you ? 
 
 Julia. Silence, detested woman ! 
 
 Fies. (To a servant.) Be alert, my friend : at-fl 
 tend this lady. She has a mind to see my prison-, j 
 chamber. See, that none approach to incom- j 
 mode her. The night is cold abroad : the storm I 
 which is about to split the stem of the Dorias 
 may, perhaps, too rudely blow against her. 
 
 Julia. Curse on thee, black, detested hypo- 
 crite ! (To Leonora.) Rejoice not thou, in this 
 thy triumph ! He will destroy thee also, and 
 himself. Despair ! (Rushing out.) 
 
 Fies. (To the guests.) You were witnesses : let 
 your report in Genoa preserve my honor. ( To 
 the Conspirators.) Call on me, as soon as j 
 the cannon giv^es the signal. {All the guests re- i 
 tire.) 
 
Act IK 
 
 F1ESC0. 
 
 9t 
 
 Scene XIV. — Leonora and Fiesco. 
 
 Leo. Fiesco ! Fiesco ! I understand but half 
 your meaning ; yet I begin to tremble. 
 
 Fies. Leonora ! I once saw you yield the place 
 of honor to another female. I saw you in the 
 presence of the nobles, receive the second com- 
 pliment. Leonora, that sight tormented me. I 
 resolv'd it ne'er should be again — Nor ever shall 
 it be. Do you hear the warlike noise, which 
 echoes through my palace ? What you suspecl, 
 is true. Retire to rest, a Countess — to morrow 
 I will hail you Dutchess of Genoa — 
 \ Leo. O God ! My very fears ! I am undone— 
 
 Fies, Let me speak out, my love. Two of my 
 mcestors wore the triple crown. The blood of 
 :he Fiescos flows not pure, unless beneath the 
 Durple. Shall your husband only reflect a bor- 
 -ow'd splendor ? What ! shall he owe his rank 
 ;o capricious chance alone, which, from the mon- 
 uments of mouldering greatness, has patch'd up 
 his Fiesco ? No, Leonora, I am too proud to 
 iccept from others, what my own merits may 
 ay claim to. This night, the hereditary titles 
 >fmy ancestors shall return to deck their tombs — 
 ^avagna's Counts exist no longer — A race of 
 f princes shall begin. 
 
 Leo. I see my husband fall, transfix'd by 
 leadly wounds— I see them bear towards me, my 
 msband's mangled corpse — The first—the only 
 ||>all has struck Fiesco — 
 
 Fies, Be calm, my love — No ball will strike 
 • -ae— 
 
 Leo. Does Fiesco so confidently challenge 
 leaven? If in the scope of countless possibilities, 
 ne lot alone were adverse to thee, that one might 
 appen, and I should lose my husband — Think 
 bat thou venturest heaven, Fiesco ; and though 
 
 VOL. II.) 
 
 S 
 
98 
 
 FIE SCO. 
 
 Act IV 
 
 a million chances were against thy loss, woulcTs! 
 thou yet tempt the Almighty, by risking on a di( 
 thy hopes of everlasting happiness ? No, my hus ] 
 band — When thy whole being is at stake, eacl 
 throw is blasphemy. 
 
 Fits, Be not alarmed. Fortune is more mj I 
 friend. 
 
 Leo. Thinkest thou so, Fiesco ? behold th< 
 eager circle intent upon the agitating play, which I 
 they call pastime. Observe this sly deceiver, For 
 tune, how she allures her votary with gradua \ 
 favours, till heated with success, he turns t( I 
 rashness, and ventures all upon a single stake j 
 Then, in the important moment, she forsake: j 
 him, a prey to wretchedness. Husband, thoi I 
 goest not to show thyself to Genoa, and be ador'd— I 
 *Tis no slight task to rouse the slumbering mul j 
 titude, and turn them loose, like the unbridled steed J 
 before unconscious of his hoofs. Trust not thes< I 
 rebels. The wise among them, even while the; I 
 instigate thy valour, fear it : the vulgar worshi] j 
 thee, with senseless but unsteady adoration.— I 
 Where'er I look Fiesco is undone. 
 
 Fies. To be irresolute, is the most certain dan 
 ger. He that aspires to greatness, must be dar 
 ing. 
 
 Leo. Greatness, Fiesco ! Alas! thy towerini 
 spirit ill accords with the fond wishes of my heart 
 Should fortune favour thy attempt — should's 
 thou obtain dominion — alas 1 I then should be bu 
 the more wretched~-Condemn'd to misery if thoi 
 fail — if thou succeed to misery still greater.- 
 Here is no choice but evil. Unless he gain th< 
 Ducal power, Fiesco perishes — if I embrace thi 1 
 Duke, I lose my husband. 
 
 Fies. I understand you not. 
 
 Leo. Ah ! my Fiesco, in the stormy atmosl 
 phere, that surrounds a throne, the tender plan !f 
 
[Act iV. frlKSCO., 99 
 
 bf love must perish. The heart of man, even of 
 Fiesco, is not vast enough, for two all-powerful 
 idols — idols, so hostile to each other. — Love has 
 tears, and feels the tears of others. Ambition 
 has eyes of stone, from which no drop of tender- 
 ness can e'er distil.- Love views creation with 
 neglect, except one favoured object : Ambition, 
 with insatiable hunger, rages amid the spoil of 
 mature. Ambition changes the immense world 
 tself, into one dark and horrid prison-house : 
 Love paints in every desert, a visionary paradise* 
 : Whenever thou would'st recline upon my bosom, 
 [ he cares of empire, the rebellion of vassals, 
 vould fright away repose — If I should throw my- 
 ielf into thy arms, thy despot fears would hear a 
 nurderer rushing forth to strike thee, and urge 
 hy trembling flight through all the palace. Nay, 
 lark-ey'd suspicion would at last o'erwhelm even 
 lomestic concord — If thy Leonora's tenderness 
 hould offer thee a refreshing draught, thou 
 would'st with horror push away the goblet, and 
 all it poison. 
 
 Fies, Leonora, cease ! These thoughts are 
 .readmit 
 
 Leo. And yet the picture is not finished. Let 
 )ve be sacrific'd to greatness ; let peace of mind 
 e sacrific'd, if but Fiesco remain unchang'd. O 
 iod ! that thought is torture — An unspotted 
 lind seldom ascends the throne — but far more 
 eldom, does it wield the sceptre uncorrupted. 
 'an he know pity, who is rais'd above the com- 
 lon fears of men ? Will he speak the accents 
 f compassion, whose words are followed by the 
 mnderbolt of law ? Prince Fiesco ! Those rash 
 rojecls, that spurn the laws of nature, always 
 lldl as far below the dignity they aspire to, as thejr 
 I lave tower'd above humanity. 
 
100 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act I 
 
 Fies. Leonora, cease ! Reflection is too late 
 The bridge is rais'd behind me — 
 
 Leo, And why, my husband ! The past alo 
 is hopeless. Thou once didst swear, that all tl 
 projects vanished before my beauty. Hypocrite 
 thou hast foresworn thyself — or else my charms 
 have early wither'd. Ask thy own heart where 
 lies the blame ? — Return, Fiesco ! Recall thy 
 wandering mind ! Yield to my entreaties ! Love 
 shall reward thee. If my heart cannot appease 
 thy insatiate passions, O Fiesco, the diadem wi 
 be still poorer — Come, I'll learn the inmost wis 
 es of thy soul — W e'll melt together all the char 
 of nature, into one kiss of love, to retain ft 
 ever, in these heavenly bonds, the illustrio 
 captive. As thy heart is infinite, so shall be my 
 passion. To be the source of happiness to a be- 
 ing, who places all its heaven in thee, Fiesco !— « 
 
 Fies. Leonora — what hast thou done ? — (He 
 falls about her neck.) I shall never more dare t$ 
 meet tbe eyes of Genoa's citizens. 
 
 Leo. Let us fly, Fiesco ! Let us with scorn 
 reject these gaudy nothings ; and pass our happy 
 days only in retreats of love ! ( She presses him to 
 her breast with rapture.) Our souls serene as the 
 unclouded sky, shall never more be blacken'd by 
 the pois'nous breath of sorrow : our life shall flow 
 harmoniously as the music of the murmuring; 
 brook. (A cannon-shot is heard — Fiesco disen* 
 gages himself-^-all the Con s pi k a tors enter.) 
 
 Scene XV. 
 
 Conspirators. The moment is arrived. 
 
 Fies. (To Leonora.) Farewell, forever, un- 
 less Genoa to-morrow be laid subject at thy feet. 
 ( Going to rush out. ) 
 
 Bourg. The Countess faints ! 
 
 Fies, Leonora 1 Save her 1 For Heaven's sake 
 
Act IV. FIE SCO. 102 
 
 save her ! (Rosa and Arabella run to her as- 
 sistance.) She lives — She lives — Now let us -seek 
 Doria ! (Conspirators rush out.) 
 
 END or THE FOURTH ACT* 
 
102 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 a c r v. 
 
 Scene I. — After midnight. The great street of 
 Genoa. A few lamps, almost extinguished. In the 
 back-ground is seen the Gate of St. Thomas, 
 which is shut. Men pass over the stage with 
 lanterns. The patrol go their round. Afterwards, 
 every thing is quite, except the waves of the sea, 
 which are heard at a distance, rather tempestuous. 
 
 Fie sco {armed, before the Doria palace"), and 
 Andreas. 
 
 Fies. The old man has kept his word. The 
 lights are all extinguished in the palace — The 
 guards dismissed — I'll ring. ( Rings at the gate.) 
 Ho 1 Halloo! Awake. Doria! Thou art betray'd. 
 Awake ! Halloo 1 Halloo ! 
 
 And. ( Appearing on the balcony.) Who rings 
 there ? 
 
 Fies. (In a feigned voice.) Ask not, but follow 
 me ! Duke, thy star has set ; Genoa is in arms 
 against thee. The executioners are near, and 
 canst thou sleep, Andreas ? 
 
 And. I remember, when the sea contended 
 with my gallant vessel — when her keel crack'd, 
 and the wind split her topmast. Andreas then 
 slept soundly. Who sends these executioners ? 
 
 Fies. A man more dreadful than the raging 
 sea, of whom thou speakest — John Louis of 
 Fiesco. 
 
 And. You jest, my friend. Come in the day- 
 time to play your tricks. Midnight suits them 
 badly. 
 
 Fies. Do you mock your preserver ? 
 
 And. I thank him, and retire to rest. Fiesco, 
 wearied with his rioting, sleeps regardless of 
 Doria. 
 
 Fies. Wretched old man ! Trust not the artful 
 
Act V. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 103 
 
 serpent. Its back is deck'd with beauteous col- 
 ors ; but when you would approach to view it, 
 you are suddenly entwined within its deadly folds. 
 You laugh'd at the perfidious Moor. Do not des- 
 pise the counsels of a friend. A horse stands 
 ready saddled for you — Fly, while you have 
 time. 
 
 And. Fiesco has a noble mind. I never injur- 
 ed him, and he will not betray me. 
 
 Fies, Fiesco has a noble mind, yet he betrays 
 thee. 
 
 And. There is a guard, which would defy 
 Fiesco's power, unless he led against them legi- 
 ons of spirits. 
 
 Fies. That guard will quickly visit the regi- 
 ons of eternity. 
 
 i And. Vain babler 1 Knowest thou not, that 
 \ndreas has seen his eightieth year, and that 
 ienoa beneath his rule is happy ? ( Leaves the 
 i \alcony. ) 
 
 Fies. Must I then destroy this man, before I 
 lave learnt how difficult it is to equal him ?— 'Tis 
 >ast, Andreas. I have repaid the debt of greatness. 
 Jestruclion, take thy course ! ( He hastens into 
 • remote street. Drums are heard in all sides. A 
 ot engagement at the St. Thomas gate. The gate 
 s forced, and opens a prospect into the harbour, in 
 jhich lie several ships with lights on board. J 
 
 CENE II. — Gianettino ( in a scarlet mantle), 
 Lomellino — {Servants going before them with 
 torches.) 
 
 Gian. (Stops. ) Who was it, that commanded 
 le alarm to be beat ? 
 
 Lorn. A cannon was fired on board one of the 
 allies. 
 
 Gian. The slaves will break their chains. 
 7 iring heard at the gate of St, Thomas.) 
 
104 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Lorn, Hark ! — A shot ! 
 
 Gian. The gate is open. The guards are 
 confusion ! (To the servans.)— Quick, scow 
 drels 1 Light us to the harbour. (Proceeding hasi 
 ly toward the gate.) 
 
 Scene III — The Former : Bourgognino, ivi 
 
 some Conspirators, coming from the gate 
 St, Thomas. 
 
 Bourg. Sebastian Lascaro was a brave soldk 
 he defended himself like a bear, till he fell. 
 
 Gian, What do I hear ? — (to his servants 
 Stop ! 
 
 Bourg. Who are those yonder, with torches ! 
 
 Lorn. (To Gianettino.) Prince, they art 
 enemies. Turn to the left. 
 
 Bourg. Who goes there with the torches I 
 
 Zent. Stand ! Your watch-word ? 
 
 Gian. ( Draws his sword fiercely. ) Submis- 
 sion, and Doria — 
 
 Bourg. Violator of the republic, and of mj 
 bride ! (To the Conspirators, rushing upo\ 
 Gianettino) — Brothers this shortens our labor 
 His devils themselves deliver him into our hands 
 ( Runs him through with his sword. J 
 
 Gian. ( Falling.) Murder ! Revenge me, Lo 
 mellino ! 
 
 Lorn, and Servants. (Flying. — Help ! Murder 
 Murder ! 
 
 Zent. Doria's struck. Stop the Count Lorn 
 ellino ! — (Lomkllino w taken.) 
 
 Lorn. Spare but my life, I'll join your party. 
 
 Bourg. (Looking at Gianettino) Is thi 
 monster yet alive ? — Let the coward fly. (Lc 
 (mellino escapes.) 
 
 Zent, St. Thomas' Gate our own — Gianetti 
 no slain. — Haste some of you, and tell Fiesco. 
 
 Gian, ( Heaving himself from the ground in age 
 ny.) Fiesco ! Damnation I ■ ■ ( Dies, ) 
 
FIESCO. 
 
 105 
 
 Bourg. (Pulling the sword out of Gianetti- 
 so's body. ) Freedom to Genoa, and to my Ber. 
 ha ! Your sword, Zenturione.— .Take to my 
 >ride this bloody weapon — Her dungeon is thrown 
 >pen. I'll follow thee, and give her the bridal 
 kiss. (They separate through different streets.} 
 
 Scene IV — Andreas Doria, Germans. 
 
 German. The storm drove that way. Mount 
 /our horse Duke. 
 
 And. Let me cast a parting look at Genoa's 
 owers. No — It is not a dream. Andreas is be- 
 ray'd. 
 
 German. The enemy is all around us. — Away ! 
 ? ly ! — Beyond the boundaries. 
 
 And. ( Throwing himself upon the dead body of 
 lis nephew. ) Here will I die. Let no one talk of 
 light. 'Here lies the strength of my old age—- . 
 IVfy career is ended. 
 Calcagno appears at a distance, with Conspira- 
 tors.) 
 
 German. Danger is near. Fly, Prince 1 ( Drums 
 feat. J 
 
 ■ And. Hark, Germans, hark 1 These are the 
 jenoese, whose chains I broke. — Do your coun- 
 rymen thus recompence their benefactors ? 
 
 German. Away ! Away ! Away ! While we 
 tay here, and find employment for their swords — » 
 (Calcagno comes nearer.) 
 
 And. Save yourselves ! Leave me — and go de- 
 :lare the horrid story to the shuddering nations, 
 hat Genoa slew its father. 
 
 German. Slew ! 'sdeath, that shall not be.— 
 Comrades, stand firm : surround the Duke. — . 
 "They draw their swords. J Teach these Italian 
 iogs to reverence his grey head. 
 
lo6 fiesco. Act Vi 
 
 Cal. Who goes there ? What have you ? 
 German, German blows— ( Retreat, fightin 
 and carry off the body of Giankttiko.) 
 
 Scene V. — Leonora. Arabella following. 
 
 Arab. Come, my lady, pray let us hasten on- 
 ward. 
 
 Leo. This way the tumult rages — Hark ! was 
 that not a dying groan ? Ah, they surround him i 
 At Fiesco's breast they point their fatal mus- 
 quets — At my breast they point them. Hold ! 
 Hold ! It is my husband. 
 
 Arab. For Heaven 's sake my lady !— 
 Leo. O, my Fiesco ! my Fiesco ! His firmest 
 friends desert him. The faith of rebels is un- 
 steady — Rebels ! Heaven ! Is Fiesco then a chief 
 of rebels ? 
 
 Arab. No, Signora. He is the great deliv< 
 er of Genoa. 
 
 Leo. Ma ! that would indeed be glorious ! Ai 
 shall Leonora tremble ? Shall the bravest citii 
 be wedded to the most timid female ? Go, Ai 
 bella ! When men contend for empires, even 
 woman's soul may kindle into valour. ( Drums 
 again heard) I'll rush among the combatants. 
 
 Arab. All-gracious Heaven 1 
 
 Leo. Peace ! What is that my foot strikes a- 
 gainst ? Here is a hat. And here a mantle- 
 sword too 1 ( she lifts it up ) — a heavy sword, my 
 Arabella ; but I may drag it with me, and the 
 sword never can disgrace its bearer. ( The alarm 
 bell-sounds. J 
 
 Arab. Hark ! Hark ! How terrible it sounds 
 from the tower of the Dominicians ! God k've 
 mercy on us ! 
 
 Leo. Rather say, how delightful ! In the ma- 
 jestic sound of this alarm-bell my Fiesco speaks 
 
At V. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 to Geona. ( Drums are heard louder,) Ha ! Never 
 did flutes so sweetly strike my ear. Even 
 these drums are animated by Fiesco. My heart 
 beats higher. All Genoa is roused : the very 
 mercenaries follow his name with transport — and 
 shall his wife be fearful ? {Alarm-bells sound from 
 three other towers,) No — my hero shall embrace 
 a heroine. My Brutus shall embrace a Roman 
 wife. I'll be his Portia. (Putting on the hat, and 
 throwing the scarlet mantle around her,) 
 
 Arab, My gracious Lady, how wildly do you 
 rave 1 (Alarm-bells and drums are heard,) 
 
 Leo, Cold-blooded wretch ! that dost not rave 
 thyself amidst these scenes — Go — I'll pursue my 
 way alone. 
 
 [ Arab, Great God 1 You will not act thus mad- 
 Ijr? 
 
 Leo, Weak girl I I will. Where the tumult 
 most wildly rages—Where Fiesco himself leads 
 }n the combat — I hear them ask, " is that La-r 
 vagna, the unconquered hero, who with his sword 
 lecides the lot of Genoa? Is that Lavagna ?" 
 ,i5Tes, I will say, yes, Genoese, that is Lavagna : 
 and that Lavagna is my husband. 
 | Sacco, (Entering with Conspirators.) Who 
 goes there ? — Doria, or Fiesco ? 
 
 Leo, Fiesco and liberty ! (Retires into another 
 street — A tumult, Araeella lost in the crowd,) 
 
 Scene VI. — Sacco, with a number of followers, 
 Calcagno, meeting him with others, 
 
 Cal, Andreas has escaped. 
 
 Sacco, Unwelcome tidings to Fiesco. 
 
 Cal, Those Germans fight like furies. They 
 ix'd themselves around the old man like rocks : 
 I could not get a sight of him. Nine of our men 
 ire done for : I myself was slightly wounded.— r 
 
10$ > F1ESC0 Act 
 
 Zounds ! If they thus serve a foreign tyrant, ho' 
 will they guard the princes of their country ! 
 
 Sacco. Numbers have flock'd already to oui 
 standard, and all the gates are ours. 
 
 CaU They fight, I hear, still sharply at the 
 citadel* 
 
 Sacco. Bourgognino is amongst them. When 
 is Verrina ? 
 
 CaU He guards the passage between Geno? 
 and the sea. 
 
 Sacco. I'll rouse the suburbs — 
 
 Cal. I'll march across the square of Sarzano— 
 Drummer, strike up! 'They march off, drums beat 
 ing.J 
 
 scene VII. — Moor. A troop of Thieves, witi 
 lighted matches. 
 
 Moor. Now I'll be even with the rascals.— 
 'Twas I that cook'd this soup up for them, ant 
 they have driven me from the mess. Well — J 
 care not — We'll set about burning and plundering 
 Let those fellows squabble for a dukedom, we'l 
 make a bonfire of the churches to warm the silvej 
 beards of the apostles. 
 
 (They disperse themselves among the neighbouring 
 streets. J 
 
 Scene VIII. Bourgognino ; Bertha, dis 
 
 guised as a boy. 
 
 Bourg. Rest here, dear youth : thou art ir 
 safety. Dost thou bleed ? 
 
 Ber. (In a feigned voice.) No — Not at all. 
 
 Bourg. Rise then, I'll lead thee, where thoi 
 may'st gain wounds for Genoa — Wounds beauti 
 ful like this. (Uncovering his arm. ) 
 
 Ber. Heavens ! 
 
 Bourg. Art thou frighten'd, youth, too earlj 
 didst thou put on the man. How old art thou I 
 
id r. 
 
 riF.seo* 
 
 109 
 
 Ber. Fifteen years. 
 I Bourg. That is unfortunate. For this night's 
 msiness thou art five years too young. Who is 
 hy father ? 
 
 Ber. The truest citizen in Genoa. 
 
 Bourg, Peace, boy ! That name belongs alone 
 
 the father of my betrothed bride. Dost thou 
 mow the house of Verrina ?„ 
 
 Ber. I think so. 
 
 Bourg. And knowest thou his lovely daughter ? 
 Ber. Her name is Bertha. 
 
 Bourg. Go, quickly 1 Carry her this ring. Say 
 t shall be our wedding-ring ; and tell her, the 
 >lue crest fights bravely. Now, farewell 1 I must 
 msten yonder — the danger is not over. 
 
 ( Some houses are seen on Jire.J 
 
 \ Ber. Scipio ! 
 
 Bourg. By my sword, I know that voice, 
 j Ber. (Falling about kis neck.) Am I so well 
 oiown, then ? 
 
 ! Bourg. Bertha ! ( Alarm-bells sound in the 
 suburbs — a tumult — Bourgognino and Bertha 
 ^mbrace, and are lost in the crowd. J 
 
 Scene IX. — Fiesco and Zibo from different sides. 
 Attendants. 
 
 Fies. Who set fire to those houses ? 
 
 1 Zibo. The citadel is taken. 
 
 ' Fies* Who set those houses on fire ? 
 
 } Zibo. ( To the attendants.) Dispatch a guard 
 
 o apprehend the villains. (Some soldiers go.) 
 
 Fies. Will they make me an incendiary ? Hast- 
 :n with the engines ! ( Attendants go.) But Gi- 
 inettino is surely kill'd. 
 : Zibo. So they say. 
 
 Fies. They say 1 Who say ? declare upon 
 our honour, has he escaped ? 
 
 [vol. ii.) 
 
 T 
 
1 10 fiesco. Act V 
 
 Zibo. If I may trust my eyes against the as- 
 sertion of a nobleman, Gianettino lives. 
 Fies. Zibo, your words distract me — 
 Zibo. 'Tis but eight minutes, since I sawhirr 
 in the crowd, drest in his scarlet cloak, and yel 
 low crest. 
 
 Fies, Heaven and hell ! Zibo ! Bourgogninc 
 shall answer for it with his head. Hasten, Zibo! 
 make fast the barriers. Let all the vessels be 
 lock'd together, to hinder his escape by sea.— 
 This diamond, Zibo — the richest in Genoa — This 
 diamond shall reward the man who brings me 
 tidings of Gianettino's death. fZiBo hasteiu 
 away. ) Fly, Zibo I 
 
 Scene X. — Fiesco, Sacco, the Moor, Soldiers, 
 
 Sacco. We found this Moor throwing a light 
 ed match into the convent of the Jesuits. - 
 
 Fies. Thy treachery was overlook'd, when i 
 concerned myself alone : The halter awaits th( 
 incendiary. Take him away, and hang him at 
 the church-door. 
 
 Moor, Plague on it — that's an awkward piece 
 of business — Can't one persuade you out of it ? 
 
 Fies, No. 
 
 Moor, Send me for a trial to the gallies — 
 Fies. ( Beckoning to the attendants.) To the gibbet 
 Moor. Then I'll turn Christian. 
 Fies. The church refuses the dregs of infidelity. 
 Moor. At least send me drunk into eternity. 
 Fies. Sober. 
 
 Moor. Don't hang me up, however beside 8 
 Christian church. 
 
 Fies. A man of honour keeps his word. 1 
 promis'd thee a gallows of thy own. 
 
 Sacco. Let us not lose time with this black- 
 guard, we've business of more consequence, 
 
 Moor. But stay Perhaps the rope may 
 
 break — 
 
Act V. 
 
 11ESC0. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ! Fies. (To Sacco.) Let it be double, 
 ft Moor. Well — If it must be so— The devil may- 
 make ready for my reception. 
 
 (Soldiers lead him to execution. ) 
 
 Scene XI. — Fie sco ; Leonora appearing at a 
 distance, in the scarlet cloak of Gianettino. 
 
 ! Fies. ( Perceiving her, rushes forward — then 
 'ntops.J Do I not know that crest and mantle ? — . 
 I 'Rushes on furiously. J — Yes, 1 know them. ( Runs 
 \\her through with his sword. J If thou hast three 
 ives, then rise again — (Leon oka falls with a 
 \ hollow groan — The march of victory is heard, xvitli 
 \ drums, horns, and hautboys.) 
 
 Scene XII. — Fiesco, Calcagno, Sacco, Zen* 
 turione, Zibo. — Soldiers with drums and 
 colours. 
 
 1 Fies. (Advancing toward them in triumph.)—. 
 Genoese, the die is cast. Here lies the viper of rar 
 !>ouJ, the abhorred food of my resentment. Lift 
 ugh your swords — Gianettino is no more. 
 
 Cal. And I came to inform you, that two 
 thirds of Genoa have declared for our party, and 
 jjwear obedience to Fiesco's standard. 
 
 Zibo. By me, Verrina sends his greeting to 
 rou from the admiral's galley, with the domini- 
 )n of the sea. 
 
 I Zent. By me, the governor of the city sends 
 liis keys, and staff of office. 
 
 Sacco. And in me, (kneeling J the less and 
 greater senate of the republic kneel down before 
 heir master, and supplicate for favor and pro- 
 .eclion. 
 
 ! CaL Let me be the first to welcome the illu- 
 strious conqueror within his walls — Bow your 
 colors. Hail, Duke of Genoa ! 
 All. Hail 1 Hail, Duke of Genoa \— (March 
 
112 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 ef triumph — Fiesco stands the whole time with hiy 
 head sunk upon his breast, in a meditating posture,) 
 
 Cal. The people and the senate wait to see 
 their gracious sovereign invested in the robes oi 
 dignity. Great Duke, permit us to follow you in 
 triumph to the senate-house. 
 
 Fies. First allow me to listen to the dictates 
 of my heart. I was obliged to leave a most dear 
 person in anxious apprehension — A Person, who 
 will share with me the glory of this night. (Tt 
 the Company.) Will you my friends, attend me 
 to your amiable Dutchess ? ( Going.) 
 
 Cal. Shall this murderous villain lie here, and 
 hide his infamy in obscurity ? 
 
 Zibo. Let his mangled carcase sweep the 
 streets — ( They hold lights toward the body.) 
 
 Cal. (Terrified, and in a low voice.) Look, 
 Genoese ! By heavens, this is not the face o] 
 Gianettino ! (All look at the body.) 
 
 Fies. ( Fixes his eyes upon it with an eager look 
 which he withdraws slowly — then with convulsive wild- 
 ness exclaims ) — No, ye devils ! — That is not the 
 face of Gianettino — Malicious devils ! — Genoa 
 mine, say you ? Mine ? ( Rushing forward with a 
 dreadful shriek.) Oh, hell ! It is my wife ! (He 
 sinks to the ground in agony — The Conspirators 
 stand around in groups, shuddering — A dead silence.) 
 
 Fies. ( Raising himself exhausted — in a faint 
 voice.) Have I slain my wife, Genoese ? I con- 
 jure you, lock not so ghashly upon this illusion! 
 Heaven be praised, man has not to fear such 
 evils, because he is but man. Infernal tortures 
 cannot be his lot, who is incapable of godlike 
 pleasures. Genoese, can this be aught but a dis- 
 ordered fancy ? (With a jorced calmness.) Thank 
 Heaven, it is no more. 
 
 Scene XIII. — The Former — Arabella enters, 
 weeping. | 
 Arab. Let them kill me ! What have I now to 
 
ict V. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 lread ? Have pity on me, Genoese — 'Twas here 
 . left my dearest mistress, and no-where can I 
 ind her. 
 
 S Fies. {Approaching her — with a loiv and tremb- 
 ing voice,) Was Leonora thy mistress ? 
 
 Arab. Are you there, my good Lord ? Be not 
 lispleased with us. We could not restrain her. 
 
 Fies. Restrain her ! Wretch 1 From what ?— 
 ' Arab. From following — 
 
 Fies. From following what ? 
 
 Arab. The tumult — 
 
 Fies. What was her dress ? 
 I Arab. A scarlet mantle. 
 
 Fies. Get thee to the abyss of hell I — The 
 mantle ? 
 
 Arab. Lay here upon the ground. 
 
 Some of the conspirators {Talking apart.) 'Twas 
 here, that Gianettino was kill'd 
 | Fies. {To Arabella.) Thy mistress is 
 found — ( Arabella advances anxiously — Fiesco 
 :asts his eyes round the ivhole circle — then ivith a 
 faltering voice) 'Tis true-— 'Tis true — And I am 
 the instrument of this horrid crime — Away with 
 Ijyou, countenances of men ! {To the others that 
 stand around trembling. J See, how they stand there, 
 a miserable race ! meanly rejoicing, that they 
 are not like me. I alone feel the blow, I ? — why 
 I ? — Why not these together with me ? Why is 
 not my sorrow lighten'd by being shared with 
 others ? 
 
 Cal. Most gracious Duke ! 
 | Fies* Ha ! Welcome 1 Here, Heaven be 
 thank'd, is one whom the same thunderbolt has 
 struck — {Pressing Calcagno furiously in his arms.) 
 Brother of my sorrows ! Come, and share their 
 keenest pang. She's dead — Didst not thou also 
 love her ? (Forcing him toward the dead body.) 
 Despair 1 She's dead — Oh, that I could stand 
 t 2 
 
114 
 
 FIESCO, 
 
 An r, 
 
 upon the brink of the infernal gulf, and view be-H 
 low all hell's variety of torments 1— could hear 
 the horrid shrieks of howling fiends ! — Let my! 
 own torture be placed before me in a visible form, 
 and I perhaps may bear it. ( Approaching to the 
 body, trembling* J Here lies my murdered wife — 
 Nay — Nay — The wife, that I myself, have mur- 
 dered — Ha ! Hell itself will shudder at this deed. 
 I was allured up to the topmost pinnacle of joy- 
 To the very entrance of heaven — Then— -In an 
 instant down — Then — Pestilence upon it 1 — 
 Then, I murdered my beloved wife — Fool that I 
 was, to trust two erring eyes ! O fiends, this is 
 your master- piece of torture ! 
 
 ( All the Conspirators lean upon their swordf, 
 much afflicted — A pause — ) 
 
 Fies. ( Exhaused, and looking mournfully round 
 the circle.) Yes, by heavens 1 They who dared 
 lift their swords against their Prince, shed tears. 
 Speak 1 Do you weep over this havoc caused by 
 treacherous death, or over the fall of your com- 
 mander's spirit ? — The iron- hearted warriors 
 were melted into tears ; but Fiesco uttered the, 
 execrations of despair. ( Kneels down, weeping, 
 by her side. J Pardon me, Leonora ! The decrees 
 of Heaven are unchangeable : they yield not to 
 mortal anger. — O Leonora, years ago my fancy 
 painted that triumphant hour, when I should pre- 
 sent thee to Genoa as her Dutchess — Methought, 
 I saw the lovely blush that tinged thy modest 
 cheek — The timid heaving of thy beauteous 
 bosom beneath the snowy gauze — I heard the 
 gentle murmurs of thy voice which died away in 
 rapture. — Ah, how intoxicating to my soul were 
 the proud acclamations of the people ! How did 
 my love rejoice to see its triumph mark'd in the 
 sinking envy of its rivals ! — Leonora ! The hour, 
 which should confirm these hopes , is come* 
 Thy Fiesco is Duke of Genoa— And yet the 
 
Act r. fie sco. ns 
 
 meanest beggar would not exchange his poverty 
 for my greatness, and my sufferings. He has a 
 wife to share his troubles — With whom can I 
 share my splendor ? ( He weeps bitterly, and hicks 
 his face against the dead body,) 
 
 Cal. She was a lady of most virtuous excel- 
 lence. 
 
 Zibo. This event must be concealed from the 
 people. 'Twould damp the ardor of our party, 
 and elevate the enemy with hope. 
 
 Fies. ( Rises, collected and firm.) Now, hear 
 me, Genoese ! Providence, if rightly I interpret 
 its designs, has struck me with this wound, to 
 try my heart for my approaching greatness. The 
 blow was terrible. — Since I have felt it ; I fear 
 neither torture, nor pleasure.— Come ! Genoa, 
 . you say, awaits me — 1 will give to Genoa a 
 Prince more truly great than Europe ever saw. 
 Away ! — for this unhappy Princess I will pre- 
 pare a funeral so splendid, that life shall lose its 
 charms, and cold corruption shall glitter like a 
 bride. Follow your Duke! — (Exeunt, iviih mu- 
 sic and colors* 
 
 Scene XIV. — Andreas, Lomellino. 
 
 And, Yonder they go, with shouts of exulta- 
 tion. 
 
 Lorn, They are intoxicated with success. The 
 gates are deserted, and all are hastening toward 
 the senate-house. 
 
 And. It was my nephew only, that could check 
 that unruly animal, the populace. My nephew is 
 no more. Hear, Lomellino 1 
 
 Lorn. What, Duke, do you still cherish hopes ? 
 
 And. Villain, thou mock'st me with the name 
 of Duke, when all my hopes are past. 
 
 Lorn. My gracious Lord, a rebellious nation 
 lies in Fiesco's scale ; but what in yours ? 
 
 And, Heaven. 
 
116 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Lorn. The times are past, my Lord, when ar- 
 mies fought under the guidance of celestial lead- 
 ers. 
 
 And. Wretch, that thou art ! would'st thou 
 bereave an aged head of it support, its God ! Go I 
 Make it known through Genoa, that Andreas Do- 
 ria is still alive. Say, that Andreas entreats the 
 citizens, his children, not to drive him out in his 
 old age, to dwell with foreigners, who ne'er would 
 pardon the exalted state to which he raised his 
 country. Say this — And further say, Andreas 
 begs but so much ground within his country, as 
 may contain his bones. 
 
 Lorn. I obey — but I despair of success. (Go- 
 ing.) 
 
 And. Stay — Take with thee this snowy lock; 
 and say, it was the last upon my head. Say that 
 I plucked it from me on that night, when un- 
 grateful Genoa tore itself from my heart. For 
 fourscore years it hung upon my temples, and 
 now has left my bald head, chill'd with the win- 
 ter of age. The lock is weak, but 'twill suffice to 
 fasten the purple on that young usurper. — (Exit— 
 Lomellino hastens into another street — Shouts arc- 
 heard, with trumpets, and drums.) 
 
 Scene XV. — Verrina, Bertha and Bourgog- 
 nino. 
 
 Ver. What mean these shouts ? 
 
 Bourg. They proclaim Fiesco Duke. 
 
 Ber. (To Bourgognino.) — Scipio! My fa- 
 ther's looks are dreadful — . 
 
 Ver. Leave me alone, my children— O Genoa '. 
 Genoa 1 
 
 Bourg. The 'populace adore him, and with 
 transports hail'd him their Duke. The nobles 
 looked on with horror, but dared not oppose it. 
 
 Ver. My son, I have sold all my property, and 
 sent the gold on board thy vessel. Take thy wife 
 
Act V. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 v 
 
 117 
 
 ,vith thee, and set sail immediately. Perhaps I 
 joon shall follow — Perhaps — But no more — Hast- 
 ►n to Marseilles, and ( embracing them) — may the 
 Mmighty guide you ! {Exit hastily.) 
 
 Ber. For Heaven's sake, on what dreadful 
 project does my father brood ? 
 
 Bourg. Didst thou understand thy father ? 
 
 Ber. He bade us fly. — Great God ! Fly on the 
 lay of marriage ! 
 
 Bourg. He spoke it, and we must obe,y. 
 
 {Exeunt toward the harbour* 
 
 >cei:e XVI. — Verrina, and Fiesco (in the du- 
 cal habit, J meeting, 
 i; Fies. Welcome, Verrina 1 I was anxious to 
 meet thee. 
 
 i Ver. I also sought Fiesco. 
 
 j Fies. Does Verrina perceive no alteration hi 
 
 his friend ? 
 
 Ver. I wish for none. 
 
 Fies. But do you see none ? 
 
 Ver. I should hope not. 
 | Fies. I ask, do you perceive none ? 
 \ Ver. None. 
 
 Fies. See then, how idle is the observation, 
 hat power makes a tyrant. Since we parted, I 
 im become the Duke of Genoa, and yet Verrina 
 'pressing him to his bosom ) finds my embrace still 
 glowing as before. 
 
 Ver. I grieve that I must return it coldly. The 
 light of majesty falls like a keen-edged weapon, 
 cutting off all affection, between the Duke and 
 J me. To John Louis Fiesco belong'd the territory 
 3f my heart. Now *he has conquered Genoa, I 
 resume that poor possession. 
 
 Fies. Forbid it, Heaven ! That price is too 
 snormous even for a Dukedom. 
 
 Ver. Hum ! The worth of liberty is surely lit- 
 l Ie known, when the whole state is thus easily 
 ielded up to an usurper I 
 
118 riEsco. Act V 
 
 Fies. Verrina, say this to no one, but to Fiesco. 
 Ver. O wondcrous ! Great indeed is that mini! 
 which can hear the voice of truth without beinj 
 offended — Alas ! The cunning gamester has fail'd' 
 in one single card. He calculated all the chance? 
 of envious opposition, but overlooked one antago 
 nist, the patriot — And yet perhaps to crown th< 
 game, one glorious turn remains, and the oppres- 
 sor of liberty may show his skill in overwhelming 
 Roman virtue. I swear it by the living God, pos- 
 terity shall sooner colle£\: my mouldering bone: 
 from off the wheel, than from a sepulchre withii 
 that country, which is govern'd by a duke. 
 
 Fies. Not even when thy brother is the Duke ; 
 Not, if he should make his principality the tre* 
 sury of that benevolence, which was rcstrain'd b) 
 his domestic poverty ? 
 
 Ver. No — not even then — We pardon not th< 
 robber, because he gave away his plunder ; nor is 
 it such generosity, as suits Verrina. I might re- 
 ceive a benefit from my fellow-citizen ; for, ] 
 should hope, that to my fellow-citizen I might at 
 some time make an adequate return. That which 
 a Prince confers, is bounty ; but mere unpurchased 
 bounty I would receive from God alone. 
 
 Fies. It were as easy to tear Italy from the 
 bosom of the ocean, as to shake this stubborn fel- 
 fow from his prejudices. 
 
 Ver. Well may'st thou talk of tearing : thou 
 hast torn the republic from Doria, as a lamb from 
 the jaws of the wolf, only that thou mightest de- 
 vour it thyself — But enough of this — tell me Duke, 
 what crime the poor wretch committed, that you 
 ordered to be hungup at the Church of the Jesuits ? 
 
 Fies. The scoundrel set fire to the city. 
 
 Ver. Yet the scoundrel left the laws untouch'd. 
 
 Fies. Verrina intrudes upon my friendship. 
 
 Ver. Away with friendship 1 — I tell thee I no 
 longer love thee. I swear to thee, that I hate 
 
Ut V. 
 
 FIESCO. 
 
 119 
 
 » jhee — hate thee like the serpent of Paradise, that 
 irst disturb'd the happiness of creation, and 
 POUght upon mankind unbounded sorrow. Hear 
 tic, Fiesco ? I speak to thee, not as a subject to 
 is master, not as a friend to his friend ; but as 
 nan to man — Thou hast committed a crime a- 
 
 ; jainst the majesty of the eternal God, in permit- 
 ing virtue to lead thy hands to wickedness, and in 
 uffering the patriots of Genoa to violate their 
 ountry. P'iesco, had thy villainy deceived me 
 lso — Fiesco, by all the horrors of eternity ! with 
 
 t ny own hands I would have strangled myself, and 
 >n thy head the venom of my departing soul 
 
 \ hould have been sprinkled. — A princely crime 
 nay crush the scales of human justice ; but thou 
 last insulted Heaven, and the last judgment will 
 lecide the cause. 
 
 ? ? iesco remains speechless, looking at him 'with ' 
 astonishment. 
 Ver. Do not attempt to answer me. Now we 
 lave done— Duke of Genoa, in the vessels of the 
 esterday's tyrant, I have seen a miserable race, 
 vho, at every strpke of their oars, ruminate upon 
 heir former guilt, and weep their tears into the 
 i »cean, which, like a rich man, is too proud to 
 ount them. A good prince begins his reign with 
 icts of pity. Wilt thou release the galley slaves ? 
 
 Fies. Let them be the firft fruits of my tyran- 
 ry. Go, and announce to them their deliverance. 
 
 Ver. You will enjoy but half the pleasure, un- 
 ess you see their happiness. Go thither. The 
 jreat are seldom witnesses of the evils, which 
 ' hey cause. Shall they do good by stealth, and in 
 >bscurity ? Methinks, the Duke is not too great 
 6:0 sympathize with a beggar. 
 
 Fies. Man, thou art dreadful ; yet I know not 
 vhy, I must follow thee. ( Both go toward the sea.) 
 I Ver. (Stops, much affected.) But once more 
 
IT IE SCO. 
 
 Act V 
 
 embrace me, Fiesco. Here is no one by, to sec 
 Verrina weep, or to behold a Prince give way tc 
 feeling — ( he embraces him eagerly, ) Surely nevei 
 beat two greater hearts together — ( weeping much 
 on Fie sco's neck. J Fiesco! Fiesco! Thou mak 
 est a void in my bosom, which not mankind thrice 
 numbered could fill up. 
 Fies, Be still my friend. 
 
 Ver, Throw off this hateful purple, and I wil 
 be so — The first Prince was a murderer, and as 
 sumed the purple to hide the bloody stains of some 
 detested deed. Hear me, Fiesco ! I am a war 
 rior, little used to weeping — Fiesco, these arc 
 my first tears — Throw off this purple 1 j 
 
 Fies, Peace ! 
 
 Ver. Fiesco, place on the one side all the ho 
 nors of this globe, and on the other all its tor 
 tures : they should not make me kneel before ; 
 mortal — Fiesco, (falling on his knee ) this is th< 
 ijrst bending of my knee — Throw off this purple 
 
 Fies, Rise, and no longer irritate me ! 
 
 Ver. I rise, and will no longer irritate thee.— 
 (They stand near a board leading to a galley. ) 
 
 Ver. The Prince goes first. 
 
 Fies, Why do you pull my cloak ? It falls — 
 
 Ver, If the purple falls, the Duke must aftei 
 it. ( He throws him into the sea,) 
 
 Fis, (Calls out of the waves.) Help, Genoa i 
 Help thy Duke ! (Sinks. J 
 
 Scene XVII — Calcagno Sacco, Zibo, Zen 
 turione — Conspirators. People, 
 
 Cal, (Crying out,) Fiesco! Fiesco! Andreai 
 is returned — Half Genoa joins Andreas — When 
 is Fiesco ? 
 
 Ver, Drown'd. 
 
 Zent, Does hell, or madness prompt thy answer 
 Ver, Dead — if that sound better. — I go t 
 join Andreas. 
 
 FINIS. 
 
CaM anli $.obr, 
 
 A TRAGEDY, 
 
 BY FREDERICK SCHILLER, 
 
£>ratnati$ Pertfonae* 
 
 Count Faulkener, President, of high rank at the Couri 
 
 of a German Prince. 
 Major Ferdinand Faulkener, his Son. 
 Baron Mindheim . 
 
 Miller, formerly a Merchant ; but by repeated losses obli- 
 ged to give up trade, and to become Music-Master 
 
 Worm, private Secretary to the President. 
 An old Servant, belonging to the Prince. 
 
 Lady Jane Milford, the Prince's Favourite. 
 Louisa, Miller's Daughter. 
 •Sophy, Lady Milford's Maid. 
 
 Constables, Servants, ifc. tlfc. 
 
CABAL and LOVE. 
 
 ACT J. 
 
 ScfeNE I. — Room at Miller's House. 
 (Mlller at Breakfast — Looking at his watch) 
 
 Miller. X IS not so late as I thought it was — 
 .till it cannot be long before Louisa returns from 
 :hurch — Poor dear girl! — How my heart feels for 
 ler ! Much I dread the result of Major Faulken- 
 ;r's attentions to her. Would to heaven she had 
 lever seen him 1 The President, his haughty 
 ather, will spurn at a connection, so far beneath 
 he birth of his son — (pause) — The thought of 
 his brings afresh to my mind the days that are 
 jone ; when, unchecked by adversity, the chief 
 >artof my life passed in a comfortable indepen- 
 , lency : till, within a few years, by repeated losses 
 !n trade, (pointing to the harpsichord, flute, and 
 noiin in the room) I have been obliged to my music 
 \ or support — (pause) — But, soft ! — Louisa comes — 
 I forbear to wound her susceptible 'heart by the 
 >ad narrative of my misfortunes. 
 
 )CENE II. — Enter Louisa, as coming from Mass t 
 
 I Lousia. (Laying down her prayW^book and 
 >eads y and taking Tier father by the hand) Good 
 corning, dear father ! 
 Miller. Whence do you come, Louisa ? 
 
4 
 
 CABAL And love. 
 
 Ad I. 
 
 Lousia. I come from mass, father — • 
 
 Miller, That is right, Louisa — It joys me 
 much to find your thoughts so early directed to 
 your Creator — Ever thus, my child ; and his 
 protecting arm will shield you, from the adverse 
 frown of fate. 
 
 Louisa. I must indeed have been unworthy 
 not to have profited by your precept as well as 
 example — But, father, has he not yet been here ? 
 
 Miller. Who, child? 
 
 Louisa. I forgot at the moment that there were 
 other persons in the world besides him — My head 
 is so wild : then my Faulkener has not been 
 here ? 
 
 Miller. I thought Louisa that you had been at 
 church ; and that your heart was all devotion—* 
 
 Louisa. I understand you, father — I feel the 
 reproach : the monitor here too {pointing to her 
 heart) most sensibly feels it ; but, {sighing) it 
 comes too late : reason has yielded ; my heart 
 has surrendered ; and love prevails — Alas I I 
 have no devotion left ; the heart that once was 
 warm with prayer and thanksgiving ; that pal- 
 pitated with zeal ; that swelled, nay trembled 
 with celestial ardour ; and glowed 'with ecstacy 
 supreme, is now dead to all but thee, Ferdinand, 
 thou sole object of my hopes — {seems fixed in 
 thought.) 
 
 Miller. Good Heavens ! — What days of bitter- 
 ness are mine ! — Louisa ! my child ! — She hears 
 me not — She is lost in delusion's dream. 
 
 Loiusa. {Still deep in thought) Oh 1 where is he 
 now ?— My restiess mind is ever on the rack, lest 
 I should lolttnat affection, which I would not 
 exchange lor worlds. But have I not cause for 
 this alarm, when I think of the vast distance be- 
 tween him and me ? — If I but consider the many 
 women, his equals too, who are # daily paying 
 
Act /. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 5 
 
 homage to his father, in order to secure a con- 
 ' ne6lion with my Ferdinand ? {pause.) But, fears 
 avaunt — Do I not know thee, Faulkener ? Do I 
 | not know thy virtuous mind to be proof against 
 the lures and artifices of our sex ? — (turning to 
 her father.) Father ! all is safe : He still is mine ; 
 and ever will be so. You fear that his heart may- 
 be ensnared by the proud beauties of the splendid 
 Court — No, my father, he scorns all grandeur, 
 all pageantry of foolish pomp ; and hates every 
 mode of life, where virtue is forgotten. 
 
 Miller. You know that I love you — Loiisia ! — 
 you are my only child ; but try, oh ! try to for- 
 get him. 
 
 Louisa* Why so, my dearest father ? — 'Twas 
 ; but yesterday that he said to me, " Lousia ! — feat 
 not my father's machinations to form for me a 
 connection which may advance himself — You 
 I know what my mind requires : the woman whom 
 I will call my wife, must possess thy disposition, 
 thy heart : thine are the qualities, whose influence 
 will last." — Yes—this he said to me ; what is 
 there then to fear ? This life of mine, Oh ! how 
 freely would I part with it, could 1 thereby se- ■ 
 cure to thee, my Ferdinand, a course of happy 
 years — Father ! You surely cannot blame me for 
 so saying ? 
 
 Miller. Blame you, Louisa ! Every word that 
 you say alarms me more and more ; for I again 
 affirm, he never can.be yours — Does not reason 
 plainly tell you so ? 
 
 Louisa. My dear father, talk not of reason : 
 'tis the foil of love — But, suppose it for once — - 
 Granted — Suppose that all my hopes should be 
 frustrated, 1 had rather fix my whole soul in se- 
 cret upon him alone, than consent to an alliance 
 with any other upon earth ; for, let what will 1 
 happen, (pointedly) we should still meet-- — A. time 
 u.. 2. 
 
6 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 wfil come, my father, when this mighty edifk 
 of distinction will fall ; when these bars of seps 
 lation will be removed ; and all ranks be levelled 
 when every one of us, high and low ; rich anc 
 poor ; great and small, shall be considered as e- 
 quals — Merit, worth, and virtue will then give us 
 consequence : Nothing else — and he who'gains the 
 laurel of reward can never feel it shake ; for eter-i 
 nil is bright glory's palm — ( ivith cool indijjcri 
 ence) — Why then should I care what may become 
 of me here in this transitory state ? Oh ! what is 
 this poor needle's point of now to a boundless 
 eternity ? 
 
 Miller. ( Running to her and clasping her in hi 
 arms) My beloved girl, my Louisa, check yoi 
 sweet enthusiasm. Yet such is my affection fc 
 you, that I would willingly at this momei 
 breathe my last, to set your heart free from thi 
 unfortunate attachment. ( Exit hastily 
 
 Louisa. (Alone.) That clasp of paternal fonc 
 Taess overpowers me quite : amidst the chastei 
 ings of the father, I feel the soothings of tl 
 friend. All my alarms return — My lately exalte 
 spirits sink — Ferdinand ! I fear that our doom 
 sealed ; and that misery is at last our lot — (hearin 
 some one coming ) But some one comes — 'Tis 
 - — Good Heavens ! 
 
 Scene III. — Ferdinand and Louisa. (He Jlies 
 her and embraces her— she sinks on a chair quite 
 pale and depressed — They look at each other Jot 
 some moments without speaking.) 
 
 Ferdinand. Thou art pale ! my Louisa ! 
 
 Louisa. 'Tis nothing — 'Tis over — Thou arf 
 with me {falling on his neck.) 
 
 Ferdinand. And does my Louisa still regard 
 me? Is her heart still the same? Does it answer 
 to the warm and tender emotions of my throbbing 
 breast ? 
 
CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 7 
 
 Louisa, Ferdinand ! while this life remains, 
 :ount on Louisa's love. 
 
 Ferdinand, Indeed 1 — I almost doubt this perfect 
 ioy ; my peace and comfort are so dependant on 
 hy smiles and happy looks, that, when but the 
 .aintest cloud appears upon thy beauteous brow, 
 ny heart is sunk in anguish. Methinks, even 
 iow, I trace some mark of gloom — Say, my Loui- 
 ia, why that rising sigh And why that starting 
 ;ear ? 
 
 Louisa. {Looking at him with great fondness) Oh 1 
 —Why, my Ferdinand, should I conceal my pain 
 irom thee ?— ~Yes, my beloved, my mind is big 
 ivith apprehension — I consider the difference of 
 f jur situations in life ; You are born to rank and 
 I iffluence ; ill suited to a connection with the daugh- 
 ter of a man of my father's avocation : Think then, 
 Dn the President's austere pride ; think on the 
 reproaches that I have to endure from him : Alas I 
 he will surely part us. 
 Ferdinand. Part us ! Who is to part us I Who 
 - is to tear asunder our hearts, whose only division 
 ! ls their lodgement in two breasts ? Why this fear, 
 1 my love ? Thou talk'st too of distinction of my 
 7 birth ; as if it could stand in competition with the 
 brilliant beam of perfection, ever blazoning in thy 
 lovely eye ? 
 
 Louisa. Ferdinand ! thy sanguine temper will 
 > QOt suffer thee to see our dangers as they are : it 
 makes thee disregard thy father's stern commands, 
 which I reflect upon with terror and dismay, 
 t Ferdinand. Believe me, Louisa, I can only dread 
 lithe deprivation of thy love. Let difficulties and 
 impediments rise between us like mountains, they 
 shall be no more than steps, wiiich I will quickly 
 ascend ; and which will lea.d me to my Louisa's 
 arms : the storm of adverse fate will only encrease 
 my passion : dangers will only reflect additional 
 charms on thee, sole object of my life: banish then 
 
8 CABAL AND LOVE. Act 1 
 
 all fear : I will be thy guard — Trust thyself to me 
 — I will throw myself between thee and fate ; re- 
 ceive for thee every wound ; and collect for thee 
 every gem from the store of joy ; then bring them 
 to thee with the throb of ecstacy in the chalice ol 
 love {tenderly embracing her.) On this arm shal 
 thou hang through life : through life shall ou: 
 hearts be one ; and when, at last, it shall pleas* 
 thy all-righteous Judge to call thee to thy eterna 
 home, the angels above, who will receive thee 
 shall confess, that it is love, and love alone, cai 
 give a finishing perfection to the purity of the soul 
 Louisa. (Much agitated) No more, my Ferdi 
 nand ! not a word more 1 into what a chaos of tu 
 mul 1 :, agitation, and love hast thou thrown me 
 the very recesses of my being are invaded ; and ] 
 know not how to sustain these trying emotions 
 J^eave me, I beseech thee — In my heart thou has 
 kindled the very torch of madness, which I fear 
 never, never can be extinguished. 
 (Exit, Ferdinand following her with looks denoting 
 great anxiety. 
 
 Scene IV. — A Sr.loon in the President's House. Th 
 President, ( ornamented with a star, riband am 
 * cross ) followed by Worm. 
 
 President. What is that you say Worm, abom 
 my son ? — A serious engagement with a citizen'! 
 daughter ? — Impossible ! — No, Worm, that y<Hj 
 will never make me believe. 
 
 Worm. Well, Sir, if you do not chuse to credit 
 my report, I cannot help it ; but your Excellency 
 -will certainly find it to be a true one. 
 
 President. True !— How should that be ? — That 
 he may have shewn the girl some attention, flat 
 tered her, and caressed her, I can readily suppose 
 and do not blame him for it ; but that he shoulc 
 have any serious views — Pshaw ! — Nonsense 1 {wit) 
 
Act L 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 9 
 
 a smile) I think you said that she was a music- 
 master's daughter — Ha ! ha ! ha I 
 
 Worm* Daughter of music-master Miller, sir, 
 ■but endowed with charms, that would eclipse half 
 the beauties of the court. 
 
 President. Well, well ! — I am glad at least, that 
 r Ferdinand has taste. — But, Worm, did you not 
 t ; once tell me, that you yourself had some thoughts 
 l of this great beauty — Now, Worm, that is all very 
 well ; and I commend your choice ; but I should 
 I hope, that you do not mean to trifle with me ; for, 
 ;to tell you the truth, I begin to think that you are 
 i a little jealous of Ferdinand's jokes and liberties 
 B irith this girl ; and that you have trumped up this 
 I story, in order to serve your own purposes ; to 
 i get the father to interfere, and by that means to 
 I drive away the son ; to see the coast clear — You 
 understand me, Worm ? 
 Worm. Your Excellency must pardon me, no- 
 J thing was evermore remote from my thoughts, 
 ! The whole account comes from the mother of the 
 family. 
 
 President. Take care, Worm, do not carry the 
 | jest too far — You know me — You know that I am 
 furious when once I am angry ; therefore, do not 
 work me up to a pitch, with this nonsensical old 
 woman's talk — you know too, when once I believe 
 a thing, I believe it obstinately ; and it is no 
 easy matter to root out of my mind the credit 
 once given — but I have something for your ear 
 of a totally different nature — {pause) — It is very 
 well understood, that the Prince's partiality for 
 his favourite, Lady Milford, cools apace ; and it 
 is strongly rumoured at court, that upon the ar- 
 rival of this celebrated dutchess, whom I mention- 
 ed to you yesterday, and who is daily'expecled, his 
 Highness will be glad to get Lady Milford clearly 
 off his hands ; and will try to form a good con- 
 nexion for her with some one of the first nobili- 
 
[0 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE, 
 
 Act 1; 
 
 ty. Now, Worm, though Lady Mil ford be no j 
 more that great favourite of the Prince; yet ! 
 her influence must always be such, as to secure 
 the first interest and power to whatever party she 
 may be pleased to countenance and support — i 
 Therefore it is my plan, that Ferdinand should 
 pay his addresses immediately to her Ladyship, 
 (who, I know, is rather partial to him) and there- 
 by make me a man of great importance at court, 
 which, entre nous, Worm, is what I most wish 
 for on earth. 
 
 Worm. A very good plan indeed, Sir, but take 
 my word for it, that you will never be able to put 
 it into execution. 
 
 President. No ? — Well ! — that we'll try — Tt 
 will be the first time, that ever I was thwarted in 
 a design, which I was determined to effect — Go 
 immediately to my son, Worm, and tell him 1 
 want to speak to him — I will inform him this very 
 day of my intention — I shall see by his countenance 
 in one moment, whether your suspicions be wejj 
 founded or not. 
 
 Worm. I will instantly obey your Excellen- 
 cy's commands — but, Sir, pray do not mention my 
 name ; or the Major will be very much incensed 
 against me. 
 
 President. No — no — be assured I will keep 
 your name concealed. But, do you hear, Worm, 
 not a word about all this to any one in being — silent 
 as the very grave — for if you prattle ( threatening. J 
 
 Worm. Then, Sir, bring all my falsehoods and 
 forgeries to light. (Exit. 
 
 President. (Alone) I know him to be a down- 
 right villain ; but he is, nevertheless, of great 
 use to me in many of my schemes— the fellow 
 has a ready wit and an apt conception. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 Servant, Baron Mindheim, Sir. 
 
Act I. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 1 1 
 
 President. Bid him walk up. {Exit Servant,) 
 He comes most a propos. 
 
 sScene V. — Enter Baron Mindhiem dressed 
 quite en petit maitre ; very richly embroidered coat, 
 tivo watches, chapeau-bas, Isfc. itfc. 
 
 Baron. Ah 1 mon cher President — Good morn- 
 ing ? I hope I see you well — You will excuse me 
 for not waiting on you sooner ; but, des affaires 
 pressantes, morning visits, and fifty engagements 
 prevented my seeing you before— Added to all 
 this, those rascals the tailor and the hair-dresser, 
 kept me waiting for them more than a whole hour. 
 
 President. But I see you are equipped at last 
 quite comme iVfaut. 
 
 Baron. Oh I Pour cela Jiez vous a moi — but that 
 is not all ; another accident, ten times worse 
 than all my other disappointments, befell me 
 soon after — Oh ! such a malheur, my friend. 
 President. No, surely — What was it ? 
 Baron. Do but hear — Just as I stept out of my 
 carriage to pay a morning visit to a lady of my ac- 
 quaintance, the horses began to kick ; and splash- 
 ed my whole dress with dirt — What could I do? 
 Only put yourself in my situation — Ah 1 you may 
 laugh — but, curse me, if ever I was in such a trim 
 
 before — -Jigurez vous seulement There was I 
 
 besmeared all over— nay to my very hair — in the 
 very dress I put on to appear before the Prince 
 this morning. What do you think that I did ? I 
 pretended to be suddenly taken very ill, and that 
 I was going to faint — so they hurried me into my 
 carriage — drove like desperados all the way home 
 — I changed my dress tout a fait, comme vous me 
 voyez ; and yet got the first into the antichamber 
 I — What do you say to that ? Was not that being 
 bitn adroit ? 
 
 President. Then you spoke with the Prince this 
 niorning ? 
 
13 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act 
 
 Baron. Mais sans dante — To be sure I did—and 
 staid with him half an hour, 
 t President, Indeed ! — Then you heard without 
 doubt some news. 
 
 Baron. (Recollecting himself) No — I do not re- 
 collect having heard any — I told you, did not I ? 
 that his highness had a most beautiful coloured 
 coat, verd pistache. 
 
 President. Well then, I'll tell you a piece of 
 information — My son Ferdinand, is soon to lea4 
 Lady Milford to the altar — there's news for you* 
 
 Baron. What ! all settled ? — B table I 
 
 President. Already signed, Baron, and you 
 would oblige me, by instantly going to her Lady- 
 ship, and informing her of my son's intention to 
 do himself the honor of visiting her this evening. 
 You may also let every one know of Ferdinand's 
 determination. 
 
 Baron. (Taking the President's hand) Je vous 
 en felicite mon ami — I will go this moment ; and 
 in less than an hour sans faute the whole court 
 shall be informed of it. (Bowing exit. 
 
 President. (Alone) Yes, yes, I know that, (look- 
 ing a f ter B aron an d laughing) Ha ! ha i ha ! 
 Who can say these creatures are good for no- 
 thing ? — Now Ferdinand must consent ; else, the 
 whole court will have lied — Thank you, Baron, 
 for this visit — very a propos indeed. — I think I 
 hear Ferdinand coming ; I shall first try by gentle 
 means and soothing words to draw him into my 
 plan ; but, if they will not do a I must be resolute. 
 
 Scene VI. — President and Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferdinand. Agreeably to your commands, Sir, 
 I have done myself the pleasure of waiting on 
 you. 
 
 President. Yes, Ferdinand, I did command ; 
 else, I know, that I should not see you half S9 
 
Act I. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE 
 
 13 
 
 i often as I wish to do— rl have observed of late, 
 [ that the lively and open air, which was wont so to 
 
 delight me in you, is totally gone — there is an un- 
 \ pleasant gloom upon your countenance., that I 
 
 cannot bear-^-You fly from me, your family, and 
 tiyour connexions. — Fye upon it, son ! a thousand 
 ■ follies and excesses at your age are infinitely 
 
 • more pardonable than one lowering cast upon 
 [ your brow — Dispel all care and solicitude ; leave 
 
 them to me — You know I am constantly planning 
 for your happiness — Give me your hand, Ferdi- 
 nand ; I have always your welfare at heart. 
 
 Ferdinand. You are pleased to be particularly 
 gracious to day, Sir. 
 
 President. To day !— and that with one of your 
 sour grimaces loo-*— {seriously.) Ferdinand, for 
 I whose sake have I ventured in this perilous line of 
 [ life ; and forced my way through thousand nE&me- 
 I less difficulties, in order to secure the Prince'i 
 1 heart ? — For whose sake am I forever at war with 
 fmy own conscience ? — Listen, Ferdinand, (I am 
 speaking to my son) for whose sake did I plunge 
 the dagger in my predecessor's breast ; and shut 
 [ my heart against his imploring voice ? — A tale 
 
 • which harrows up my very soul — -a tale, the par- 
 ticulars of which, the more 1 try to conceal, the 
 
 • deeper it makes me feel the ever-gnawing gripe of 
 fca guilty conscience — Speak, Ferdinand, for 
 i. whose sake did I all this ? 
 
 Ferdinand. (Stepping back with horror,) Sure- 
 fly not for mine, Sir ?— ^Surely the bloody reflect- 
 ion of this unheard of outrage cannot fall on me ! 
 [ For, by the all-ruling God above, 'twere better 
 i never to have been born, than to be doomed to 
 i^answer for such an attrocious deed. 
 
 President. Ungrateful boy ! — -And is it thus 
 you make amends for all my restless cares and 
 sleepless' nights ? And do vou thus atone for the 
 J (vol. ii.) ' X 
 
14 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act 
 
 disquietude raging in my breast? — On me wouk 
 you have all the burden of responsibility fall ?— 
 On me the curse and thunder of the Judge's 
 arm ? — Then none of the crime comes to your 
 share, because you receive your honours second 
 hand ? 
 
 Ferdinand. I confess, Sir, my heart dreads nc 
 scrutiny upon past deeds — that is the test oi 
 truth. Re-a6l in your own mind that very time; 
 and pronounce your son an accomplice if you 
 can. 
 
 President. Take care, Ferdinand, and do not rouse 
 my passion — Do you know, that in your twelfth 
 year you was made Ensign ; and in your twen- 
 tieth, Major. This I procured you by my solici- 
 tations to the Prince. You are soon to be much 
 higher advanced — His Highness spoke to me the 
 other day of an embassy abroad — of your being 
 privy counsellor, and of your receiving many 
 other extraordinary honours. To whom are you 
 beholden for all this ? — In short, you have the most 
 dazzling prospects before you — Does not this 
 rouse you, and make you prize your good fortune 
 and happiness ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Not in the least, Sir — for your 
 ideas of happiness and mine are as opposite as 
 they can possibly be. Ambitious views* vile plot- 
 tings, and cabal, fill up the courtier's life — his 
 only bliss proceeds from malice, interest, and 
 gain. — Such joys must for ever meet with envy's 
 bitter dregs and faction's clamorous strife ; with 
 falsehood's treacherous voice, and jealousy's livid 
 leer — ( with warmth) Thank Heaven! mine is 
 another existence — a different mould of being 
 quite — My pleasure springs from another source 
 — My ideas areofa nobler and a better kind ; they 
 rove through paths of never-fading bliss ; anc 
 from the heart derive their purest joy. These 
 
CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 15 
 
 Sir, are my ideas of happiness, which, while I 
 have life, I shall not change ; and, instead of 
 wishing to be decked with blushing honours and 
 exalted power ; to be raised by servile means to 
 rank and state ; and strut my hour in empty 
 gaudy pomp, my most fervent prayer to Heaven 
 will ever he, not to deprive me of that solid bliss, 
 which can alone proceed from a heart of inno- 
 cence, and a mind of truth. 
 
 President. Bravo! Incomparable! — The first 
 lesson I have had for these last thirty years — 'Tis 
 pity, to be sure, that my head is too dull for in- 
 struclion — But, however, in order to exercise 
 this wonderful talent of yours, I will give you 
 some one, who will have no objection to listen 
 •now and then to your eloquence — (sternly) You 
 are to determine— this very day to determine— to 
 marry 
 
 • : Ferdinand. (Stepping back with astonishment) Sir ? 
 
 President. In a word, then, I have just sent a 
 ' lote in your name to Lady Milford, informing* 
 her, that you would this evening do yourself the 
 honour of declaring your intentions. You know 
 she is partial to you. 
 
 E Ferdinand. (With increased surprize.') Marry 
 Lady Milford, Sir? 
 
 B President. Nay no surprizes — no starts — the 
 tote said that the marriage was to take place im- 
 nediately. 
 
 Ferdinand. Surprized ! — Indeed it is truly ri- 
 liculous in me, my dear Sir, to suppose you in 
 iarnest, when you can be but in jest ; for, would 
 7 ou own yourself the father of that infamous 
 coundrel, who would consent to marry the 
 5 rince's mistress ? 
 
 | President. Would I ? — To be sure I would— 
 end what is more, I would marry her myself, 
 vere she fifty instead of twenty-three.-— Would 
 lot you then delight in being my son ? 
 
Id 
 
 cAbal and Love. 
 
 Act L 
 
 Ferdinand* No, Sir, as true as God is my Cre- 
 ator. 
 
 President. That is bold indeed — but your rash- 
 ness I forgive. Ferdinand, I am fixed and re- 
 solved upon this matter — 'Lady Milford must and 
 shall be yours. Do not forget your father's au- 
 thority and power. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Animated.} Paternal authority T 
 revere — I hold it ever in the utmost awe ; and I 
 respect it as the first of laws. But, Sir, even tins, 
 when stretched too far, becomes an abuse of that 
 hallowed trust, deposed in your hands for other 
 purposes and other ends. Nothing more sacred 
 than a father's authority ; and it should be used 
 with a delicate hand. 'Tis not a lawless power, 
 free from all duty and from all restraint — No, 
 Sir, the father's duty is as sacred as the son's — 
 A father's power is subject and amenable to the 
 laws of justice and of right : and, when once 
 t hese laws are spurned, infringed, and overlooked ; 
 then is the son's duty by no means violated, if he 
 resists his father's will ; and scorns his hai 
 commands — as, from my very soul, Sir, I 
 yours — 
 
 President. (Under visible agitation during Fer- 
 dinand's whole speech, but suppresses his anger. ) 
 Rash boy, forbear ! nor try my temper more. 
 Do you think, that there is a single man at court, 
 who would not bless his stars for your chance of 
 success with this glowing beauty ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Sir, if there be any thing else, 
 which I can do to serve your purposes ; to raise 
 you to the very summit of your ambition, even 
 with the hazzard of my life, I'll do it — But, as 
 for my honour — that I will never stain — the loss 
 of that I cannot survive. 
 
 President. (Aside.) Now I'll try for the last 
 time — Thy honour, foolish boy ? — Is not my very 
 
Act I. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 plan formed to exalt that honour, of which you 
 are so jealous ; and which you fear will be im- 
 peached by a step, the execution of which will 
 raise you to the topmost height of honour , and 
 make your days pass on in certain joy ? 
 
 Ferdinand. (§hiite exasperated. J Since, Sir, I 
 find you really are in earnest ; and see that your 
 heart is base enough to strike all nature from 
 your petrified frame ; and that you wish me to 
 perform a deed, that would forever seal my infa- 
 my ; that would root all honour from my mind ; 
 and make me hooted, mocked, and despised, I 
 must unfold my heart to you — Should I e'er wed 
 the Prince's loathsome mistress — Should I e'er 
 lead the strumpet to my bed ; and in my igno- 
 miny blot her stigma out — Then, Sir, oh ! then, 
 sweep me from this hated earth — that hour the 
 wretched Ferdinand breaths his last — That hour, 
 with madd'ning pangs he bares his breast, and 
 with a dagger arms his father's hand. (Going.) 
 
 President. (Stopping him.) Not yet, young 
 fool — I have heard enough ; and now I have found 
 you out — But, hearken, Sir, Lady Milford expecls 
 you. I have given my word to the Prince — Court 
 and city know it by this time — If you mean to 
 make me a liar before his Highness — her Lady- 
 ship — the whole court and city-—Or, do you hear ? 
 ( signijicantly ) If I come at the bottom of certain 
 stories that have been told me — (Ferdinand is 
 frightened) Why, what's the matter ? Why so 
 pale all at once ? 
 
 Ferdinand, {Pale and trembling.) Nothing, Sir, 
 I know of nothing 
 
 President. But, I do, Sir, and know the source 
 of all your obstinacy and moroseness. But mark 
 me, boy — Obey my commands, and fulfil the en- 
 gagement of to night — or, dread a father's wrath ! 
 
 (Exit*. 
 
 25. *> 
 
1 s 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act I. 
 
 prise,) 
 e smile 
 
 Ferdinand. {Alone, recovering from his surprise. 
 Dread a father's wrath 1 — I dread ? ( with the smil 
 of self-approbation ) With these heavenly feelings 
 of conscious rectitude ? What, if he knows the 
 whole ! — that I adore Louisa ! — When the heart 
 is sure of being right and of beating in a just cause, 
 it mocks the very suggestion of all fear. The 
 mind-soothing emotions of self-content will ever in 
 the hour of woe, secure our welfare, and preserve 
 our peace — But, I'll to Milford go, this moment 
 go — I'll hold her up a glass, where she shall trace 
 each feature of my mind ; and where she shall 
 view each tumult of my soul — If, in despite 
 this, she still desire my hand ;j then in the fa( 
 of all the glittering court ; in the full presence 
 her servile friends ; with all her courtiers fawi 
 ing round ; I will reject her with a manly pride- 
 reproach her baseness with an upright zeal ; ai 
 pay her fondness with the most marked contempt 
 
 ?,KD OF THE FIRST a£t. 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 19 
 
 ACT II. 
 
 Scene I.-— Room in Lady Milford's House. 
 
 On the one side is a sofa — on the other a harpsichord 
 
 Lady Milford in an elegant deshabille — Sh<? 
 
 just sits down to play ; but finding herself too much 
 unsettled^ she rises, Sophy just coming from a 
 window which looks to a plain, where there has been 
 a review of the Prince's guards. 
 
 Sephy. The review is over — the officers are se- 
 parating ; but I see no Major Faulkener. 
 
 Lady Milford. Sophy, I don't know what is the 
 matter with me to day— -I am not at all well. Then 
 you did not see Major Faulkener. He will take his 
 own time, depend upon it, if he comes at all— I 
 think I shall be better in the air — Go, Sophy, or- 
 der the swiftest courser to be got ready ; I'll ride 
 out for an hour. 
 
 Sophy. If your Ladyship be indisposed to day, 
 it would be better not to go out, but to have a 
 small party at home to night — His Highness, I 
 am sure, will be glad to spend the evening here ; 
 and, by asking a few other friends from court, you 
 might play a comfortable game at ombre, without 
 having the fatigue of dressing. 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Throwing herself on the sofa ) 
 Hold your tongue, girl, if you cannot say any 
 thing better — You are much mistaken, if you think 
 me at present disposed to entertain such persons 
 as you talk of — people, who watch every word 
 one utters ; and when I perchance say any thing, 
 which in the least degree indicates the warmth of 
 my mind, they stare with their eyes fixed, and 
 their mouths open, just as if they saw a ghost or 
 a hobgoblin. No, no, Sophy, I never said so 
 
'JO CABAL AND LOVE. Act II 
 
 much, to you before ; but I am tired of them all 
 without exception — cold phlegmatic beings, who 
 live, 'tis true, but that is all ; and drag on an ex- 
 istence, composed of nothing but the daily com- 
 mon course of lifeless scenes, suitable to that order 
 of mortals, who, like them ; are clad in apathy. 
 ( she goes to the window. J 
 
 Sophy. Surely your Ladyship will except his 
 Highness, who is allowed by all to be not only one 
 of the most graceful, but also one of the most ac- 
 complished men ever seen. 
 
 Lady Mi If or d. And you don't know, child, that 
 every thing said and done by the Prince, is by the 
 oily tongue of flattery, stiled the all-perfe£l and 
 the all-complete ; however deficient and vague such 
 things may in reality be. You are but little ac- 
 quainted with the swarm of sycophants, with which 
 courts are constantly surrounded. You tell me, 
 that I am an object of envy to almost every one ; 
 whereas, knew they but all, they would think me 
 worthy of their pity. What are to me the Prince's! 
 grandeur and his tinsel pomp ?— Though he 
 can turn a wilderness into a very Paradise ; and 1 
 can cause even rivers to roll with geld, like 
 Croesus' Paclolus of old, can he command his 
 heart to beat — his soul to glow and soar ? Can he 
 change his lethargic nature ? Can his inanimate 
 and clay-cold mind answer to the heart- glowing 
 emotions of passion's rapturous warmth ; or satis- 
 fy the beating pulse of love's soft gentle fire I 
 
 Sophy, Pray, Madam, how long ic it, that I 
 have had the honour of serving your Ladyship ? 
 
 Lady Milford. A very fair question, Sophy — 
 because I find this is the first day you ever knew 
 me. It is true, I have sold the Prince my hon- 
 our ; but, my heart I have ever kept free — a heart 
 Sophy, perhaps well worthy of the efforts of ma- 
 ny a man to possess— for, it is as yet only tainted 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 21 
 
 t 
 
 bv the poisonous breath of the court, as steel or 
 glass, which is but overcast ; and quickly re-as- 
 sumes its pristine lustre. Believe me, I should 
 ldqg ago have shaken off this mighty Prince, had 
 my nride and ambition given me leave to yield my 
 rank to any woman at court. But, I see you seem 
 surprised at what 1 say — perhaps I have said too 
 much ; for to clay I know not what I say — if so, let 
 me tie your tongue with confidence ; and may 
 you once feel for your wretched mistress! 
 
 Sophy. I hope, madam, that you never yet have 
 had cause for distrusting me ; and I flatter myself 
 that it is needless to renew my assurances of the 
 most steady zeal in every thing which concerns 
 your Ladyship's happiness. — But, madam, {with 
 diffidence) this ambition, this pride — are tjiey so 
 difficult to suppress, if you find that they lead to 
 nothing but vexation? 
 
 Lady Milford. We women have but two things 
 to choose — to command or to obey — but, the high- 
 est delight of power is nothing, a mere bawble,. 
 if unattended by that bliss sublime, that joy supreme, 
 of being at the same time slaves to the man 
 we adore. As for the foolish sway of the sceptre, 
 which has lately fallen to my lot, I have ever look- 
 ed upon it as a child's play. But, Sophy, whilst 
 I have been the envy of every eye, have you not 
 observed the wild agitation of this panting breast ? 
 -—The restless troubles of this fiery bosom ? — Did 
 you never think them indicative of other wishes 
 and desires ? Did they not discover a heart, torn 
 with anguish and with rage ? A mind teeming with 
 projects, impossible to fulfil ? 
 
 Sophy, {^iiite surprised) Madam ! 
 
 Lady Milford. (Animated) But, have a little 
 patience — he may still be mine — I'll disappoint 
 them all ; and then revenge myself — The man, 
 whom I worship, idolize, and adore — that man, 
 Sophy, I must call mine, or- Heaven knows 
 
33 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE 
 
 Act U. 
 
 what else must be — Oh ! let me hear from his lips, 
 that the starting trembling tear of love more finely 
 glitters than the diamond's blaze — then, oh then ! 
 before the Prince's feet I'll hurl both sceptre, heart 
 and all ; and with this man I'll fly to earth's re- 
 motest bounds — But hear still more. 
 
 Sophy. Madam, I am grieved at what I hear. 
 
 Lady Milford. Fauikener is this man — Know 
 that the marriage with him, which I spoke to you 
 about — that you and all the world suppose to be 
 Court Cabal — (Sophy, blush not for your mistress) 
 is only the result of my boundless Love, 
 
 Sophy. Heavens ! Can it be possible ? 
 
 Lady Milford, 'Twas all my contrivance, So- 
 phy — 'Twas I, who invented the report of a cele- 
 brated Dutchess coming to court to supplant me 
 in the Prince's affection ; and that his Highness 
 would be glad to get me oft' his hands — Oh 1 'tv. ;ts 
 a noble plan, and hitherto it has admirably suc- 
 ceeded ; but the grand matter is still to come — the 
 interview with Fauikener. W ould to God it were 
 
 over ! Thus, Sophy, have I played with these 
 
 state puppets — these mighty sirs are by a weak wo- 
 man's arts o'erthrown ; and thus they will lead 
 to rne — to my very arms, the man of my heart. — 
 If I once have him — once call him mine ; then an 
 eternal farewell to the vile and detestable splen- 
 dour of deceitful courts. 
 
 Scene II.— Enter an old Servant belonging to the 
 Prince ; in his hand a case of jewels. 
 
 Servant. I come with his Flighness the Prince's 
 respects to your Ladyship. He requests your ac- 
 ceptance of this set of jewels. 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Having opened the case ) And 
 pray, what might his Highness have given for 
 these inestimable jewels ? 
 
 Servant. (With great agitation) They do not 
 cost him a single shilling — 
 
4ct 11. 
 
 CABAL AMD LOVE. 
 
 23 
 
 Lady Milford. Are you mad ? Nothing ? . 
 
 But, what is the matter, man, that my question 
 calis forth tears from your aged eyes ? 
 
 Servant. Yesterday seven thousand young men 
 were sent to America — -they pay for them — ( xveep- 
 ingj I have two sons amongst them. 
 
 Lady Milford. (Taking /lis hand J But still friend, 
 I hope volunteers — they were not compelled to go. 
 
 Servant. All by compulsion, Madam— .They 
 were led away yesterday, just after your Ladyship 
 and his Highness took a ride out of the city gates 
 — No sooner were they all counted over, and their 
 names taken down, than " Huzza for America" 
 — was the dreadful word all over the plain — The. 
 trumpets were ordered immediately to be sound- 
 ed, and the city drums to be beaten, in order to 
 drown the shrieks and cries of the poor young 
 men, torn from their parents at an instant's call ; 
 — bride and bridegroom parted by the pointed 
 bayonet and drawn broad sword ; — father and child 
 separated by the inhuman threats and oaths of 
 some bloody minded corporal — In short Madam, 
 language is inadequate to the description of the 
 most shocking and barbarous scene, that ever was 
 witnessed by mortal man. 
 
 Lady Milford. A curse upon the jewels — I re- 
 ject them : — In my heart they blaze like the fork- 
 ed flames of hell — But, my good friend, be com- 
 forted — these youths will all come back again to 
 their native home. 
 
 Servant. Heaven alone knows that, Madam — 
 Just as they were out of the city, they all looked 
 back ; and with one voice exclaimed — " God bless 
 you Father ! Mother ! at the last day we shall all 
 meet again." — 
 
 Lady Milford. (Much affected ) I say, my honest 
 man, you shall have your boys again. 
 (Servant is going ; but on Lady Milford' s throwing 
 into his hat a purse of gold, he returns. J 
 
CABAL AX D L0VK. 
 
 Servant. (Laying the purse on the table ) Lay it 
 to the rest I'll have none of it. (Exiti 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Much affected she walks up ana 
 down the room in thought ) Sophy, was it not said 
 generally some weeks ago, that in a neighbouring 
 town, there had been a lire, which had ruined 
 three or four hundred families ? 
 
 Sophy. Yes, Madam, but how does your Lady-! 
 ship come to think of that now? Most of them 
 are at work at the mines. 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Rings a bell and a servant enters ) 
 Desire my treasurer to carry these jewels instant- 
 ly to one of the first jewellers ; and let the pro- 
 duce be equally distributed among the unfortunate 
 families who suffered by the late fire. (Exit Servant, 
 
 Sophy. Does your Ladyship forget, that you 
 will thereby incur his Highness's utmost displea- 
 sure ? 
 
 Lady Milford. (Laughing) Ha! ha! ha! — and 
 what is that to me ? — Would you have me wear 
 the curse of the whole land in my hair ? — Or 
 would you have me sink beneath the weight o 
 the tears which they must inevitably jiave caused ? 
 — Silly girl ! do you not know, that, in exchange 
 for them, I shall have more brilliants and gems, 
 than are to be found in the diadems of an hundrec 
 crowned heads ? 
 
 Enter Servant, 
 
 Servant. Major Faulkener, Madam. 
 
 Sophy. Heavens ! Madam, what's the matter ? 
 —You seem alarmed. 
 
 Servant. Should I deny your Ladyship ? 
 
 Lady Milford. Desire the Major to walk up. 
 (Exit Servant.) Sophy, don't I look sadly? — You 
 had better go — for he will not like the presence of 
 a third person (Exit Sophy.) Oh! these wiljj 
 throbs ! — they oppress me quite. 
 
A:i IT. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 I Scene III. — Ferdinand and Lady Milford. 
 
 I Ferdinand. (Very coolly) If I am guilty of any 
 intrusion, madam — 
 
 Lady Milford. (Visibly agitated) Not in the 
 least, Major Faulkener. 
 
 Ferdinand. I wait upon your Ladyship by my 
 father's desire— 
 
 Lady Milford. I acknowledge myself obliged 
 to him. 
 
 Ferdinand. And am commissioned to inform 
 you, madam, that we are to marry immediately- 
 Such is my father's will. 
 
 Lady Miljord. (With increased agitation ) Not 
 [yours, sir— and is that all you have to say Major 
 Faulkener ? 
 
 Ferdinand. By no means, madam, I have some- 
 thing more to add ; but I shall be brief. 
 
 Lady Milford. Will it not be agreeable, sir, 
 I to be seated ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Most willingly, madam, ( drawing 
 forward the sofa ) Give me leave to observe to 
 your Ladyship, that I am a man of honour — 
 
 Lady Milford. Whose character, I know, claims 
 my highest esteem. 
 
 Ferdinand. And a soldier. 
 
 Lady Milford. No better in the service- 
 But, sir, you speak of qualities, that others pos- 
 I sess in as eminent a degree as yourself. — Why 
 are you silent in regard to other advantages, in 
 which you stand unrivalled? 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Coolly) Because, madam, I see no 
 occasion for the mention of them here. 
 
 Lady Milford. Pray, sir, how am I to under- 
 stand this ? 
 
 Ferdinand. (With pointed expression ) As the 
 voice of wounded honour, for wishing to obtain 
 my hand by force — as the dictates of my heart— 
 
 vol, II.) 
 
 Y 
 
*6 
 
 CABAL AND LCVK. 
 
 of justly offended pride — and as the language o 
 this sword. 
 
 Lady Milford. That sword was given you lr 
 the Prince. 
 
 Ferdinand, I must beg your Ladyship's pardoi 
 —I obtained it of the State through the hand o 
 the Prince. My pride and honour I had from m;i 
 birth and character — My heart from God. 
 
 Lady Milford. Who disputes it, sir ? Who i 
 not sensible of your bravery and honour as a sol 
 dier ; and of your distinguishing amability as tin 
 domestic man ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Lady Milford, there is nothing mort 
 difficult to find out than the real ingredients o 
 characters and minds ; for, often, very often 
 those persons, who pass in the eye of the work 
 for upright people ; and who are famed for theii 
 steadiness of conduct, are in reality by no mean? 
 deserving of the credit given them ; and, were 
 their private manners of life brought to view, they 
 would probably be found highly censurable. — My 
 ideas of comfort and felicity are very little known 
 and may appear to you very singular — but, such 
 as they are, I am persuaded they are too deep- 
 ly rooted in my mind, ever to admit of any change 
 The busy bustling life of courts I much dislike ; 
 their empty pomp and grandeur I despise ; and 
 only look to that mode of life, where virtue and 
 integrity are caressed. — Having fulfilled each duty 
 incumbent on me as a Christian and a Man, 1 
 consider all the rest with the utmost indiffer- 
 ence — Therefore, I think it dangerous for me in 
 the extreme, to form a connection, where solid 
 joy and peace are scarcely known ; where pure 
 and stable comforts are contemned ; and where 
 principle and rectitude will meet with cold neglect 
 and no return. 
 
 Lady Milford. Major Faulkener, this I have 
 not deserved from you. 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Catching hold of her hand ) Your 
 ;iarc!on, madam, we are alone — the subject, the* 
 circumstance, the occasion, that brings me 
 hither — all, all justify, nay force me to speak 
 hus freely to you ; and to open to you the very 
 recesses of my heart — for, dots it not shock cv*en 
 Jie most common mind, to see you so far forget 
 rourself ; so deplorably humiliate yourself in the 
 ;ye of the world ; and above all, in your own eye 
 —thus to remove every sacred band of restrain-— 
 ,;hus to burst and violate the hallowed laws of 
 lecency and decorum — thus to unlock the very 
 springs of modesty and reserve ';' and with un- 
 guarded warmth to rush into the arms of a dull 
 leavy Prince, who knows not to value in you 
 lught but your mere sex, which, having once 
 •apaciously enjoyed, he will whistle you off his 
 lands ; and see you then eclipsed hi never- 
 iliding shame, stained with infamy's eternal blot. 
 
 Lady Milford. (Scarcely able to support this 
 tpeechy during which time she makes frequent at- 
 empts to rise, but is as often prevented by Ferdinand, 
 :vho immediately catches hold of her hand. J Have 
 iou done, Sir ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Nay, Lady Milford, but to drag 
 )n this hated life — to plunge with ardour, as you 
 do, into this chaos of vice and sin ; to dive into 
 :lris ocean of impurity and defamation : — Is it not 
 the very height of female weakness and depra- 
 vity — rank, wanton passion — foul propensity to 
 pleasure and desire ? — You call yourself a Briton 
 :oo — Make it appear so. — You a native of that 
 far famed isle, for elevated ac~ls of worth renown- 
 ed ? — Impossible! a nation, proud of itself ; and 
 justly so — And can an Englishwoman, doating on 
 the virtue of her native home, so sink herself, 
 as to be attached — to cling to the vitiated morals 
 of our foreign climes ? — (with increased animation) 
 
2 a 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 You a Briton ? — You a free-born native of the 
 freest country under Heaven, and sell yourself for— 
 (looking at her ivith ineffable contempt J — let me 
 not say for what ; lest every noble mind in Bri- 
 tain's fair domains, like Ferdinand Faulkener here 
 ( striking his breast ) should, with an honest pride, 
 spurn and rej eel Jane Milford's heart and hand — 
 Madam I have done. 
 
 Lady Mi if 'or d. (With both mildness and dignity J 
 This is the first time, Major Faulkener, that any 
 one has ever dared to hold such language to me ; 
 and you are the only man, whom I would deign 
 to answer. — For rejecting my hand, I esteem 
 you — For calumniating my heart, I pardon you. 
 Whoever presumes to offer an affront of this kind 
 to a lady, who has it in her power to ruin him in 
 a day's time, must either have lost his senses ; 
 or must give her credit for great elevation of 
 mind : — But you have roused all the Englishwo- 
 man in me ; and it is but a debt due to my coun- 
 try, to make you a suitable reply. 
 
 Ferdinand. Madam, I am all attention. 
 
 Lady Milford. Hear then, sir, what I have 
 never yet disclosed to a single person in the 
 world ; nor ever will to any other, whilst I am 
 in being. — I am not the wild adventurer you take 
 me for— -I could talk big, and boast of old and 
 noble blood ; for I am lineally descended from 
 the unfortunate Thomas, duke of Norfolk, who 
 in the year 1572, fell a sacrifice in the cause of 
 hapless Mary, Queen of Scots. My father was 
 accused of treacherous intelligence with the court 
 of France. — He was by a decree of the Parlia- 
 ment of Great Britain condemned, and was ac- 
 cordingly beheaded — All our estates became for- 
 feited to the Crown ; and we were obliged to fly 
 our country — My poor dear mother died on the 
 very day of my father's execution. I was left an 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAl AND LOVE. 
 
 29 
 
 orphan, fourteen years old — came to Germany, 
 accompanied only by an aged governess— a case 
 of jewels our only means of subsistance ; and 
 this family cross, hung around my neck by my 
 dear mother's hand, (taking the cross from her 
 bosom.) 
 
 Ferdinand, (Much affected by this narrative,) 
 Lady Mil ford. My health injured by incredi- 
 ble fatigues — deprived at once of my fortune, and 
 of all my dazzling expectations ;— without pro- 
 tection, and devoid of friends : — my mind op- 
 pressed with ills too weighty to support, I arrived 
 at Hamburg- — I had never learned any thing but 
 a little French and music ; therefore, there was 
 nothing, that I could turn my hand to, in order 
 to satisfy the calls of penury and want ; save this 
 sole casket, which contained all our treasure, 
 and our whole resource — Six years thus passed 
 in wretchedness and distress — At length the last 
 jewel went ; and, as if the measure of my woes 
 was not yet full, and aught was still wanting to 
 complete my fate, my sole surviving friend on 
 earth, my aged governess — she, who reared me 
 from my infant state, watched all my years, and 
 trembling viewed my griefs — she, who even in my 
 bitterest days was all my mind could wish — even 
 this last source of comfort, by the inexorable and 
 unsparing hand of death was torn from me — Then 
 was I left in the w ide world defenceless and for- 
 lorn — Xot even the - correcting power of time 
 could alleviate tire severity of this last blow, or 
 sooth my aching breast — At this time, fate, ad- 
 verse fate, brought your Prince to Hamburg— 
 Once upon a summer's eve I do remember well % 
 I walked along the cooling shore, and, fondly 
 musing on the Allster's banks. I saw the Prince 
 approach me — He threw himself at my feet ; 
 ■tore he had seeji me often, and avowed the ter^ 
 y 2 
 
SO 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 derest passion for me — The piclure of my happy 
 childhood now struck my fancy with seducing 
 brightness and resistless force, — my dark and la- 
 mentable prospecls of futurity now appeared in 
 their most gloomy form — pleased with the 
 Prince's captivating air, — he with a melting voice 
 imploring me to listen to his vows,— and my 
 warm heart susceptible of love — all, all disarmed 
 my youthful mind of prudence and of thought — 
 I could no more, and sunk into his arms. ( Much 
 affected.) 
 
 Ferdinand. Heavens ! Madam, what do I 
 hear ? — Is it possible ? — How can you pardon the 
 unparalleled afront that I have offered to your 
 Ladyship ? 
 
 Lady Milford. Was it wonderful, that thus 
 situated ; exposed to temptation, unguarded by 
 wisdom, I should forget first the restraints of pru- 
 dence, then the obligations of virtue ? The 
 
 Prince thus took me by surprize ; but the blood 
 of the Norfolks revolted within me, and seemed 
 to call to me — " Jane, born of British blood, and 
 now a Prince's concubine i" — Pride and fate were 
 struggling in my breast, when the Prince brought 
 me to this place, where I was doomed to witness 
 a still more tremendous scene — Like the- false 
 fierce Hysena, that with voraciousness and cun- 
 ning seeks for its destined p-rey, so did I see the 
 nobles of this land satisfy their pampered taste- 
 To gratify their voluptuousness, (who could have 
 thought it ?) the very dictates of feeling and hu- 
 manity were obliterated by these tyrants — the 
 laws of nature were inverted — the close and sa- 
 cred ties between father and child were torn with 
 violence asunder ; till even all naiure was alarmed 
 and startled at their unheard of crimes — 'Twas 
 mine Faulkener to step betwixt the tyger and the 
 lamb ; and from the Prince to force an oath, a 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 31 
 
 sacred oath, that tyranny should cease, and that 
 humanity should reign again ! 
 
 Ferdinand. Did you, Madam ? — Oh ! 'twas 
 heavenly in you ; and may your efforts meet their 
 just reward I 
 
 Lady Milford. I thought these execrable deeds 
 were past, and peace again restored ; but this 
 day I hear, that they have recommenced afresh — 
 But listen — Not long after my arrival here, the 
 city swarmed with Parisian coquettes, who came 
 to gain from me the Prince's heart ; and some 
 succeeded for a little space, during which time 
 they swayed the sceptre, and by their folly and 
 caprice, caused much blood to flow — but soon 
 their reign was o'er — I saw them sink before me 
 — I alone prevailed — I took the reigns from off 
 his Highness' neck, and guided him aright — He 
 owned my wisdom ; and with applauding smiles 
 reposed in my embraces — 'Twas then your country 
 
 ! first felt and perceived redemption's hand — (She 
 pauses^ then looks at him with tenderness ) — Oh 1 
 that the man, to whom alone I wish to be known, 
 must force me thus to boast, and annul my vir- 
 
 > tue, by holding it up to the light of admiration I 
 Faulkener ! Faulkener I I have burst the very pri- 
 son bars — have torn even death-warrants — it has 
 been mine to pour the healing balsam into wounds 
 deemed incurable ; and to aid the cause of the 
 innocent, thrown into distress for want of pro- 
 tection and support — And now that man, comes 
 to accuse me, who alone can reward me — that 
 man, whom perhaps my exhausted fate has at last 
 created to atone for all my sorrows past — that 
 man, whom in my dreams already I embrace, 
 and clasp to my heart with passion's trembling 
 warmth. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Greatly agitated and stopping her.) 
 No more — not a word more for Heaven's sake j 
 
32 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Ad II. 
 
 or I must leave you this moment, though I have 
 offended you beyond all hopes of pardon — but 
 spare me now. 
 
 Lady Milford. (In the softest tone of voice, 
 catching hold of his arm. J Should an unhappy 
 miserable wretch, oppressed with the conscious- 
 ness of her shame ; and shuddering with horror 
 at the retrospect of her past crimes — Should a 
 penitent sinner, labouring with the burden of her 
 profane and impious life, feel herself at once sub- 
 limely elevated by the animating call of virtue ; 
 and thus throw herself into your arms ( eagerly 
 rusiiing into his arms ) for deliverance, in order to 
 be led back to that path of rectitude, which she 
 has unguardedly deserted ; and to be restored to 
 that Heaven, forfeited by her guilt and impru- 
 dence ; can you start back from that fervid bo- 
 som, glowing with passionate warmth — Can you, 
 I ask, by so doing, drive such a one, in sad obe- 
 dience to despair, to plunge and riot still deeper 
 in the vast and boundless ocean of infamy and 
 vice ? — Can you willingly cause a hapless being,, 
 (daring even the face of the almighty, and shut- 
 ting her heart against all-self admonition) to rush at 
 once into the immense torrent of irreparable ruin 
 and destruction ; and scorn the thoughts of eter- 
 nity's tremendous scene ( much affected and with 
 great emotion J — You talked just now of Christian 
 
 duty — Faulkener awake ! Be not the man of 
 
 words. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Rising in great agitation.) Madam,, 
 in honour I can hear no more — I must make you 
 a free and open confession of a circumstance, 
 which, did you but know, you would cease to 
 wound me with solicitations I can never grant. 
 
 Lady Milford. Not now — Not now, by all that 
 is sacred I cannot hear it now — My affli6ted heart 
 is bleeding with a thousand stabs — Be it life, oil 
 death, I cannot hear it now ! (g°' n gj 
 
Act II. CABAL AND LOVE. 33 
 
 Ferdinand. (Taking hold of her arm and pres- 
 sing her to stay. J Indeed, Madam, you must ; 
 you must hear what I have to say ; for it will 
 not only apologize for my blamable conduct to- 
 wards you ; but will be a sufficient mitigation for 
 all, that is past — I have been much mistaken in 
 you Lady Jane — I expected, and hoped to find 
 you an object for my contempt — I came hither, 
 determined to excite your fiercest hatred and re- 
 sentment — Happy had it been for both, if my 
 plan had been crowned with success — for, be not 
 surprized, if I disclose to you a secret, and ac- 
 quaint you, that my heart is engaged — (Lady 
 Milfo>-d starts back in anguish ) Yes Lady Jane, 
 my affections are rooted ; and my soul hangs 
 with idolatry on my angelic Louisa — Be not dis- 
 pleased ; for I am blessed, when I further tell 
 you, that she is not of rank, but the daughter of 
 Miller, that unfortunate old man, who from loss- 
 es in trade, now turns to his music for support. 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Clasps her hands in astonish- 
 ment, and walks away from him, J 
 I Ferdinand, (Following her,) Your looks de- 
 note astonishment ; and you seem to think, that 
 both reason and sense should have taught me to 
 overcome a passion, so beneath my birth — If so, 
 I say, that duty claims a previous thought ; for I 
 alone was culpable — 'Twas I, who first disturbed 
 her golden days of peace ; — Even now she dreads 
 the great disparity between us ; and will not yet 
 consent, that I should lead her to the altar, and 
 call her forever mine — Does not the voice of 
 duty loudly call upon me J 1 , to fulfil her sacred will ? 
 and quickly to restore the lovely maid her wont- 
 ed peace of mind — This can never be, until she 
 is wholly mine ; and Lady Jane, it must be done \ 
 for, need I ask, what is cool reason to resistless 
 love ? 
 
° 4 CABAL AND LOVE. Act II, 
 
 Lady Milford. (With the expression of great 
 affliction* ) Major Faulkener, you are going to 
 precipitate yourself, me, and a third person into 
 irrecoverable ruin. 
 
 Ferdinand, Yourself, me, and a third person ? ! 
 I do not understand you, Madam. 
 
 Lady Milford, Then mark my words : (With 
 pointed expression, J We must all infallibly be 
 victims to your father's fatal precipitancy — My 
 passion gives way to my tenderness ; but my ho-^ 
 nour cannot. Our marriage is by this time the 
 talk of all the land — The indignity, the affront, 
 which I suffer, in being rejected by a subject of 
 the Prince, are indelible — All eyes are upon 
 me — Already envy triumphs ; and her sneer is ; 
 fixed. — Manage you matters with your father as 
 you please — only remember, that I shall move 
 heaven and earth, to avert the shafts of ignominy 
 and scorn, which with fury and spleen will be 
 hurled against my stigmatized breast. (Exit in 
 violent agitation, Ferdinand, quite confounded, fol*$M 
 lowing her. 
 
 Scene IV. — The Scene changes to a Room in Mil- 
 ler's House, Louis a just rises from her harp- j 
 sichord, and is going to leave the room ; but 
 meeting her Father just entering, she says to him, 
 
 Louisa, Has not the Major been here within 
 these three hours ? 
 
 Miller, No, child — I have not seen him ; and 
 from! my love to you, I say, that I most sincere- 
 ly wish, that he would never enter these doors 
 again — Hush ! — I think I hear him now coming up. 
 
 Scene V. — Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferdinand, ( Entering frightened and out of 
 breath.) Has my father been here ? 
 
 Louisa, (Alarmed.) His father ? — Gracious 
 God ! — What will become of us ? 
 
Ski II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOTK. 
 
 %5 
 
 Miller. Let him but come. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Eagerly embracing Louisa.) Thou 
 art mine, Louisa ; were even the celestial pow- 
 ers to intervene — Oh ! let me once more repose 
 upon that heavenly breast. — Such an hour is just 
 now past. — Oh, Louisa ! it was a terrible one. 
 
 Louisa. Oh, speak ! — What hour I — Let me 
 but know the worst. 
 
 Ferdinand. An hour, my life, when 'twixt my 
 heart and thee, did a third person force her 
 powerful way — an hour, when my own conscience 
 checked me for my love — an hour, when my 
 Louisa ceased to be all my bliss on earth. 
 
 Louisa. ( She sinks down on a chair quite de- 
 pressed.) 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Pauses and Jixes his eyes on her 
 with sxtreme fondness. J No— never — never, Mil- 
 ford, you ask too much. — No — by the eternal 
 God above, I will not violate my oath, which 
 i warns me like Heaven's own thunder, through 
 that fading eye. — Milford look there ! and wonder, 
 if you can — There fix your eyes, if you dare 
 own a heart of feeling — And you too, unnatural 
 sire ! hither direct your austere looks ; then bid 
 me, if you can, lead this heavenly lamb to sacri- 
 fice and fate. — That bosom you would have me 
 turn into a scene of hell — But I will thwart your 
 narrow schemes — defeat your malice, and con- 
 front your rage ( with animation) — Yes, I'll 
 condu6l her to the throne of God ; and the all- 
 righteous Judge will there attest, that passion, 
 founded as mine is, forms the grand ultimatum 
 of all earthly bliss. — Courage, my beauteous 
 love 1 I return triumphant from the perilous 
 strife. 
 
 Louisa. Something lurks beneath those words — 
 I dread the event — But tell me all — Declare the 
 sentence, awful tho' it be ; and unrepining I'll 
 
36 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE* 
 
 Act 
 
 submit to fate. — Thou spokest just now of Lady 
 Milford — I fear to ask it — But what of Milford's 
 name ? — I am told she is going to be married. 
 
 Ferdinand. To me, Louisa — such is my fa- 
 ther's will. 
 
 Louisa. ( Pauses, then with the deepest anguish.) 
 But why this tremor and surprise ? — The old 
 man told me long ago I never could be thine ; 
 but I believed him not (She runs weeping into her 
 father's arms.) Father, take back your daughter 
 to your indulgent arms. — Pardon, dear lather, 
 the fault was not your child's. 
 
 Miller* My Louisa ! my child ! my only 
 child ! — (Turning to Ferdinand.) Oh, Major! 
 Major ! What wretchedness have you not entailed 
 on my poor aged head ! — See there, ( Pointing to 
 Louisa.) — Ho w altered from her former self ! 
 How sunk beneath sharp sorrow's blighting blast! 
 
 Ferdinand. But it will soon be over — for, all 
 my father's plans I will soon counteract, and 
 restore to you, old man, peace and joy. {Going.) 
 
 Louisa. O^go not now — but stay — Did'st thou 
 not say thy father would be here ? — Oh, do not 
 quit us in this dreadful hour. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Taking Louisa's hand.) As I do 
 hope for mercy on my soul, and wish for pardon 
 in the hour of death, hear and receive my hal- 
 lowed oath — that, that moment, which separates 
 these hands, unlinks-also the chain of existence 
 between the world and me. (Looki?ig rather 
 wild.) 
 
 Louisa. Hold ! be not rash — thou tremblest 
 and art pale — thine eye-balls roll — Ferdinand, 
 look not so, thou tervifiest me. 
 
 Ferdinand. Fear not, Louisa, I do not trem- 
 ble ; nor am I pile. If my eye-balls roll, they 
 do but tell thee that my mind is fixed. Heaven 
 has not a more exquiste, nor a more admirable 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 gift to make, than those precious and delightful 
 moments ; when the heart, pent up, and strug- 
 gting with its pain, is by some blessed and un- 
 [l heard of grace relived — That was just now my 
 lease. Now to my father — (Goings he meets the 
 :• President^ ivho just enters.') 
 
 Scene VI.— 'Enter President with a retinue 
 of Servants. 
 
 President. (Entering.) Oh, there he is! 
 Ferdinand. In the house of innocence. 
 President. (Turning to Miller.) Are you the 
 t father ? 
 
 I t Miller. My name is Miller. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Speaking to Miller.) Ycu had 
 better lead Louisa out of the room j for I am 
 afraid she is very ill. 
 
 President. There is no occasion for that— I'll 
 go to her — (To Louisa.) How long have you 
 been acquainted with the President's son ? 
 
 Louisa. That is a question, sir, which I have 
 never asked — Major Faulkener I have known 
 since last November. 
 
 President. Has he ever given you "any assur- 
 ances ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Of the most sacred kind, some 
 I minutes ago, invoking Heaven to attest my hal- 
 lowed vows. 
 
 President. Will you be silent, sir? (To Lou* 
 isa. ) I wait for a reply. 
 
 Louisa. He has sworn me love. 
 
 President. Did you accept of his rash oath ? 
 
 Louisa. ' Our vows were mutual. 
 
 President. As is usual with girls of your dis- 
 solute line of life. 
 
 -.Ferdinand* (In a rage) Hell ! — What was 
 ! that ? 
 
 (vol. n.) 
 
 Z 
 
33 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 Louisa. {With dignity) Major Foulkener, now 
 you are free. 
 
 Ferdinand. Sir, let me tell you, tho' I see you 
 know it not, that, virtue, even in the beggars 
 
 grab, commands respect. 
 
 "^President. Very pretty indeed ! — the father is 
 to respect the son's mistress I 
 
 . Louisa. Heavens and earth ! — Is it come to 
 this ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Sir, you had once a fife to ask of 
 me — It is now paid. From this hour all obliga- 
 tions of filial piety are cancelled. 
 
 Miller. {Coming forward.) Your Excellency 
 must give me leave to say, that I think your 
 conduct in my 'house exceedingly improper and 
 highly blamable. — Hitherto 1 have been silent ; 
 but, if I witness a single affront more to my 
 child, I shall forget the difference between us ; 
 and give her that protection, which becomes her 
 father. 
 
 President. {F.nraged.) Rascal ! Villain ! — What 
 do you mean by this impudence to a man of my 
 character ? — But I'll soon manage matters for 
 you, depend upon it. 
 
 Miller. {Indignant.) Rascal ? Villain ? — Sir, 
 do you imagine, that this language becomes 
 you ? — Or do you think, that it adds to your 
 dignity of station ? — If so, I pity you, Sir ; and 
 look with sovereign contempt on the man, who is 
 incapable of feeling his superiority which is the 
 mere result of adventitious chance, without the 
 low despicable insolence of triumph. 
 
 President. {To some of his servants.) Get 
 some constables immediately — {Servants exeunt)— 
 {walking about the room in a rage) To prison wiih 
 that old varlet — to the pillory with the girl- 
 Justice shall satisfy my wrath ; and this affront 
 shall be dearly paid for.-— That such a scoundrel 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 \ should counteract my plans !— Damnation ! — 
 l Shall these wretches go unpunished for setting 
 \ thus the father against the son ? — No — the whole 
 [ race — father, mother, and girl, shall be victims 
 I to my vehemence, and rage. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( His eyes constantly Jixed on Louisa 
 
 with great anxiety. J Be not afraid — I am with you. 
 | I will see no force or violence used against you. 
 [ (turning to his father ) Be not too hasty, sir. If 
 r you have any regard for yourself or me, use no 
 ; violence. There is a place in my heart, where the 
 
 name of father has never yet been heard ; I pray 
 I you, sir press not there — pierce not the regions 
 ; of that sacred sphere ; lest, unawares, and quite 
 | thrown off my guard, I utter things— then, sir, 
 p nature will shudder at un thought of crimes, com- 
 I mitted by a man, r equt ed just. 
 
 President. Peace, senseless fool ! — nor dare to 
 I raise my fury higher than it is. 
 
 Miller. I'll see, whether justice can be done to 
 \ injured innocence — I'll go this instant to his 
 J Highness the Prince, and look for mercy in a 
 
 case like ours. 
 
 President. To the Prince — do you say ?— . 
 
 Don't you know, blockhead, that I am the thresh- 
 | old, over Avhich you must unavoidably pass of 
 I break your neck ? — To the Prince ? — Yes, li 
 
 you have a mind to be all your days locked up in 
 I a tower forty feet high. 
 
 Scene VII. — Enter Constables. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Runs to Louisa, ivho is overpowered 
 by her fears, and rests on Ferdinand's bosom ) Help ! 
 help ! this instant help ! — Louisa! — Her fears have 
 quite overpowered her. 
 
 > Miller. C Putting on his hat, and taking down his 
 cane that hangs upon a nail in the corner of the room J 
 With all my heart, if it must be. 
 
CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act II. 
 
 President, Lay hold of the girl, ( to the consta- 
 bles ) I say — In the name of his Serene Highness, 
 your Prince, I charge you to lay hold of her im- 
 mediately. 
 
 Constables* ( Are going to obey the President's com- 
 mands ). 
 
 Ferdinand, ( Protecting Louisa ) Keep your dis- 
 tance, rascals ! or dread my furious wrath. 
 
 President. (To \he Constables ) Mind what I say, 
 blockheads, or 
 
 Constables. ( Forcing their way towards Louisa.) 
 
 Ferdinand. Off! dire bloodhounds, off! — nor, 
 on your lives approach another step ! 
 
 President. Must I speak again, scoundrels ?— . 
 Lay hold, I say. 
 
 Constables. ( Again forcing their way towards 
 Louisa ). 
 
 Ferdinand. (^uite enraged, he takes both sword 
 and sheath from his side and forces back the Consta- 
 bles ) Villains ! again I warn you to keep your dis- 
 tance — ( to his father ) Sir, I would advise you not 
 to drive me to extremity. 
 
 President. (To the Constables) Slaves! as you 
 value your bread, obey^my commands. 
 
 Ferdinand. Sir, I once more beg of you not to 
 drive me to extremity. 
 
 President. (To the Constables') Don't mind my 
 son — Lay hold, I say. 
 
 Constables. (With increased violence forcing their 
 %uay towards Louisa.) 
 
 Ferdinand. If it must be, Justice! pardon me. 
 ( Draws his sword, and, in defending Louisa, lie 
 wounds some of the Constables.) 
 
 President, (Enraged) I'll see, whether I am to 
 feel too the point of his sword — (the President forces 
 his way towards Louisa ; lifts her from the grouni t 
 and gives her to the Constables.) 
 
 Ferdinand. Sir, you'll drive me desperate—- 
 Rage is in my heart— - Do you persist ? 
 
Act II. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 41 
 
 President. Away with her — {to the Constables.} 
 Louisa is now between two Constables 3 the one 
 having hold of her right hand, the other of her left. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Pushes back with force one of the Con- 
 stables; then, he puts one arm around Louisa's waist ; 
 with the other he rests the point of his sword against 
 her breast) Do you persist, sir? — Rather than my 
 Louisa should endure your affronts, I'll pierce her 
 to the heart {Still resting the sivord on Louisa's 
 breast) Do you persist, sir ? 
 
 President. Push home, I say, if the point of 
 your sword will do. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Leaving hold on Louisa, and putting 
 up his sword J Almighty God 1 who seest the emo- 
 tion of all hearts, thou art witness, that I have 
 left no human means untried — Now I am com- 
 pelled to use diabolical ones- — {to the Constables, 
 with an elevated voice) Away with her to prison I 
 (;Stari?ig wildly and grasping his father's arm with 
 eagerness ; then whispering into his ear, yet so as to be 
 heard) In the mean while I must to Court ; and 
 tell 'em all a tale, whereby they may know the 
 shortest way to get at a President's chair. 
 
 {Exit hastily* 
 
 President. ( Thunderstruck ) Stop! Ferdinand, 
 stop ! — Come back 1 I say — ( To the Constables quite 
 vlarmed J Set her free this moment. (ExiU 
 
 1ND OF THE SECOND ACT* 
 
42 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Ad III 
 
 ACT III. 
 
 Scene I. — A Room in the President's Hous 
 Enter President and Secretary Worm. 
 
 President. This affair turned out cursedly u 
 lucky. 
 
 Worm. Exactly as I expected, begging you 
 Excellency's pardon — Y©u should have been a lit 
 tie more upon your guard — He did before threate 
 to disclose the whole. 
 
 President. Yes — but I did not, I could not be 
 lieve him in earnest — I considered it merely as th 
 result of passion ; and I paid no attention to wha 
 he said — But when I reflect in cool blood upon th 
 manner in which he warned me not to make hi 
 desperate, I confess I did wrong to trust to hi 
 so far — However, there is no harm done ; you re 
 called him in time, and told him that his girl wa 
 set free by my command. 
 
 Worm. I did, sir ; and saw him return to Mi" 
 
 ler's where I suppose that he now is But giv_ 
 
 me leave to observe to your Excellency, that you 
 did very wong ever to have given your son the 
 smallest hint about your pedecessor's death. You 
 know the principles, that he imbibed early at col- 
 lege. — The upright notions of honour and truth, 
 to which he has hitherto been a very slave, must 
 render him a very unfit person to be entrusted with 
 st secret of this kind, 
 
 P esident. But, to be sure, Worm, you are not 
 ignorant of my motives for so doing — I fondly 
 thought to have found in him the same ambitious 
 views, that I have — I expected him to have been 
 rejoiced at the news ; and disposed to second my 
 plans towards the fulfilling all my darling pojects. 
 —But you know, how, I have been mistaken, and 
 how I have been thwarted in every thing I have 
 undertaken. 
 
 Worm* We will not give up all yet, sir.— To 
 
. Act IIL CABAL AND LOVE. 4S 
 
 be sure, there was no occasion for your son Fer- 
 . dinand to have known any thing about this affair; 
 for, what could be better managed ? You ask- 
 ed your predecessor to supper — he came — You 
 were alone together— You finished, I remember, 
 a couple of bottles of Burgundy ; then called for 
 cards ; and at piquet you sat till four o'clock the 
 
 next morning. He never heard it strike five 
 
 Every one lamented the apoplectic fit, that 
 carried him off so suddenly ; and you were unan- 
 imously elected his successor. Was it not all ad- 
 I mirably managed ? 
 
 President. But, what signifies the mention of 
 all this now ? — The harm is done, and cannot be 
 undone — I almost despair of success at present— 
 the game is over. 
 
 Worm. Your Excellency's pardon — You have 
 still cards left in your hands, whereby you may yet 
 recover your game* — I have apian, which, if fol- 
 • lowed I am sure, cannot fail of success. 
 
 President. Come, come, let us hear it this mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Worm. I must be most egregiously mistaken in 
 all my observations on human nature, if the Ma- 
 jor be not a man of remarkably strong passions, 
 and quick feelings — consequently, under the im- 
 pulse of jealousy he must be as violent as he is 
 under that of love — Now, Sir, my plan is, to work 
 him up to as high a pitch of jealousy as we possi- 
 bly can — This to effect, w T e have only to make him 
 suspicious to this Louisa Miller • and to go to 
 work with such cunning and art, as at last to 
 render her to him an object of the utmost detes- 
 tation. 
 
 President. Yes, Worm, but how ? — 'Tis a very 
 good plan, but I am afraid it will prove to be one 
 of your impracticable ones. 
 
 Worm. I pledge myself to your Excellency to 
 put it into execution — First, be so kind as to open. 
 
CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act 111. 
 
 your mind a little to me — How far do you mean 
 to persist in this alliance with Lady Milford ? 
 
 President. What a question ! Don't you know, 
 that all my power is in danger, if I do not ulti- 
 mately succeed in this affair — Consider how the 
 matter stands — Court and city talk of nothing else 
 — Lady Milford has not denied the truth of the 
 report ; therefore, if the match now go off, I do 
 not know, what may be the consequence ; — for it 
 is madness to suppose, that her Ladyship will put 
 up with an affront of this kind without revenging 
 herself upon the author to the utmost of her pow- 
 er — And who is the author but the President ?— - 
 Who would have thought Ferdinand fool enough to 
 reject a connection of the highest kind ? — Worm, 
 we must bring it about some way or other : — or, 
 ruin may ensue 
 
 Worm. Now I see, sir, how the land lies ; and 
 I know what I have to do — The Major must be en- 
 tangled in the nicest web of subtlety and craft— * 
 As for the girl ; — the very power which she pos- 
 sesses over him, will prove our most propitious 
 weapon — What we have to do, is this — We must 
 so contrive, as to exact from her a love-letter to 
 a third person, written by her own hand, which 
 letter we must carefully throw in the Major's way 
 —Your Excellency will be pleased to consider what 
 I say — her own hand-writing to be read by her own 
 doating Major — If this medicine do not operate, 
 dismiss Worm the next morning. 
 
 President. {Phased) A droll idea, upon mf 
 soul — But do you take the girl for an ideot ? — Do 
 you suppose, that she will quietly sit down, and 
 sign her own death's warrant? 
 
 Worm. She must and will, if you leave the bu- 
 siness in my hands — I know her thoroughly—- 
 There are but two weaksides, that we can possi- 
 bly work upon, namely, her father and the Me* 
 
Act III. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 41 
 
 • jor — Now, after the scene, that passed at Miller's 
 : this morning, nothing is easier in the whole world, 
 r than to threaten the old man with an action — In 
 the mean time, we must arrest him immediately ; 
 J —And having secured him, this precious letter I 
 just now mentioned to you, mast be forced from 
 > the girl, as a ransom for the father's deliverance — 
 To ensure our success, the mother must be like- 
 i wise secured — then leave the rest to me — I shall 
 I instantly go to the girl ; and obtain the letter, as the 
 I sole existing means of freeing her father and mo- 
 \ ther from imprisonment and risk of death. 
 
 President. Yes, but Worm, don't let the matter 
 be too serious, 
 
 Worm. Oh dear Sir, it cannot — Your Excel- 
 lency cannot imagine how she doats on her father 
 —The danger of his life ; the reflection of having 
 it in her power to release him ; — the reproaches 
 of her own conscience in having been accessary 
 to his confinement ; — the utter impossibility of 
 ever being able to possess the Major ; — all, all 
 will most powerfully coincide to forward the com- 
 pletion of the scheme — She must inevitably fall 
 into the snare. 
 
 President. But you do not consider my son- 
 should he get the smallest hint or item of the mat- 
 ter, all our designs will again be air. 
 
 Worm. I shall take care of that — there shall be 
 nothing to apprehend ; for, after she has written 
 the letter, I shall tell her, that even that will nought 
 avail, if she does not take a solemn oath, never to 
 reveal the subject of that letter to any one in be- 
 1 ing. 
 
 President. Pshaw ! — What's in an oath Worm ? 
 
 Worm. Nothing, Sir, to you or to me, but to 
 them a very bulwark to overleap — Take my word 
 for it, Sir — it will do — And if it should fall out 
 as I expect, I shall soon be able to conciliate mat' 
 
46 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act III, 
 
 ters with the parents ; and to convince the girl, 
 that my views were perfectly upright, I will of- 
 fer immediate marriage. 
 
 President. (Much pleased.) Ah Worm ! 1 
 
 give up to you— -'tis Satan's own web, you dog ! 
 'tis well contrived : — the scholar beats his master 
 all to pieces — Now the only question is — to whom 
 shall this letter be directed ? Who is to be this 
 third person — (After a little thought,) Why not 
 Baron Mindheim ? 
 
 Worm. With all my heart, Sir, — Only were 
 my name Louisa Miller, the Baron certainly 
 would not be the object of my choice. 
 
 President. Why not ? — a plenty of cash — an 
 emperors wardrobe — but a pretty ninny, sure 
 enough — But he will do for our Purpose. I shall 
 ring the bell, and send for the Baron. (Rings.) 
 
 Worm. And whilst your Excellency is occupied 
 about the warrant, I shall go and compose a let- 
 ter, proper for the subject. 
 
 President. Very well, only let me see it, when 
 it is finished. {Exit Worm. 
 
 (The President goes to the table in order to write 
 the warrant. J 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
 President, Here take this warrant and tell the 
 constables, that it must be put immediately into 
 execution — Bid some of the other servants step to 
 Baron Mindheim with my compliments ; and if 
 it be convenient to him, I should be obliged to him 
 to favour me with his company for half an hour. 
 
 Servant. The Baron's carriage, Sir, just stops 
 at your door. 
 
 President. Oh then — desire him to walk up. 
 
 ( Exit Servant* 
 
Act III. 
 
 CABAL AMD LOVE. 
 
 Scene II. — President and Baron Mindheim. 
 
 Baron, fin a hurry. J En passant man cher, t 
 could not forego the pleasure of just calling for a 
 how do you do — We see nothing of you now at 
 court—What can be the reason ? — To be sure, 
 you are going to night to see the grand Opera of 
 Dido — Oh ! there will be such magnificent scene- 
 ry— spectacle a ravir, mon ami. 
 
 President. No, no, Baron, I have scenes enow in 
 my own house to take up my attention — You come 
 very apropos; for I want to speak to you about 
 some matters, which if they fall out as I appre- 
 hend, must inevitably ruin both you and me for- 
 ever. 
 
 i Baron. Bon Dieu.-— What is all this ? — Tell me 
 quickly. 
 
 President. As I said before, ruin both you and 
 me forever. — In a word, then, you know my pro- 
 ject in regard to Ferdinand and Lady Milford—. 
 You know too, after what has passed, of what im- 
 portance it is to us, that this connection should 
 take place — But I see no probability of it ; for 
 the Major flies off. 
 
 Baron, flies off? — What ! — Change his mind ? 
 Que diable I — I have mentioned it to the whole 
 court — No one talks of any thing else. 
 
 . President. Yes — and for ought I know, you 
 will have to pass in the eyes of the whole court 
 for a notorious liar. — He is in love with some one 
 else. 
 
 Baron. Ah I vous badinez — In love with ano- 
 ther 1 — What does that signify ? 
 
 President. Signify I Not a straw, I know that 
 very well ; but with Ferdinand it is an insur- 
 mountable bar. 
 
 Baron. Is it possible ? — Mepriser sa fortune de 
 telle maniere /—Not have Lady Milford ? 
 
4S 
 
 CASAL AND LOVE. 
 
 President* Only ask him the question ; and 
 you will hear what he has to say ? 
 
 Baron. Parbleu ! — What can he have to say ? 
 
 Ptesident. Mindheim, we must take care of 
 ourselves — Ferdinand threatens to discover the 
 iniquitous means, by which we have got advan- 
 ced ; — and to reveal the several forgeries of 
 which we have been guilty. — In short, I do not 
 know what will become of us, if you don't help 
 us out. 
 
 Baron. Diantre J — What ! betray us ! Nous 
 
 livrer dans les mains de la justice? — Oh ? what can 
 I do to avert this blow ? — Mais dites mon cher. 
 
 President. And I forgot to tell you another 
 piece of news ; and that is, that the young 
 French favourite, Monsieur de Monville has it 
 in contemplation, to pay his addresses to her La- 
 dyship — You know he is liked at court ; — There 
 can be no doubt of his success — Then he will look 
 prettily over our heads. 
 
 Baron. Vous m'enragez — Monville ? — What ?— . 
 My mortal foe ? 
 
 President. ( Hardly able to conceal his pleasure 
 at hearing this. ) Whose mortal foe I 
 
 Baron. Did you never hear of that damned 
 trick he played me the other night at the Opera ? 
 We are at this time absolutely at drawn daggers. 
 Monville marry Lady Milford ? — Sacre ! 
 
 President. I never heard of this affair before— 
 But we'll speak more about it another time. 
 
 Baron. A French petit maitre, who came here 
 from Paris pas un Louis d'or dans la pccfie — to be 
 advanced to such a rank — ^iie le citable Vemporte \ 
 
 President. Well, Mindheim, this is the man, 
 that is to marry Lady Milford ; and who is to be 
 the first person at court. 
 
 Baron. Mon cher President — This will indeed 
 be my coup de grace ; — But, don't you know an? 
 
-Act III. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 % 
 
 49 
 
 ineans, whereby we might prevent this impend- 
 ing storm ? — Be it ever so difficult, we will attempt 
 it — Grand Dieu ! — What would I not do de chagriner 
 te coquin de Monville ? 
 
 > President. I know but one thing ; and that rests 
 with you. 
 
 Baron. {Rejoiced) With me ! — mille graces — Do 
 but name it. 
 
 President. To create a breach between Ferdi- 
 nand and his girl. 
 
 Baron. I create a breach ? — But how ? 
 
 President. If once by any ways or means, wc 
 be able to create in Ferdinand's mind a suspicion 
 of the girl's fidelity, success is at hand. 
 
 Baron. Do you mean that I should elope with 
 her? 
 
 President. No, no — something* deeper than all 
 that — No such shallow plans — He might then 
 suppose, that she v\ as carried oft' by force, — No, 
 Baron, we must manage so, that conviction of 
 her falsehood must even stare him in the face ; 
 and he must be sure of having a rival — and you 
 are to be this rival. 
 
 Baron. De tout mon ceeur-She is of good fami- 
 ly and rank, I take for granted. 
 ' President, Indeed she is not — but what is that 
 to the purpose ? — She is the daughter of Miller 
 the music master. 
 
 Baron. Comment .'——Burgeoise !* Oh I that 
 
 will never do for me — mon cher President, Con- 
 sider a man of my consequence and reputation at 
 court. 
 
 President. (Very cool.) Well, well, Baron, 
 just as you please for that — To me it is a matter 
 of little importance — I congratulate Monville on 
 his good fortune in being likely to be made prime 
 minister — I shall instantly resign all my employ- 
 ments, and leave the court. 
 (vol. ii.) A a 
 
5q- cabal and loyk. Act III. 
 
 Baron. Et moi mon chcr, what is to become of 
 me ? You may well talk thus — having been 
 brought up to the bar, you can help yourself any 
 where ; but, as for me, que /aire ! — §hte devenir ! 
 
 President. I cannot help that — You will not do 
 -as I would have you. 
 
 Baron. Mais out — any thing — tell me only 
 what I should do. 
 
 President. Will you consent to give your 
 name for a rendezvous — I mean, will you suffer 
 a supposed letter to be directed to you by this 
 Louisa Miller's own hand ? 
 
 Baron. I will. 
 
 President. And will you so manage as to throw 
 it into Ferdinand's way, that he may find it ; 
 and, seeing that it comes from her, think him- 
 self deceived ? 
 
 Baron. Par example — I'll call on him some time 
 to morrow, and so pull it out of my pocket as par 
 hazard with my handkerchief ; and yet not seem 
 to know it. 
 
 President. And, if requisite, will you play your 
 part of the lover as you ought to do ? 
 
 Baron. To be sure I will — Je suis au fak de 
 tout ce qui regade V amour. 
 
 President. Well, then, all will do ; and we arc 
 friends again — To night you will call for the letter 
 — You know the rest, Mindheim. 
 
 Baron. {Taking out a card) I have now just a 
 dozen visits to make de la derniere importance.*— 
 Celles faites, je ne manquerai pas de me rendre ici sur 
 le champ. (Exit, 
 
 President. (Calling after him) I depend upon 
 your exactness Baron. 
 
 Baron, (returning, he replies with an air of self- 
 HGiiceit) Mais •dqus me connoissez mon cher President. 
 
 (Exit 
 
Act III. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 5t 
 
 Scene III. — President and Worm. 
 
 Worm. Miller and his wife are secured — Nov 
 will it please your Excellency just to read over 
 this letter, that I have drawn up ? 
 
 President. ( Having read it J Charming ! — In- 
 comparable ! — Worm— it will do vastly well — have 
 at last got the Baron to come into our plans; but, 
 not without a great deal of difficulty — Well, now, 
 Worm, you know what you have to do-— Fly im- 
 mediately to Louisa'; and if you manage matters 
 there, as you expect; I say, that you are a much 
 cleaverer fellow, than I took you for. 
 
 C Exeunt on several sides. ' 
 
 Scene IV. — A Room in Miller's House. } . 
 The Scene discovers Ferdinand and Louisa.**" 
 
 Louisa. Cease, dearest Ferdinand ? — My mind 
 is cast in sorrow's gloomy' mould ; and now I can- 
 not even think of things, which were wont to raiss 
 my heart, however sad ; and delighted my very- 
 soul beyond all power of speech : — Yes, Ferdinand, 
 thou wert indeed once my darling theme. When, 
 night's soft slumbers composed my mind, tliou 
 wert the subject of my happy dreams : — The morn- 
 ing gave me fresh delight ; and all the live long 
 day was joy and bliss : — But, now the sence i* 
 changed — far other objects must engage my h eart ; 
 and other duties must engross my mind — I do not 
 so much as think of happy days again — All my 
 hopes are sunk. 
 
 Ferdinand. And mine are raised. My father is 
 highly irritated, and will do his utmost to thwart 
 us. But, hear, Louisa — a thought, just now, vast 
 and immense as my own boundless passion, crowds 
 
 on my troubled mind. Thou Louisa, I and love 
 
 —Is not all Heaven contained 
 
 Louisa. {Stopping him) I shudder at thy thought 
 I see where it extends, 
 
52 CABAL AND LOVE. Act III, 
 
 Ferdinand* Why so, my lovely girl ? What is 
 the world to us? — Its views were never suited to 
 our minds— Why seek its cold approval ? — Why 
 court its favour, or why beg its smiles? — Rather, 
 with hearts elate, and dignified souls, let us look 
 down with pity on their confined schemes ; and 
 soar above them with becoming pride, into the 
 realms of rectitude and justice ; conscious, that all 
 our actions proceed from virtue and irrefragable 
 truths ; surpassing far their bounded notions and 
 their shallow views — {with the utmost tenderness) 
 Will not our affection increase with our increasing 
 years ? — Will not that heavenly eye as softly glis- 
 ' ten, and as sweetly rove, whether we traverse rocks 
 and burning sands ; or cross the Rhine or Elbe, or 
 flv'n the Baltic Sea? — That country's mine where 
 my Louisa's blest ; where she can return my pas- 
 sion without fear ; where no controul shall mar 
 our promised joy ; where no parent's frown shall 
 check each gladdened scene ; but both our bosoms 
 heave with mutual bliss. 
 
 Louisa. My faithful Ferdinand, think of this 
 plan no more — It can never be — I have other du- 
 ties to fulfil. Let not that voice, to which I have 
 ever listened with delight, now breathe a thought, 
 to sanction disobedience. 
 
 Ferdinand. Whither we wander, wheresoe'er 
 we go, Heaven will protect us in the hour of 
 need — With minds awake to our Creator's praise ; 
 With hearts uplifted to His glorious throne, to- 
 gether will we tread the walk of life : — Whither- 
 soe'er we bend our lonely steps, a sun will rise 
 to cheer the morning's dawn ; a sun will set to 
 gild the evening's calm, and settle comfort in our 
 happy breasts \ and, should it please high Heav- 
 en's Almighty hand, to snatch us from this orbit 
 jaere below, shall we not meet in purer realms 
 above, where time no limit knows, nor bliss alloy ; 
 where the fond tear of parting is not felt ; nor 
 
Act III. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 53 
 
 dire misfortune's pang is ever known ? — (Seeing 
 Louisa in tears.) Divine Louisa ! Why those 
 tears? — I have but told thee what our fate might 
 be, if thou wouldst not refuse admitance to these 
 rays of perfect bliss. 
 
 Louisa. Hast thou no other duty to fulfil ? 
 
 Ferdinand* Thy repose and peace are my very 
 first ? 
 
 Louisa. ( Earnestly. ) Then thou must leave 
 me— -I have a fat hex, who is wrapped up in me, 
 his only child — To-morrow he will be sixty years 
 of age — Should I leave the poor old man a victim 
 to the President's rage ; and rob him of his only 
 joy on earth ? It will not bear the thought— 
 My Faulkener, thou wouldest not have me ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Oh ! let thy apprehension cease- 
 He shall not be left a victim to my father's rage- 
 Louisa, I have friends, to whom I could confide 
 my life — they shall watch o'er thy father's safety ; 
 and under their protection he shall be secure a- 
 gainst every possible injury or atfront. — At one 
 o'clock in the morning a chaise shall stop upon 
 the plain, and thou, my love, wilt mark th« 
 time : — Then, in the dead of night, when father, 
 mother, all are hushed to rest, then, Louisa, 
 wake for me ! — That moment we will fly. 
 
 Louisa. Yes ; with thy father's curse attending 
 us — with our own conscience, stern reproach- 
 two dreadful curses, Ferdinand, which will pur- 
 sue us in our every step ; and serve to alienate 
 our boasted bliss : — Though my heart's fondest 
 wish would then be sealed, through life to press 
 thee to my doating breast — Though the world's 
 giddy joy I should despise, possessing thee, sole 
 spring of all my hopes ; yet, my beloved, if this 
 can never be, without incurring my dear father's 
 wrath and anger — If these brigat scenes of joy can 
 ne'er be tasted, save by the breach of every filial 
 a a 2 
 
34 CABAL AND LOT £• Act III, 
 
 tie ; then must I an arduous task perform, and 
 try to sum up all my power and strength, to bear 
 the loss of all I have on earth. 
 
 Ferdinand, (With great emotion.) And wilt 
 thou — canst thou thus coolly give me up a prey 
 to misery ? — Canst thou thus plunge the dagger 
 to my heart ; then, bid me live ? — Oh 1 thy regard 
 for me is cool indeed. 
 
 Louisa. That to thy Louisa, Ferdinand !— • 
 ( Pointing to her heart.) Is it not sufficiently torn 
 here without inflicting any additional wounds?— 
 Oh ! look but kinder ; nor bite thy nether lip, at 
 if thou wert in wrath ; for I am but ill prepared 
 to hear thy frowns, whilst my heart bleeds at 
 what is now to pass. — We are now to part — I am 
 cow about to lose thee ? — for ever too — ( Ferdi- 
 nand looks wild.) Forever to separate those 
 bonds of amity and love, which have so long sus- 
 tained me in the hour of woe ! 'tis too much- 
 enough to turn my very brain. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( His looks become more and more 
 uneasy, till they denote a violent agitation of mind.) 
 
 Louisa. I alone am culpable — my giddy mind 
 flattered itself with hopes by far too rash and too 
 presumptious — But my misery is my punish- 
 ment. — Ferdinand, let me by my example animate 
 thy drooping and departing courage. Let me re- 
 store to a father his long lost child j and forget 
 an alliance, which the vast disparity of our situa- 
 tions in life obliges me ever to renounce — Oh * 
 look not so, my beloved ; believe me, mine is a 
 harder task than thine. 
 
 Ferdinand. Peace, peace, my love ! — My mind 
 is on the rack — every pulse seems to cease to 
 beat : being in me is as it were suspended. (Fa/- 
 iing against the scene.) 
 
 Louisa. Falling on his bosom. ) But be advised— 
 Thy rebellious bosom will soon be calm— This i» 
 
Act IIL 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE, 
 
 55 
 
 an hour that demands thy being collected. — Ferdi- 
 nand it is our parting hour {Weeping) Thou hast 
 a heart — I know it — Give it to a better and to a 
 more deserving person — Whoever possesses it, 
 will not envy the happiest of her sex : — Me shalt 
 thou see no more — The lost Louisa shall consume 
 her life in sorrow and in tears— Think no more of 
 her — Ferdinand, what are now my prospects of 
 futurity ? — Think'st thou not I shall now and then 
 dwell on the fading picture of past scenes ?— -Yes, 
 my beloved, the thought of past days will con- 
 stitute my soul delight — And ere we part, accept 
 this sacred vow from thy Louisa's lips, that she 
 never will be another's bride, since fate denies 
 her to be thine. (Bursts out of the room.) 
 
 Ferdinand. (With agitation falling on his knee.) 
 Divine Louisa I — Another word ! 
 
 Louisa. (Returning.) 'Tis true-— this is your 
 due ( She falls upon his neck and embraces him ) 
 This and no more, Faulkener ! dearest Faulkener, 
 a long farewell \ (Is going, but under the sudden 
 impulse of tenderness she rushes once more into his 
 arms) and clasps him with warmth. J Eternal Pro- 
 vidence protect thy ways 1 ( is going.) 
 
 Ferdinand. (In the accents of despair) Louisa, 
 stay i In the name of the All-wise, I do implore 
 thee, stay !— We cannot, must not part — Thy 
 father shall go with us ; and we will all fly toge- 
 ther — Oh 1 think of this, Louisa To-morrow, 
 
 early I'll be here to learn thy last resolves — But, 
 remember what thy sentence bears — Thy Ferdi- 
 nand's fate is now suspended by thy decree — . 
 Thou either bringst him life j or worse than 
 death. (Exit hastily. 
 
 Scene V. — Louisa alone. (Sitting down.) 
 
 Louisa. (Looking after him with affection) Oh 
 Faulkener I Faulkener 1 What a heart is thine i— 
 
55 
 
 CABAL A\ T D LOVE. 
 
 Act IL 
 
 Warm as life is thy love ; — (pause ) Oh, Hea- 
 vens ! if I look forward, what a dreadful view ! 
 
 'Tis now I feel with innate force, the hardest 
 and severest lot, that can befall the human race — 
 To live in the world with a susceptible heart, and 
 yet not dare to feel — The fate is hard, beyond 
 
 conception hard 'Tis this, that swells the note 
 
 of woe — 'Tis this, that wakes keen agony's 
 nerve, But, where can my father stay so long ? 
 He promised me to return within the space of 
 half an hour ; and yet five tedious hours are since 
 elapsed. Should any accident have prevented his 
 return — Why am I so alarmed ? (Enter Worm 
 unptrceived ) 'Tis only the eflecl of my agitated 
 mind. 
 
 Scene VI. — Louisa and Worm. 
 
 Worm, Good evening, Miss Miller. 
 
 Louisa, Heavens ! what voice was that ?— . 
 {perceiving Worm, she starts back with surprise) If 
 you are looking for the President, sir, he has been 
 gone many hours ago. 
 
 Worm. No, Miss, I am looking for you. 
 
 Louisa. For me ? Pray what is at your 
 service ? 
 
 Worm. I am sent to you by your father. 
 
 Louisa. ( Alarmed. J By my father 1— Where 
 is my father ? 
 
 Worm. Where he does not wish to be. 
 
 Louisa. For God's sake, tell me quickly where 
 he is, and ease my tortured mind. 
 
 Worm. In prison then, if you must know. 
 
 Louisa. Looking towards Heaven.) Mighty 
 
 God ? — And was there need of this too? But 
 
 •why in prison ? 
 
 Worm. By order of the Prince, for disrespect 
 towards his minister. 
 
 Louisa. By order of the Prince for disrespect 
 
Act III. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 17 
 
 ? towards his minister ? — Have you heard aught of 
 Ferdinand too ? 
 
 Worm. He is to choose Lady Milford, or his 
 father's irrevocable curse. 
 Louisa. Dreadful alternative ! — My father in 
 | prison — the beloved of my heart forced to choose 
 I Lady Milford or his father's irrevocable curse 
 I? ( sighing deeply) And where is my mother, sir ? 
 Worm. In prison too. 
 
 Louisa {With anguish) Good Heavens ! To 
 I the very dregs must I then sip the cup of bitter- 
 I ness ? — Eternal Powers ! — Sustain my feeble 
 I frame — My fate is now complete — Now I am 
 [ exempt from each attractive tie on earth — ( a long 
 pause) Have you any more tidings to communi- 
 cate ? — You may speak freely ; for, now lean 
 hear any thing you have to say — 
 
 Worm. What is past you know — (With ama- 
 t licious smile.) 
 
 Louisa. Therefore not what is still to come— 
 |j {looking at Worm with great contempt) Poor 
 wretch ! — what a miserable trade is yours ! — It 
 can never answer your purpose — To make a fel- 
 low creature wretched, is terrible enough ; but, 
 < with a hardened face ; nay with a pleasure too, 
 to communicate the tale of grief — this is horrible 
 indeed — In the very ear of the unfortunate to 
 sound the hideous note of woe ; and smile at 
 misery's shriek — to see the human heart torn 
 with restless fury, and bleeding in it's tenderest 
 parts ; and yet applaud the pang 1 — Oh Nature ! 
 Nature ! — art thou indeed so base ? — Have I 
 heard all ? 
 
 Worm. Ask me no more questions. 
 Louisa. Creature of malice ! — were you not 
 brought up in the school of cruelty ? — Else, where 
 did you learn thus dextrously to wield the weapon 
 of destruction ?— First with the tyger's stern fero- 
 
53 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act IL 
 
 cious eye to view the destined prey in all its parts ; 
 and, having found the weakest, there aim the 
 deadly blow — Oh Heavenly Powers 1 — that man 
 can thus so far descend to copy the brute creati- 
 on's arts ! — Now tell me all ; for in that dark 
 and plotting face I see you still have something 
 in reserve — Pronounce it straight — what fate 
 awaits my father ? 
 
 Worm, A criminal process. 
 
 Louisa. A criminal process !— a little more 
 explicit if you please. 
 
 Worm. He must be tried for life or death. 
 
 'Louisa. Thanks, sir, for this intelligence— 
 (running into an adjoining room) 
 
 Worm. C Bather alarmed) What can she pur- 
 pose ? — She surely cannot think of — I'll follow 
 her — I must take care, that she does not lay vio- 
 lent hands upon her life (following Louisa^ 
 
 nvho just enters with a cloak under her arm.) 
 
 Louisa. You will excuse me, Mr. Secretary 
 but I always lock these doors after me. 
 
 Worm. And where are you going, Miss Miller f 
 
 Louisa. To his Highness this moment (going.) 
 
 Worm. Where? — When? (confused.) 
 
 Louisa. To his Highness the Prince, I tell 
 you — To that same Prince who will try my father 
 
 for life or death. No — not will, but must— 
 
 because one or two villainous wretches choose, 
 in order to serve their own infamous purposes, 
 to blast the brow of innocence with criminal 
 fraud and guilt. 
 
 Worm. Forcing a laugh ) To the Prince ? — Ha 1 
 ha 1 ha ! — Well i that is not a bad joke. 
 
 Louisa. Think you then, most fraudulent 
 wretch, I do not understand your laugh ? — Yes I 
 know it well — but hear — I want no pity from his 
 Highness' hands. — Princes I have been told, whose 
 wishes at all times are fulfilled as soon as know% 
 
Act III* CABAL AND LOVE. 59 
 
 are ignorant what misery is — therefore I'll haste 
 to the Prince this moment, — I'll paint the subject 
 in its most bold and glaring colours ; and in his 
 ear I'll shriek what misery is — Despair's ull-he- 
 dious sounds shall re-echo through his heart— 
 The voice of wretchedness shall pierce his frame, 
 and penetrate his very soul — and if he start not 
 at the glowing tale ; and if his hair should not 
 yet stand an end, I'll tell him still another truth, 
 that there will be a period, when time shall have 
 [ unplumed the pageantry of grandeur, and with- 
 ered the arm of power — that, in the hour of 
 death, which soon or late must once arrive, the 
 lungs even of Princes will begin to fail them, to 
 gasp and pant for vent ; that, under ground pre- 
 \ cedency's a jest— there prince, monarch, beg- 
 gar, side by side consume. {Going. J 
 
 Worm. {Maliciously friendly.) Oh go by all 
 means — I advise you to it ; for I give you my 
 word, that his Highness will comply. 
 
 Louisa. What is that you say? {Returning) 
 What shall I do ? — I surely ought not to go, since 
 this wretch advises me to it — (To Worm) How 
 do know that the Prince will comply ? 
 
 Worm. Oh 1 You wont find his compliance to 
 be altogether gratis. 
 
 Louisa. What price think you that he will fix 
 upon his kindness ? 
 
 Worm. {Significantly.) The fair supplicant 
 herself will be the price sufficient. 
 
 Louisa. (Understanding his meaning. ) Most 
 righteous God 1 — Oh ye poor great ! — How are 
 ye encompassed and hemmed in by your crimes 
 and vices ! — The light of truth shines not to your 
 debased minds : — May Heaven assist you father J 
 your Louisa has always considered what she owes 
 you : — She would willingly give up her life for 
 you, but not her virtue. 
 
60 
 
 CABAL AUD LOVE. 
 
 Act 
 
 Worm* His last words to me were these 
 u My Louisa has pulled me down to the groun 
 my Louisa will stretch forth her hand of comfo 
 and help me up again." — I must go, Miss, to 
 him know your answer. (As if goi7ig.) 
 
 Louisa. Oh ! stay — a moment longer stay 
 M I pulled him down to the ground ; and 'tis 
 that must help him up again" — Great God 
 What can I do ? ( To Worm with an imploring vote 
 Oh speak! — Say 1- -What can I — what must 
 do ? 
 
 Worm. I know but of one thing. 
 
 Louisa. And what is that ? 
 
 Worm. What your father wishes too. 
 
 Louisa. What my father wishes too — O 
 quickly name it. 
 
 Worm. To set the Major free. 
 
 Louisa. Of his love do you mean ? — Is this 
 time for jest ? — Is it for me to root out passion 
 from the Major's heart, or change his mould of 
 mind ? * 
 
 Worm. Miss, that is not what is meant — The 
 Major must of his own accord forsake you. 
 
 Louisa. That he will never do — As soon may 
 you with one shake stir yon temple's rocky base. 
 
 Worm. That we will try — only please to sit 
 down. 
 
 Louisa. Wretch, what are you hatching now ? 
 
 Worm. Only set down at this table — Here are 
 pen, ink, and paper. 
 
 Louisa. ( Sitting donvn in the utmost perturba~ 
 tion of mind. J What shall I write ? — To what 
 purpose ? 
 
 Worm. To redeem your father's life. 
 Louisa. Serpent ! you know how to writhe and 
 wind yourself about the heart. 
 
 Worm. (Dictating the letter. J Sir-— 
 Louisa, (Writes trembling.) 
 
Act III. CABAL AND L-OV 61 
 
 p§ y # 
 
 Worm. " What an age, my beloved, does it 
 appear to me to be, since last we fondly met." 
 Louisa. ( Starting up and laying donvn the pen. ) 
 { To whom is this letter written ? 
 
 Worm. To the decider of your father's fate. 
 Louisa. (Sighing deeply.) From his decision 
 lies there no appeal ? 
 
 I Worm. None — " But be careful when you 
 i come again ; for the Major watches me all the 
 day long with jealous eyes" — 
 
 Louisa. ( Hastily rising. ) A mere knavish 
 I trick, hitherto unparalleled. — What purpose is 
 this letter to answer ? 
 . Worm. To redeem your father's life. 
 
 Louisa. (Wringing her hands. J Merciful Fa- 
 ther 1 — Had it but pleased thee to render my fate 
 less hard 1 — Why am I thus grieviously oppress- 
 ed ? — Why tossed to and fro betwixt the dread- 
 ful gulfs of horror and despair? — And, above all, 
 subject to this bloody-minded devil's cursed arts ? 
 My mind will soon become so desperate ; as not 
 to care what dire futurity dares to menace or por- 
 tend — (To Worm.) Do what you willy— I'll not 
 write another word. 
 
 Worm. Very well, Miss^-that must be as you 
 please — ( Takes his hat. ) 
 
 Louisa. As I please do you say ?— -Barbarian ! 
 hear — What !-— lead a wretch forlorn up to the 
 mount's stupendous height; and, having hur- 
 led him down the fatal precipice beneath, you 
 call out to him to help himself as he can ? — Ob- 
 durate man ! — Too well you know, that the 
 heart by nature's bent and instinct, is more close- 
 ly tied, than by the strongest iron links — Go on— * 
 I'll write what you will — it is now alike to me 
 — I have done thinking — -( Sits down again to 
 write.) 
 
 (vol. II.) 
 
<te CABAL AND LOVE* 4&^i' 
 
 Worm* " Watches me all the day long with 
 
 jealous eyes." — Have you gotten that * 
 
 Louisa, Yes, yes, — Go on — Go on 
 
 Worm* " Yesterday the President cams here— * 
 It was really a good joke to see, how honest the 
 Major was in defending my honour." „ 
 
 Louisa. Admirable indeed ! 
 
 Worm. " For fear of bursting out into a fit of 
 laughter, I made him believe that I was going to 
 faint." 
 
 Louisa. Oh Heavens ! 
 
 Worm. u But the mask will soon become in< 
 supportable — It must ere long drop off — All thi 
 I wish for, is, to escape from him, and rush intc 
 your arms." 
 
 Louisa. ( Looking at him with the height of cot 
 tempt.) " And rush into your arms." 
 
 Worm, " This to-morrow I shall be able to ef- 
 fect ; provided you come just as he leaves me, and 
 stop at our usual place of rendezvous — you know 
 where." — Have you gotten u you know where." 
 
 Louisa. {With the deepest anguish) Yes, I have 
 .got all. 
 
 Worm. " And you shall meet — Your affectionate 
 
 Louisa." 
 
 Louisa. Now for the dire6tion. 
 
 Worm. To Baron Mindheim. 
 
 Louisa. Merciful Father ! — A name as foreign 
 to rny ear, as are these horrid lines to my heart — ► 
 (A pause, during which she looks at the letter with 
 an eye of horror ) I see the fatal fruit of this — No 
 matter — It must be done — 'Tis to save a father's 
 life : And are not a father's claims more valid than 
 a lover's ? (Greatly agitated by the conflict of duty 
 and passion J Was ever fate thus cruel? — Oh i Pow- 
 er of reclitude ? quickly nerve my staggering mind ; 
 and firmly fix its great resolve ! ( Another short 
 pause J 'Tis over ! — The struggle is past ! — {Giving 
 
Act III. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 &3 
 
 Worm the letter in a faint and almost exhausted voice) 
 Here, sir, — Here it is — Here is my innocent name 
 —Here sir, take this scrawl, the grave oi Paul- 
 kener's peace, and of all my happiness in life — (Hav- 
 ing given '0 and now I am a beggar. 
 
 Worm. Do not say sO, Miss Miller — Do not 
 despair — I am sorry to see your affliction — Who 
 knows but that I may be able sufficiently to apo- 
 logize for certain actions, which at present may 
 calumniate me in your eyes ; but which will soon 
 H r ear a different aspect. 
 
 Louisa, ( Interrupting him ) Have we done, sir? 
 
 May the bird spread its wings and fly ? 
 I Worm. Not quite yet, Miss — There is still an- 
 other small trifle — You must now come along with 
 me ; and take a solemn oath, that this letter was 
 not exacted from you by force ; but that it was 
 the result of your own free will and pleasure. 
 
 Louisa. ( Starting with horror ) Eternal Provi- 
 dence 1 — Must I then fix thy seal, in order to guard 
 
 and preserve the very works of hell ? ( a pause, 
 
 then animated ) But, fiend accursed, lead on ! — 
 and drag me where you will — Let me, all trem- 
 bling, grasp the sacred writ ; and, with all the 
 daughter glowing in my soul, press the bless'd tran* 
 script to my quivering lips — Regardless, then, of 
 each terrestrial tie, my frantic mind will rave till 
 all be o'er — Come, let me haste to take this dread- 
 ful oath ; and part with every treasure I possess — - 
 And, should mild justice, shocked, my arm ar- 
 rest ; and bid me pause, ere I seal Faulkener's 
 fate ; then shall my voice on highest pinions soar 
 —with the wild shriek of madness and despair, I'll 
 
 hollow the sweet sounds of filial love 'tis to re* 
 
 deem my sire, and die content. 
 
 (Exit, Worm following* 
 
 END OF THE THIRD ACT. 
 
64 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE 
 
 Act n 
 
 ACT IF. 
 
 Scene I. — A Boom at the President's House, 
 
 On one side Ferdinand enters violently agitate 
 with a letter open in his hand; on the other 
 Servant. 
 
 Ferdinand. Has not the Baron been here yet 
 
 Servant. Sir, his Excellency the President is 
 just enquiring for you. 
 
 Ferdinand. Damnation I I ask you whether the 
 Baron has not yet been here ? 
 
 Servant. No, Sir, he has not — His Excellency, 
 Sir, is actually waiting for you. 
 
 Ferdinand. Tell him Pll come by and by. 
 
 ( Exit Servant. 
 
 Scene II. — Ferdinand alone. 
 
 (Running over the letter, staring wildly, and fu- 
 riously agitated.) 
 
 And can it be — can that heavenly frame con- 
 tain such an infernal heart ? — That seemingly 
 beautious structure, that apparently angelic com- 
 position to prove a monument of fraud and de- 
 ceit ? — Impossible ! it can never be — And yet, if 
 ?ngels descended from above, to vouch for her 
 truth, it is her hand — If heaven and earth were 
 roused to bear witness to her innocence it is her 
 hand. — Accursed guile ! — This was the reason 
 whyjshe so obstinately opposed ourflight — It was 
 for this — O heavens ! — now I awake ; and all is 
 clear — It was for this that she gave up all claim 
 to my love with so much heroism and fore - — 
 But thus to distract me all at once ; and plun b e 
 me into misery's extreme! — (Thoughtful J And 
 were all those tremors, those sudden agitations 
 all afiecled ? (Passionately) Could each warm 
 
Act IV. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 65 
 
 fiery emotion ; — those tears of tenderness ; — each 
 tumultuous bosom's heave be forced ? — Impossi- 
 ble ! — I'll not believe it ; — When my heart by 
 warmth extreme was insensibly pitched on love's 
 refined and sublimest heights — even therewe also 
 met ; and to every emotion of affection did not 
 her heart beat responsive to mine ? — (Walking up 
 and down the room in great agitation ) — And this 
 was all grimace ! — Then what I thought the soft 
 heaving bosom of love, was but a labouring form, 
 wildly agitated, to dupe my easy unsuspe6ting 
 mind; and to light the flame of madness in my 
 brain ! — Damnation ! — (Striking his forehead. ) If 
 falsehood and guile be so specious and attractive, 
 why comes it to pass, that devils do not force 
 their way through Heaven's blessed portals ? — 
 With purity's own dignity did she not ward off 
 my Father's insolence and affronts r— And yet 
 culpable she was — (pause) The hypocrite could 
 even faint too— Oh sensibility 1— what will nowbe thy 
 language ; and how art thou to be known or under- 
 stood ? — Innocence 1 — how wilt thou defend thy- 
 self, when vipers catch thy heavenly notes ; and 
 array themselves in thy white robes of truth ? — 
 Yes, she affecled to faint in these arms — But co- 
 quettes sometimes can faint — Strumpets too can 
 faint — (m thought) She knew her power, and used 
 it for her purpose well— When my bosom glowed 
 \vith ecstacy and love — when my soul hung with 
 rapture on her charms ; and when, deluded fool, 
 I thought to clasp all Heaven in hei celestial form, 
 
 Great God 1 — Did she all the while Impossible 
 
 — It can never be — And when, buried in her chaste 
 embrace, I thought to revel in the very bliss of 
 Paradise — when the world vanished from my view ; 
 and when I dreamt of nought but eternity and her, 
 could her heart be totally insensible to each soul 
 denoting mark, that my rapt mind bespoke ?— ~ 
 b b 2 
 
CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 <Act IV. 
 
 Could she then too think of guile and damned de- 
 ceit ? — Heavens ! — In that perfect hour did she no- 
 thing feel ?--Oh yes!— She felt the triumph of her 
 
 arts — she felt her fraud succeed ! She gloried 
 
 in her guilt ! 
 
 Scene III — Baron Mindheim and Ferdinand 
 
 Baron. You were so good as to send me word 
 mon cher ami, that you wished to speak to me. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Aside) Yes to break your bones 
 
 for you \ to the Bdron) Baron, you must have 
 dropt this letter here this moning ; otherwise, 
 cannot conceive, how it could have fallen into my 
 hands ; for I was by chance the lucky finder. 
 Baron. You ! — ( Appearing surprised J Dear me 
 I am astonished. 
 
 Ferdinand. Pshaw! Pshaw! Read it — Yo 
 
 will find it worth the while — (Giving the letter t 
 the Baron, who pretends to run it over ; during whic 
 time Ferdinand goes to a drawer for a pair of pistols. 
 
 Baro-n. {Seeing what Ferdinand is about, he throw 
 the letter upon the table ; and is for taking to his heels. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Taking him by the arm) Not quite s 
 soon, my dear Baron — Good news, in that letter 
 I perceive — Remember there is postage yet to pa 
 — (Shewing him the pistols J 
 
 Baron. ( Frightened and stepping back ) You hav 
 not lost your senses, Major ? 
 
 Ferdinand. No — No — I have senses enow left 
 to settle matters with you — Here, sir, take one of 
 these pistols immediately. 
 
 Baron. One of those pistols ? Are you mad, 
 
 Major ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Dire&ly take one of them ; or Pit 
 break your bones for you this instant — See how 
 the cowards trembles \—(The Baron makes another 
 attempt to run away ) Hold ! a little patience 
 {Bars the door) 
 
 Baron. But surely not in a room. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 f ABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 67 
 
 Ferdinand. Oh — that matters not — but no dal- 
 lying for me — Present, I say. 
 
 Baron. To be sure, so hopeful a young man 
 will not risk his precious life in this manner. — Mon 
 cher Major, be advised. 
 
 Ferdinand. Take your aim this moment, scoun- 
 drel ; for I have nothing more to do in this world. 
 
 Baron. But I have a great deal, my excellent 
 young man. 
 
 Ferdinand. You ?— Blockhead — you much to 
 do ? — Caricature of ribaldry and folly ? 
 
 Baron. Any thing that you like — only take those 
 pistols away. 
 
 Ferdinand. How the fellow stands shaking !— 
 Would it not be an insult to the creation to lay 
 hands on such a deplorably pitiful wretch ?— A ba- 
 boon, the very refuse of our kind? — Not one idea 
 to distinguish between right and wrong — a frenchi- 
 fied fop, brought hither, like the court fools of old, 
 to amuse their sovereign ; and to give us some 
 faint idea of the last and most despicable order of 
 
 mankind ? And this creature to possess her 
 
 heart?— With this animal to inhabit the regions 
 of love ? With this inse6l, this brute, to ex- 
 change the language of passion? — Oh Heavens !— 
 Let me not think on it— a being, who is a shame 
 to our sex ; born, more to alienate, than to create^ 
 affection. 
 
 Baron. Thank God ! — he has lost his senses 
 
 C'est bien pour moi What would I give to be 
 
 about a hundred miles off ! — any where but not 
 with him. 
 
 Ferdinand. But, rascal ! — if her honour be not 
 clear — Scoundrel !— if her purity be stained ; — 
 {enraged) 'twere better for you never to have been 
 born ; 'twere better for you to fly to Hell's re- 
 motest parts, than to meet my awakened rage — 
 {With the voice of terror) Wretch ! how far have 
 you prevailed with her ! — Villain 1— confess. 
 
65 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act IV. 
 
 Baron. Let me but go and I will tell you all. 
 
 Ferdinand. This moment, rascal ! or I let go 
 (holding the pistol to his breast ) Confess, or you 
 breathe your last. 
 
 Baron. A moment's patience, and I'll tell you 
 all— it is all nothing — a mere story— You are de 
 ceived— imposed upon— -ma foi. 
 
 Ferdinand. Wretch ! — do you dare to remin 
 me of that too ? — (Going to lay hold of him ) 
 
 Baron. Mon dieu ! — if you would but hear me 
 Your Father — I say your father. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Interrupting him) My father? (so J 
 tening a little) My father? — What about my fa 
 ther ? 
 
 Baron. You rave, mon cher Major, I never saw 
 her— I know nothing of her—nothing in the whol 
 world. 
 
 Ferdinand. Never saw her? Know nothin 
 
 of her ? Away infamous liar 1 — (Pushing him ou 
 
 of the Room) Louisa's lost 1 
 
 Scene IV. — Ferdinand alone. 
 
 (A long silence, during which Ferdinand's looks be 
 tray an extreme horror of mind) It must be done— 
 this rebellious heart calls aloud for retribution 
 and must have dire revenge ! — Revenge ? — O 
 whom ? — On her, who was my highest joy, my 
 only bliss on earth ? — On her who alone of all crea 
 tures living could sway my mind, or charm my 
 soul to rest ? — And is it her blood, that I must 
 seek ? — Oh horrid, horrid fate ! (Pause) And yet, 
 it must be done — Lost, lost Louisa ! — Yes, unfor- 
 tunate one, thou art lost ; but, am I not also lost ? — 
 I am indeed — And if I be, by Heavens ! so art 
 thou — Most righteous Judge ! — she was my all — 
 The world entire did I for her give up — And yet — 
 O God 1 — She has roused my very soul ; and all 
 nature within me loudly demands revenge— .But 
 
Act VI. 
 
 CASAL AND LOVE. 
 
 69 
 
 my arm is weak and faint, and knows not how to 
 lift the murderous weapon — To sweep from earth 
 a flower so lovely and so prime — to cut her off in 
 all her blooming days ; ere time's correcting hand 
 has formed her youth, and given her feeble mind 
 a proper mould 1 — 'Tis torture, 'tis death to me — 
 But, what ! — Shall I then let her live ? — Shall I be 
 doomed to hear her make a laugh of Faulkener's 
 credulous mind ; and see her with impetuous 
 warmth rush into her paramour's arms ? — Dis- 
 traction ! — ( Striking his forehead ) Oh I for the 
 gleaming dagger's point to hurl her to swift des- 
 truction, and quickly to open to her view eternity's 
 tremendous scene ! — ( Starting ) Eternity ! — dread 
 thought ! — Faulkener ! — Faulkener I that comes 
 home But, it must be done, (is going out, but 
 meets the President ) 
 
 Scene V. — President and Ferdinand. 
 
 President, Son ! I am glad to meet you here ; 
 for I have agreeable news to tell you — Some- 
 thing, which, I am sure, will surprise you. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Affectionately) Sir! — My father — 
 ( looking at him with great emotion ; then falls on 
 his knee and kisses his father's hand. J Oh my dear 
 father ! 
 
 President. What disturbs you, Ferdinand ?— - 
 Your hand trembles and burns. 
 
 Ferdinand. Oh Sir ! — can you pardon my in- 
 gratitude towards you ? — I have abused your 
 kindness, and entailed a curse upon myself — I 
 am indeed a miserable wretch — Your motives 
 were all so affectionate — Your mind was so pro- 
 phetic But, now it is too late — Your pardon, 
 
 sir, — Do not reject an unhappy youth for his first 
 offence towards you— Mine was an error of judge- 
 ment ; and I know, sir, you are always ready to 
 forgive any, that does not proceed from the heart. 
 
70 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 President. Rise, my son 1 do not under 
 
 stand >ou — What mystery lurks beneath you 
 words ? 
 
 Ferdinand. (Rising.) Louisa Miller, sir, — Oh 
 
 how am I to tell you all ? Your rage was s 
 
 properly founded — Your objections so solid — s 
 fatherly warm — Oh sir, Louisa. 
 
 President. Ferdinand, do not torture me i 
 
 this manner (feigning not to understand him 
 
 I am heartily sorry for my behaviour towards her 
 but, I hope to make amends for every hars 
 word I uttered — I am come to conciliate matters 
 
 and restore all harmony and joy Why do yo 
 
 look so wild, my son, as if the news were u 
 welcome to you ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Conciliate matters ? Heavenl 
 
 Powers ! — look with an eye of pity down you 
 
 mercy here extend lest my heart-string 
 
 should crack, and reason leave her seat O 
 
 my father j How shall I tell you ? Thi 
 
 Louisa — 
 
 President. Is a charming and a lovely girl 
 I recall every suspicion, which I too hastily har 
 boured— She has acquired my fullest esteem 
 and I come to give my consent to your immediat 
 union. 
 
 Ferdinand. Our immediate union ? ■ Fathe 
 of Heaven I heardst thou that ? — Our union 
 (starting) Where ?»— On the wheel of damna 
 tion ?— -There amidst our groans and howls- 
 with my wild rolling eyes fixed upon her torture 
 frame, twisting ourselves into a thousand hideou 
 shapes to get from the infernal rack ? 
 
 President. (Stopping him.) Ferdinand, wha 
 
 are you thinking of ? Does your joy overpower 
 
 you ? Believe me, I never meant to deal 
 
 hardly by you — Louisa shall soon be my daugh 
 ter — I reckon her virtue for parentage j and he 
 
Act IV. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 beauty for gold (Ferdinand's wild and staring 
 looks shew that his mind teems with some horrid 
 
 purpose ) But, son, why do you look so wild ?— 
 
 Your stare terrifies me. — All my former interest- 
 ed views yield to my strong affection for you ; and 
 we now embrace, as having but one common 
 pursuit after happiness. ( Embracing Ferdinand, 
 Ferdinand, ( Tearing himself from his father's 
 arms ) It must be done — and I'll about it straight — 
 ( turning to his father ) Happiness, did you 
 name ? — Oh that the mother earth would swallow 
 jpie ; and take me to her cheering bosom ! — for, 
 Svhilst my pulse beats, horror will be in every 
 throb. ( Brusting out of the room, 
 
 ( President, ( Alone,) All has operated to my 
 wishes — he has by this time seen the letter ; and 
 'is raving about Louisa's perfidy — Rave on, my 
 hot brained youth — Ere long you will be calm 
 fagain — He little suspects the author of his troub- 
 les ; nor mean I, that he should — Now my pro- 
 spects begin to brighten ; for, now I have no 
 doubt of his accepting Lady Milford's hand ; and 
 thereby crowning my fondest wish. ( Exit, 
 
 Scene. VI — A splendid apartment at Lady Mil- 
 ford's 
 
 Enter Lady Milford and Sophy. 
 Lady Milford, You saw her then Sophy ! Is 
 she coming ? 
 
 Sophy. She is madam — She said, that she 
 would wait upon your Ladyship this moment, 
 i Lady Milford, like a criminal do I tremble at 
 the thought of seeing this happy one — And how 
 did she take the message ? 
 
 Sophy, At first she seemed greatly surprised— < 
 looked at me ; then was silent for a minute ;— 
 ( at length she said- " My respecls to her Lady- 
 ship, and I will do myself the honour of waiting 
 on her immediately." 
 
72 
 
 CABAL AND LOTE 
 
 Act IV 
 
 Lady Milford, I am quite uneasy — If I find in her 
 nothing but what we see in common, I shall be 
 really vexed — If I find more, I shall be miserable. 
 
 Sophy, But, Madam, this is not the disposition 
 in which a rival ought to find you. — -Call to mine 
 your birth, your rank your power — Elevatec 
 
 Lady, Milford ( Not having minded her ) Wha 
 is the fool chattering about ? 
 
 Sophy, ( Rallying her ) Then I suppose your 
 Ladyship beinc^ thus superbly dressed to day, with 
 that row of splendid jewels in your hair, is mere 
 chance and accident; and by no means calculated 
 to impress this Miss Miiler with an idea of your 
 magnificence, and a sense of her own inferiority. 
 
 Servant, A young lady, by the name of Miller, 
 Madam. 
 
 Lady Milford, Desire her to walk up {Exit 
 
 Servant) Sophy, take yourself away — (Sophy seems 
 unwilling to go ) Do you hear what I say ? — I desire 
 yon would go tl is moment — {Exit Sophy) I am glad 
 to fed myself thus agitated ; and yet I dont know 
 how I shall be able to bear her presence — (She 
 throws herself on a sofa, which is situated at the end 
 of the room ; and assumes an air of the most forbid- 
 ding dignity, ) 
 
 Scene VII. — Louisa and Lady Milford. Louisa 
 
 enters with the utmost diffidence ; curtesies to Lady 
 Milford, but remains at some distance from her 
 —Lady Milford is sitting on the sofa at the 
 lower end of the room — She looks at Louisa with 
 all imaginable hauteur — {a pause.) 
 Louisa. Madam, I wait upon you agreeably to 
 
 your Ladyship's desire. 
 
 Lady Milford, {Just turning her head) Oh ! 
 
 Is it you? Miss pray what is your name ? 
 
 Louisa. My name is Miller, Madam ? 
 
 ideas will give you towering looks. 
 
 Enter Servant. 
 
Act IV. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE* 
 
 79 
 
 Lady Milford. True — true-?~I recollect now 
 
 the poor music-master's daughter, of whom some 
 one was talking the other day ■ '{a pause, then 
 aside) Very interesting, but yet no beauty— — ( to 
 
 Louisa ) Come nearer child 1 nearer yet To 
 
 be sure, you are not afraid of me ? 
 
 f^Lofysa. Afraid Madam ? -No— Sometimes 
 
 I despise the opinion of the multitude. 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Aside ) This contumacy she 
 has from him— {to Louisa) Your name then is 
 Louisa Miller. 
 
 * Louisa. It is, Madam. 
 
 * vLady Miiford. Miss Louisa, I have been told, 
 that you are exceedingly accomplished ; and that 
 you possess most attractive qualifications ^-In- 
 deed all the world says so- and I think all the 
 
 world is very good authority. 
 
 r. Louisa. I confess, Madam, that I know no 
 ^persons who would think of giving themselves the 
 •trouble of speaking of one so insignificant as Loui- 
 sa Miller. 
 
 Lady Milford. And how old are you, pray, if I 
 may ask. 
 
 Louisa. I am eighteen, Madam* 
 
 Lady Milford. {Aside) Eighteen? *-the first 
 
 jmlse of passion — — what so dangerous ? ( to 
 
 Louisa ) Miss Louisa, I find myself prepossessed 
 •in your favour ; and I have a mind to make your 
 
 fortune Sophy is going to be married ; and I 
 
 could wish you would come and live with me. 
 
 Louisa. {With becoming dignity) I am as much 
 obliged to your Ladyship for your intended favour, 
 as if I accepted the same. 
 
 Lady Milford. I beg your pardon, Miss, I did 
 not know you were so proud- — -I suppose you 
 think those fingers too delicate for work ; and pride 
 
 yourself upon that pretty face of yours But be 
 
 advised child those cheeks are not enamelled 
 
 vol. ii.) C c 
 
74 
 
 CAE AL AND LOVK. 
 
 Act m 
 
 —What would you say, if you found your admirer's 
 attention cease, as soon as your charms and beau- 
 ties began to fade I 
 
 Louisa. (With pointed expression.) Pity the ad- 
 mirer, Madam, who bought a jewel, because it 
 appeared to be set in gold. 
 
 Lady Milford. ( Not seeming to have heard her. J 
 I think you would have no cause for repenting o: 
 your determination, if you accepted my offer. 
 
 Louisa. Pardon me .madam, if I presume tp* 
 
 differ from you The houses and palaces of the 
 
 great are but too often the asylums of the most 
 unbounded luxury and extravagance— Who would 
 give the poor Louisa credit for launching all at 
 once into the perilous contagion, trembling at the 
 
 same time at the fatal infection ?- Or, who 
 
 would suppose, that Lady Milford, the enviec 
 and distinguished Lady Milford, so highly re- 
 nowned for affluence, splendour, and for every < 
 thing, which can possibly contribute in appear- 
 ance to the purest felicity, should with all these 
 attainments be in reality destitue of that solid hap- 
 piness, which falls to the lot but of the " pure in 
 heart and that her conscience should sometimes 
 
 prove a scorpion in her breast ? Would your 
 
 Ladyship, when crossed in any plan or pursuit 
 be able to bear with the placid air of content- 
 ment, which would beam from my countenance ? 
 
 Or, upon your return from any party, hurt 
 
 or displeased by any occurrence, how could you 
 witness the attractive mien of humble happiness, 
 ever imprinted on my calm and unruffled brow, 
 proceeding from inward satisfaction's smile ? — 
 We are all weak, when unsupported by our own 
 esteem — there are times, when the heart, con- 
 scious of having acted amiss, dreads a scrutiny — 
 the anvil of gnawing conscience is never cool— 
 t he contemplative hour must sometimes exist to a 
 mind of your stamp— the serpent reproach may 
 
Act Ifc CABAL AND LOVE* 7,1 
 
 Sometimes assail you with all its venemous stings ; 
 and your whole bosom may be turned into a scene 
 of perturbation and disquietude — Under the im- 
 pulse of these dreadfuj evils, your mind jjiust be 
 singularly endowed, Madam, to be able to vieW 
 |j,with indifference your attendant Louisa's face, 
 dressed in artless looks of serenity, unclouded by 
 care, unchecked by disappointment ; and boast- 
 ing the purest bliss of innocence and a heart at 
 peace. 
 
 Lady Milford, (Aside) Intolerable ! but 
 
 what is still more intolerable, is, that I feel she' 
 
 is right (to Louisa) I do not understand you, 
 
 child Your objections to live with me must be 
 
 strong indeed — I find that you do not choose to 
 name them ; but (with a threatening air) I shall 
 discover ali, and shall take my just revenge. 
 "^ffifiLouisa. Madam, forgive me ; but I defy your 
 
 rage :— All your wrath, all your anger will 
 
 prove unequal to subdue the mind, which consci- 
 ence strengthens, and which innocence protects-— 
 
 Let the worst come 1 am prepared for it 
 
 Let the destructive storm of fate bend me even to 
 dejection's lowest ebb, still I shall always find a 
 shelter, to afford me that enviable store of solace, 
 which no power can ever ravish from me — I mean, 
 Madam — the sanctuary within my own heart. 
 
 Lady Milford, Miss Louisa, you will be most 
 assuredly happy, if you would come and live with 
 me* 
 
 Louisa, In my opinion, Madam, the mind 
 cannot be better employed than in the pursuit af- 
 ter happiness ; which grand end in life being 
 once attained, our noblest efforts and views ought 
 to be directed to maintain that blessed post, so 
 often sought for, and too oft in vain— The diffi- 
 culty is achieved in the possession of the object ; 
 and, without doubt, it rests with us to render the 
 
76 CA3AL ANDT L0VI2. Act It, 
 
 subsequent scenes of life in the highest degree 
 pleasurable and happy, by keeping a constant 
 guard upon our actions and conduc"l ; lest we de- 
 viate from the unerring path of rectitude and 
 truth — Happiness, Madam, I hold not to be a 
 whim— It is a jewel of that inestimable value, as 
 to be worthy of our utmost assiduity and om 
 most strenuous exertions. 
 
 Lady Milford. (Aside.) Faulkener ! no wond- 
 er thou art caught, if even I am fascinated — (To 
 Louisa.) But, surely child, you would not, by 
 living with me, be obliged to. set aside those 
 plans you have laid down in order to preserve 
 that happiness, which you so justly prize — I wish 
 you happy, and therefore propose to you this 
 step, which may advance your prospects in life. 
 
 Louisa. But, Madam, as we advance in life, 
 are we always the happier? — Is content alwjtjphr I 
 the concomitant of wealth and state ? — If my ap- I 
 prehensions be just, the increase of riches does v 
 not in the smallest degree tend to enhance our 
 comforts ; but very often to augment our causes of 
 discontent— -Let us but watch the peasant's face- 
 Is it not blithsome, gay and easy ? — Day after 
 clay to him is still the same — Scene after scene is 
 still alike ; and yet he lacks for nought— Soon as 
 he wakes, he knows his whole day's work ; and 
 his mind turns on that his only care — His labour 
 o'er, homeward he bends his way ; and joining 
 his sweet fireside, he feels not a wish uncrown- 
 ed — But, what is the security to this peasant's 
 bliss? — Is it not his confined mind, his bounded 
 notions, his contracted views ? — Nature in him is 
 satisfied, possessing all that she desires — Having 
 each wish of his heart gratified, he cannot ask 
 for more, knowing not what he should demand. 
 
 Lady Milford. (Aside.) What a Godlike 
 mind ! — ( to Louisa ) True, Miss Louisa, but 
 
Act IV. 
 
 CABAL AM) LOVE. 
 
 7 7 
 
 you have said nothing yet to substantiate your ob- 
 jections to live with me. 
 
 Louisa. Lady Milford, you said just now, that 
 you wished me happy — then leave me to my hum- 
 ble lot — {approaching Lady Milford, and with feel* 
 jng) Are you happy, Madam ? — Does the inward 
 festivity of that heart (laying her hand on Lady 
 Miljord's heart) answer to this external glitter I 
 (pointing to the splendour of Lady Milford' s dress ) 
 —(looking at her with great softness J Is every 
 beat the throb of content ; and each tumult the 
 tumult of bliss ? — Suppose we were to exchange 
 bosom for bosom— destiny 'for distiny — and then 
 were I to make a solemn appeal to you to declare 
 the person benefited ; on whom, think you, would 
 the decision fall ? 
 
 Lady Milford. (Much agitated and throwing 
 merself on the sofa ) No, girl, no — this elevation 
 of mind you never could acquire from your fa- 
 ther — but I find the lessons of another tutor. 
 
 Louisa. If in my language you can discern 
 that tutor's instructions, (with pointed expression) 
 how came it to pass, Madam, that you just now 
 thought proper to propose to the pupil of such a 
 tutor the offer even of a servant's place ? 
 
 Lady Milford, ( Rising in anger ) Oh ! this is 
 no longer to be borne — But hear presumptuous 
 girl — I know all — I am acquainted with all your 
 hellish tricks — but henceforth dare not to look on 
 him with the eye of love ; or even to meet from 
 him a glance, which passion may denote — else, 
 fear my fury ;— for I am mighty and can do' 
 wonders — And, if I be not obeyed ; if on him 
 thine eye shoot the faintest beam of love, by the 
 eternal powers I swear you are forever lost. 
 
 Louisa. Beyond all possible recovery, Madam, 
 when once ( pointedly) you force him to love you* 
 
 Lady Milford. I understand you. Miss— but I 
 (vol. ii.) cc 2 
 
73 
 
 CABAL AND L0VK. 
 
 Jet IK 
 
 am above accepting his love on those terms — —I 
 will suppress this shameful passion ; — obtain a 
 victory over my own heart, but still defeat your 
 plans — Yes, rocks and mountains will I raise, to 
 sever your fond hearts— a very fury I will rage a- 
 round you to confute your schemes : — My name 
 like a hideous ghost shall haut your cursed home ; 
 hold each warm kiss from off* your glowing lips, 
 and check each sally in its very birth — then that 
 young bloommg form, locked in his arms, pant- 
 ing and trembling in his warm embrace, I will 
 plunder with these destructive hands ; till each 
 attraction cease, and beauty fade To spoil en- 
 joyment is enjoyment still. 
 
 Louisa. Oh Lady Milford I — Do not stamp upon 
 your heart a calumny which it does not deserve — 
 As soon as your bosom will have re-assumed its 
 wonted calmness, you will recoil at the dismal 
 effect of passion ; and find yourself unable to put 
 your threats into execution — Be assured, that you 
 will not be inclined to torture a poor creature, 
 who has never done the least thing to injure you 
 and whose sole offence is that of having loved-— 
 Now, Madam, only see the difference between 
 you and me—I not only feel, but also respect eve- 
 ry tumult and emotion of that heart which has 
 been agitated like mine by one common object — In 
 testimony of this assertion — 
 
 Lady Milford. (Stopping her and quite softened by 
 Louisa's impressive speecli) No more, sweet girl, 
 lovely, noble, godlike Louisa ! — Can you forgive 
 a heart, by fury torn ?— Believe me, there was no 
 meaning in my threats ; for I knew not what I 
 said — Not a single hair upon your head shall be 
 hurt by me— I will cherish you as a friend and 
 as a sister— ask what you will, it shall be granted 
 —your father is poor — here take these jewels, 
 {Taking some of her jewels from her hair) take any 
 thing you wish for — I will sell my wardrobe, carri- 
 
Act IV. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 79 
 
 ages horses — all, all are yours (Dropping her voice) 
 Only renounce him. 
 
 Louisa. Oh Madam !— were I sure, that you do 
 not hold me in derision ; and that you were not ac- 
 cessary to that fatal letter — 
 
 Lady Milford. What letter ? — I know of none— 
 By all that is sacred, I know of no letter. 
 
 Louisa. No ? — -{With great emotion) Take him 
 then away, Madam — Willingly do I resign to you 
 that man, whom with the very grapples of Hell 
 you could not have wrenched from my bleeding 
 side — But, take him away — the world's no more to 
 me — Unknowingly, perhaps, do you rob Heaven 
 of two lovers ; and tear asunder two hearts, which 
 God himself united— Unknowingly, perhaps, do 
 you crush a poor wretch, whom, Heaven created 
 
 to be happy as well as you -A creature, whose 
 
 heart is equally susceptible of every tender emo- 
 tion as your's ; a being, who prized the glow and 
 throb of delight with rapture at least as fierce — 
 Bin:, take him away — now he is yours — {wildly) 
 Drag him to the altar — Rush into his arms — But, 
 have a care that the ghost of a self murderer do 
 not stalk along the hallowed aislq, to interrupt the 
 marriage rites j and step with violence 'twixt the 
 bridal kiss. (Exit. 
 
 Scene VIII. — Lady Milford, alone. 
 Lady Milford. (Much agitated ; her looks direct- 
 ed to the door, where Louisa went out) How was that? 
 — What said she Heavens ! — those horrid sounds 
 still vibrate in my ear — Take him away— .Whom,, 
 hapless girl ?— The gift of thy last hour ? — The 
 dreadful legacy of thy despair ? — Eternal God ?— 
 Am I then fallen so low — all at once so precipi- 
 tated from my throne of greatness, as to take ad- 
 vantage of liberality's kind gift ? — Nay even a beg- 
 gar's mite, her last only mite? — Louisa, No — Jane. 
 Milford has a mind as well as you ; and can re- 
 nounce a passion, though it should cost her many 
 
30 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act IF. 
 
 a pane — Seducingscen.es of love farewell ! — Image 
 of Faulkener ! for ever quit my sight — To every 
 fond deluding hope, to every golden vision of ro- 
 mantic bliss I bid adieu ! Generosity must be 
 
 now my guide— Either this fond pair are lost ; or 
 
 I must withdraw all former claims (pause) 'Tis 
 
 done — I leave the court this day ; for, here to stay, 
 
 after what has passed that will not even bear 
 
 a thought 1 am resolved — every bar is remov- 
 ed, and every difficulty achieved—Each shameful 
 tie between the Prince and me with a willing hand 
 I break ; and draw a curtain upon all past scenes 
 — I'll instantly write to his Highness ; and inform 
 him, that, before he receive my letter, I shall have 
 for ever abandoned him and his court. --(With 
 self satisfaction) The thought how glorious ! — The 
 resolve how sweet! — Henceforth, Oh Virtue! be 
 my constant guide ; and steer me safely to thy 
 realms of peace : Thy blissful barriers I'll no more 
 o'erleap, but firmly cling to recAifcude and truth: 
 Bear me, Oh ! bear me from these baneful 
 climes, where lurking vipers, mental rest corrode ; 
 where dire contagion's dart its flight doth wing ' r 
 frail mortal reaches, and his manners taints ; in- 
 fects his habits, and his mind corrupts : — But if, 
 like, me, by thy bless'd power relieved, the path 
 of evil he would haste to shun : — like me, degener- 
 ate vice he would abhor, and fly those regions* 
 
 once delight's gay throne : And though with- 
 
 self-upbrading shame oppress'd, on the sad retros- 
 pect of former days ; his prayer to Heav'n, like 
 mine, would still be this ; that, though to mercy 
 
 ev'ry claim be lost: though he have tresspass'd 
 
 'gainst the shrine of faith ; still, life's grand bliss 
 he fondly hopes to share, in the enjoyment of that 
 grace divine, which to aftiiclion yields a grateful 
 balm ; and to past gifts those peerless treasures 
 adds — a mind to relish and a heart to feel. 
 
 i*B OF THE FOURTH ACT. 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 A C T v. 
 
 Scene I*-— The dusk of the evening — A Room in 
 Miller's House. 
 
 (The scene discovers Louisa sitting inacorner of the 
 room in a disconsolate posture— After, a long pause, 
 Miller enters with a lantern in his hand ; looks 
 anxiously about the room, without perceiving hi^ 
 daughter; then lays his hat on the table, and sets 
 the lantern down.) 
 
 Miller. What ! — not here neither ? — {wringing 
 his hands) Good God ! I can no more — Each 
 street I have traversed — At every door I have 
 knocked ; but no one has beheld my child— (a 
 short pause J Oh Heavenly Powers! — If this fond 
 father's heart glow with too warm affection for 
 this child, let me not know the doom 1 dread — 
 Let me not live to feel this worst of human ills ; 
 but, kindly snatch me from so dire a scene ; and 
 in death's sleep end each corroding pang. 
 
 Louisa. {In a plaintive voice ) Why mourns 
 my father thus ? 
 
 Miller. (Overjoyed.) And can it be ? — It is — 
 It is my own Louisa — But why thus all alone, 
 and in the dark ? 
 
 Louisa, When thus I am wrapped in sullen 
 night, with me doth all seem well ; for, to me 
 sweetly congenial is the sable gloom. 
 
 Miller. Did I not know your mind's unsullied 
 purity, I should think that guilt had prompted 
 this sad lower ; for, what but minds, that are 
 corrupt, thus shun the light ? 
 
 Louisa. Ah father ! — here is your inference 
 not nice enough — Oh ! for once, away with com- 
 mon notions, and prescribed ideas— OtT from the 
 beaten track ; and, with a clear acumen consider 
 a female's mind — .They call us soft and weak ; 
 
32 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act Vs 
 
 poor etfen in thought, and timid in resolve — So* 
 indeed sometimes we are — But, when once the 
 fibres of the mind are strung ; once roused the 
 passions that awake the soul ; trust me, by the 
 bold nerve of intellect is our sex as well marked 
 as your's— Father, will you take charge of this* 
 letter ! 
 
 Miller. To whom, Louisa ? 
 
 Louisa. Singular question indeed — To whom 
 should it be but to Ferdinand, the spring of my 
 every thought. 
 
 Miller. ( Alarmed ) Louisa, I am determined' 
 to open this letter ? 
 
 Louisa. Do as you will ; but you will leani 
 nothing — Dark is the character, in which each 
 line is traced — No eye, save that of love, can see 
 the drift ; but passion's ken will find, that with 
 emphatic meaning every word is fraught. 
 
 Miller. ( Reads.) " Ferdinand, thou art be 
 " trayed — By a villainy unparalleled, the ties, 
 " which so sweely united our faith, are dissolved 
 " A tremendous oath has fettered my tongue ; and 
 " thy father's listeners watch all around — Yet m 
 " beloved, if, like me, all fear thou deride ; and like 
 c< me, with courage be armed, I know a third place, 
 " where weak is the force of an oath ; and where 
 " listeners will find no access — ' — {Miller pauses 
 here, and loo-ks Louisa earnestly in the face.) 
 
 Louisa, Why that earnest look, father ? 
 
 Miller. (Proceeding with the letter.) "Withun- 
 " shakeable firmness thou must wander though a 
 " long dark passage ; thou must pierce the black 
 tl regions, where thou wilt find Louisa thy guide — 
 " Tenderness must pervade thy whole frame— 
 " The breath thou breathest, must be the very 
 " breath of love — Louisa the grand goal of de- 
 t« sire — If thus inflexibly thy mind be nerved, 
 4t haste away when the clock of the Carmelite 
 
CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 JB3 
 
 V steeple strikes twelve — Tkit if soul thou do 
 " lack ; and like a tatne dastard do shudder and 
 shrink, dash out the word courageous from 
 " thy sex ; for, a maiden overwhelms thee with 
 " shame." 
 
 Miller. ( Looks at Louisa for some time very 
 fixedly, then in a low trembling voice) And this 
 third place, Louisa ? 
 
 Louisa. Seek not to know it — It will be in 
 vain ; Ferdinand will find it. 
 
 Miller. Name it, my child ; nor keep me 
 • longer in suspense. 
 
 Louisa, I know no soft and lovely name that 
 suits it — O love ! hadst thou created titles, then 
 what a name would this heavenly spot have 
 had? — This third place, my good father, is, (look- 
 ing at him pointedly) the grave. 
 
 Miller. (Staggering to a chair) Oh Heavens ! 
 
 Louisa. Doth brightness terrify ; or $oth 
 beauty appal ?— -Why so shocked ? — — 'Tis but 
 the name that is so hideous — Away with little 
 
 fears ! — What is in a name ? -Do I not invite 
 
 him to the sweet abode of peace ? — To the man- 
 sion of the blessed ? — Suppress this dread ; and 
 keep in view the dazzling edifice of eternal bliss — 
 Thither I bend my way — 'Tis time to shift this 
 ,«r dismal scene — High time to withdraw, when 
 * every moment we feel that we are scorned. 
 
 Miller. Then all my comfort is to learn, that 
 
 suicide is your fixed intent-— Oh God !■ Suicide, 
 
 that most tremendous of crimes ! — Of which to 
 repent, no space of time is allowed ; for the 
 very moment of guilt is the period of life. 
 
 Louisa. (Sitting on the chair near the table, and 
 hiding her face with her hands. J Merciful powers i 
 
 Miller. (Warmly J Oh Louisa ! — If in that 
 heart of yours, there still be room to feel for him, 
 v horn once you gave the name of parent — Oh I 
 
84 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 '■mark my words — Low have you bowed me, my 
 only one ; low ! low perhaps even to the grave !— . 
 Need I say, you are my all, the very idol of my 
 
 soul And will you tear yourself, my only 
 
 blessing from me ; and leave me destitute of all 
 that life esteems ? 
 
 Louisa. ( Kissing his hand with great emotion*) 
 Dear father, I quit this world your greatest 
 debtor ; but in the life to come I will pay your 
 fondness ten fold back. 
 
 Miller,, {Fixing her with his eye.) Take heed, 
 my child, that your reckoning be not false — ( pro- 
 ceeding in a solemn manner.') Shall we there meet, 
 Louisa ? — On that grand and solemn day, when 
 the avenging hand of the most High will punish 
 every a£t, repugnant to the law of faith — — 
 {Louisa falls on her father's neck ; he continuing 
 with great earnestness) On that awful day, when the 
 final doom of all must be according to the work 
 achieved, vain will be the voice of supplication — 
 vain a fond father's intercession — The Judge of 
 mankind will hold the scale of equity ; and must 
 be deaf to entreaty and prayer — ( With great feel- 
 ing ) How then ? — Unhappy girl, how then ? 
 
 Louisa. ( Clinging around her father's neck ) Fa- 
 ther, forbear — forbear* 
 
 Miller. Once more I warn you — Each faculty 
 of thought collect — To follow your bier to the tomb 
 would almost turn my brain ; but ( shuddering ) 
 thus to see you rush into your Maker's presence—- 
 
 Louisa. (Stopping him, violently agitated) Hold 
 here for mercy's sake, my father. 
 
 Miller. (Very warmly) Call me not so- — you 
 are no more my child — and, to the weight of sins, 
 wherewith you are oppressed, add that, of having 
 drawn upon yoursel f . -a father's curse. ( Rush- 
 ing out of the room. 
 
 Louisa. (Falling on her knee and stopping him) 
 
Act V. 
 
 CA3AL AND LOVE. 
 
 S5 
 
 One moment stay — You must not leave me thus— 
 What should I do to regain my father's love ? 
 
 Miller. If the kisses and caresses of a lover 
 more warmly animate you, than the tears, and 
 sobs of a father -die. 
 
 Louisa. C After a violent conflict ) I am — I 
 am again your child — Oh 1 how weak is all, when 
 weighed against a father's love and tenderness !— 
 Ferdinand, thus I sacrifice thee ; ( Tearing the let- 
 ter) and thus I seal a parent's peace and comfort. 
 
 Miller. Merciful Heaven 1 — Let this a6t be re- 
 corded on high— •( overjoyed falling on his knee ) 
 Let this mark of elasticity of mind be stamped on 
 the annals of truth— To e.ich parent I turn to at- 
 test this bright deed, as now is instanced in my 
 heaven -born child. 
 
 Louisa. Cease, father, cease — nor let me hear 
 my nothings, thus extolled — My own heart's plea- 
 sure is sufficient praise— >( Hearing some one coming) 
 Quick let us away — J hear some one. 
 
 Scene II. — Enter Ferdinand. 
 
 Louisa. '(Shrieking she throws herself on her fa- 
 ther's neck J Heavens • — 'Tis he ! — 'Tis he I — I am 
 lost. 
 
 Miller. Who ?— Where ? 
 
 Louisa. 'Her face turned from Ferdinand) 'Tis 
 he himself! — To murder me he is come I 
 
 Miller. (Perceiving Ferdinand and starting hack) 
 You here Major Fauikener ? 
 
 Ferdinand. ( He slowly, approaches ; then goes 
 up to Louisa, and looks her stem r y in the face — a 
 short pause ) Mark the infallible declaration of con- 
 science — Thanks for this surprise — The avowal is 
 terrible, but clear ; and happily saves the pain of 
 further enquiry — Good evening, Miller. 
 
 Miller. What brings you hither Major ? — Why 
 
 B(V0L. II.) 
 
86 
 
 CA3AL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 thus take us by surprise, when we so little thought 
 of seeing you ? 
 
 Ferdinand, I have known the time, when for 
 my coming every minute of the day was told-~ 
 when anxious longing hung on every hour; and 
 when by fond desire the lazy-pacing clock was 
 chidden — Then, Louisa, some one was wont to 
 exclaim " With what heavy and retarding weight 
 cloth expectation load the wings of time !" — {turn- 
 ing to Miller) Whence, friend, this wondrous 
 change ? 
 
 Miller. Major, I pray you, go — Depart, if yet 
 one spark of pity dwell within your breast — Before 
 you entered my house, sweet was the meal of the 
 day : No wish we could form was uncrowned : 
 Uncloudy each morn and each eve : But, since 
 the fatal day, when first you saw this hapless maid, 
 misery has pierced the roof, which till then was 
 the abode of content. 
 
 Ferdinand. Cheer up, cheer up, old friend — 
 Tidings of joy I come to communicate — Hopes, 
 substantial hopes, I come now to impart. 
 
 Miller. Major, mock not thus distress — Hopes 
 to us?— Then from the very ashes of despair these 
 
 hopes must spring — No — No — No— No To us 
 
 set is the bright planet of hope. 
 
 Ferdinand. Lady Milford, the most dreaded 
 obstacle to our love, has just left the country — No 
 thing else is talked of — My father now consent 
 to our union Fortune at length is propitiou 
 to our wishes ; and I come to claim my lovely 
 bride. 
 
 Miller. ( To Louisa, who during this scene is seat- 
 ed by the table, her head sunk on her arm ) Regar 
 him not, Louisa ; nor let his insults add to you 
 distress. 
 
 Ferdinand. You think I am in jest — By Hea- 
 vens I am not — My heart is open as my speech 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 87 
 
 There is Louisa's throne — What I still the mien 
 of chilling doubt? — Not yet the timid blush of joy 
 upon those beauteous cheeks ? — Wonderful ! — 
 Falshood must indeed here be current coin, when 
 sterling truth meets such distrust — Believe then 
 here a written evidence of purity and truth (Throw- 
 ing before Louisa her letter to the Baron.) 
 
 Louisa. (Opens the letter and sinks doivn quite 
 oppressed, as soon as she finds it to be that, written 
 by her to the Barcn.J 
 
 Miller. (Without observing Louisa, to Ferdinand) 
 What mean you by that letter, Major ? — I do not 
 understand you. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Pointing to Louisa ) Ask her, old 
 man ! — Too well she has understood me. 
 
 Miller. ( Seeing Louisa pale J Oh Heaven ! ■■ 
 my child ! 
 
 Ferdinand. Pale as death ! — Never before did 
 she so beauteous seem — With that death-like face, 
 what charms till now unseen ! — Conscience ! — Con- 
 science ! — Thy voice how comprehensive ! — Thy 
 compunction how eloquent ! — To my struck mind 
 appears the grand effects of the last judgment's 
 blast, that will from subtle falsehood's mien tear 
 the very gloss, which in this miserable world so 
 often cheats fair reciitude's aim ; preys on inte- 
 grity's truth : and makes us wretched mortals bear 
 woe's galling fetters ; till, at length, harassed by 
 rubs, we buckle on misantroph's garb ; lose all 
 cordial confidence towards human kind ; are foes 
 to all, and think ail foes to us — Oh heavy, heavy 
 doom 1 — Here (Pointing to Louisa) is that gloss re- 
 moved — Here is her first true face — There I will 
 plant a kiss — (Going to kiss Louisa.) 
 
 Miller. (Stepping between him and Louisa) Stand 
 back 1 young man ! — Do not thus harrow up a fa- 
 ther's heart — From your insidious caresses I could 
 
88 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Ac) V. 
 
 not guard her ; but, from your insults, I can and 
 will. 
 
 Ferdinand. Old man, you much mistake me — 
 Each parental feeling of yours I consider and re- 
 spect — But, be advised — take henceforth no part 
 in a game, so clearly lost — My business now is 
 not wilh you — 'Tis with Louisa I must speak — 
 {Taking the letter out of Louisa's hand) Say, wretch- 
 ed girl, is thai letter thine? 
 
 Miller. (Earnestly). Daughter be firm — For 
 Heavens cake now be firm. 
 
 Louisa. Oh ! my father, that letter 
 
 Ferdinand. Which by chance fell into my hands 
 — Chance do I call it ? — Oh Providence ! — Dark 
 and intricate, but wisely ordained are all thy ways 
 — When but a sparrow falls, thy goodness is ex- 
 erted— Wny not when a demon is unmasked? I 
 will be answerable Didst thou write that let- 
 ter ? 
 
 Miller. (Aside, imploring her by signs) Steady, 
 dear £irl — Steady — But a bare yes, and the con- 
 flict is past. 
 
 Ferdinand. What 1 The father too deceived ? 
 —Well 1 each is cheated in his turn — Look how 
 my fair one trembles ! — determined, but half 
 afraid, longer the mask to wear — Swear by thy 
 God, the symbol of truth — Didst thou write that 
 letter ? 
 
 Louisa. (After a struggle, in which she and Mil- 
 ler converse by looks) I did write that letter. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Stands terrified) Louisa — No — If 
 my pulse beat, 'tis false — If I still move, and have 
 my being, it is false — Thou dost avow this crime, 
 like the poor innocent wretch, from whom, when 
 stretched upon the infernal rack, confession is for- 
 ced of guilt, which never stained his mind — I was 
 too violent — Was I not, Louisa? — and that letter 
 thou didst not write. 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 80 
 
 Louisa. It was indeed truth which I confessed. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Warmly) 'Twas not — 'Twas not — I 
 say — 'twas not — It is not within possibility's ca- 
 pacious sphere, that now thou dost speak truth — 
 So conscious am I of it, that I again do ask, if 
 that damned scrawl was penned by thee or not — i 
 But, no — I ask it not — I ask it not — lest, perad- 
 venture, another yes, tremendous as the former 
 was, should strike my astonished ear ; and hurl 
 me into misery's abyss, whence no exit I should 
 ever know — ( short pause, during which he contem- 
 plates Louisa avith admiration ) But yes — {animated) 
 my whole stock of biiss I'll stake upon this angel's 
 brow ; for, it appears to me, as easily could I 
 with these two hands the earth's big chaos grasp ; 
 as that a mind of such seraphick sweetness could 
 thus beguile the cause of truth — {turning to Louisa) 
 Louisa, free from all doubt, I ask thee — Didst 
 thou write that letter ? 
 
 Lousia. Then by the God of all — I did. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Thunderstruck and falling against 
 the scene ) Merciful Heavens ! 
 
 {Here it is left to the judgment of the actor, how to express the 
 anguish, which this last declaration of Louisa occasions — 
 Let the actor sufficiently weigh Ferdinand's present dread- 
 ful state of mind, and he will readily allow, that it would 
 have been a gross violation of nature, to have made Ferdi- 
 nand here roar out a lo:g speech, indicative of the agony ex- 
 perienced; since it is a very prevalent opinion amongst thosz 
 who know the human mind, that all violent emotions are not 
 expressed by speech '; — judicious leaks, gesticulation proper- 
 ly adapted to the situation, denotes mental disquiet with far 
 greater ejfect. — Durir.g this struggle of Ferdinand's, Louisa's 
 eyes should be rivetted on him, watching him with all ima- 
 ginable anxiety ; and they ought to express the lively con- 
 cern which she takes in his distress -On the other hand, 
 Midler's whole manner should discover the distrust which 
 
 . he has of Louisa's firmness on this occasion ; and he ought to 
 be constantly erJeaxourivg, though in vain, to avert her ciien- 
 
 tiC:.) 
 
 d d 2 
 
00 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Ferdinand. One more request ( with an al- 
 most totally exhausted voice) It is the last--My 
 head burns — Louisa ! will you make me a glass 
 of lemonade ? 
 
 Louisa. This moment — (With great- feeling) 
 Only be composed ! {Leaves the room. 
 
 Scene III. — Ferdinand and Miller. As soon 
 
 as Louisa leaves the room, Ferdinand walks up and 
 down for some minutes, arms across, head sunk—* 
 At length Miller with the voice of pity says to him). 
 
 Miller. Dear Major, how from my heart I pity 
 you 1 
 
 Ferdinand. O ! — away with pity, my good friend, 
 if that be all the comfort you can give — (Continu- 
 ing to walk about J Miller,, at this moment I can 
 scarcely tell, what brought me hither. 
 
 Miller. Surely, sir, you have not forgot, that 
 you sometimes come here to learn to play upon 
 the flute. 
 
 Ferdinand. True — True — I fondly thought, that, 
 where the soft charms of music were known;, 
 there the mind, by harmony attuned, turned on sin- 
 cerity's pole and echoed to concord's mild sound 
 — But, harsh have been the tones of our flute — 
 (Falling upon Miller's neck ) But, you are not to 
 blame, old man ! — The fault is not in you. 
 
 Miller. No — as I hope for mercy, it is not. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Short pay.se — walking again up and. 
 down the room.) 
 
 Miller. I cannot fioxiceiye, wbat thus detains 
 Louisa — With your -leave, Major, 1*11 see for the 
 lemonade. 
 
 Ferdinand. No haste, good Miller — (aside) es- 
 pecially not for you, old man — What was I going 
 
 to say ? Oh — I recollect — Louisa is not your 
 
 only child ? 
 
 Miller, She is my only child ; nor do I wish 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 for more — In her is centred all my joy, my sole 
 delight — My girl just fills up all the room within 
 her father's heart — (weeping) And whilst with her 
 I am blessed, I shall always say, that I am, though 
 poor, a very very happy man. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Violently agitated) Ha ! — see for the 
 drink good Miller. 
 
 Scene IV. — Ferdinand alone. 
 
 His only child ? — Oh heavens !— All his stock 
 of happiness in this wide world ? — Murderer ! 
 feelst thou that ? Deprive a venerable poor old 
 man of the last gleam of comfort ! — Am I then 
 grown so callous ? — What ! Dash the crutch, on 
 which the cripple leaned, in pieces before his 
 feet ? — (short pause ) And when with soft affec- 
 tion's throb he hurries home, eager in his 
 Louisa's face to cast up the sum of all his joy— . 
 Good God I will he not find her lifeless on the bed 
 of death ? — Clay-cold each animated charm of 
 
 loveliness and youth ? Have I a heart for 
 
 that ? — No — no — no — I will proceed no further 
 
 in this plan Here let me pause; and of this 
 
 pi&ure take a sad survey-—^ another short pause j— 
 Soft I soft 1— -A ray of radiant light breaks forth— 
 (again fixed in thought ) Oh ! I am shallow- 
 minded, and lack the faculty and power to dis- 
 tinguish between the amiably and insidiously dis- 
 posed ; for, can she, whose corrupt mind can 
 thus dwell on duplicity's wiles, thus doat on 
 hypocrisy's arts, be formed to watch around an 
 aged father's bed ; and smooth the brow of 
 care ? — No — Impossible !— -By the baud above, 
 that heart was never framed to perform those 
 tender offices of sweet filial piety, which could 
 thus renounce the lovely dictates of tenderness ; 
 and thus vilely abuse passion's sacred and refined 
 glow. Then why so timid ? — Why shrink from 
 
92 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 that which merit and not cruelty reflects ? Who 
 
 knows, what heart-rending pangs by this one act 
 I may a father save ?— .For one, whose nature 
 thus clings to mischief and deceit, is capable of 
 all — {in thought for a moment) — It is resolved ! 
 
 Scene V. — Ferdinand, Miller and Louisa. 
 
 Louisa, {with a faltering voice, handing Ferdi- 
 nand the glass oj lemonade') If it be not to your liking, 
 Major Fauikener, you will be so good as to men- 
 tion it. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Takes the glass, sets it down, and 
 goes up to Miller ) My good Miller, I had nearly 
 forgotten something — Will you do me a favour ? 
 
 Miller. W ith the greatest pleasure, sir. 
 
 Ferdinand. I am at this hour expected at my 
 father's to supper — But I am just now m such 
 miserable spirits, that all company would be abso- 
 lutely intolerable to me — Will you just step, and 
 leave word that I am prevented joining the party : 
 
 Louisa. Father, let me go — I shall soon be 
 back. * 
 
 Miller, No — No — I will go — Tis dark, child. 
 
 Ferdinand. And besides, here is a letter di- 
 rected to him — It came this evening enclosed in 
 
 one to me Will you take charge of it ; and 
 
 deliver it to his private secretary ? 
 
 Louisa. ( Alarmed at the thought of being left 
 alone with Ferdinand.) But, father I could do 
 this as well as you — Let me go, I pray. 
 
 Miller. Ycu go, Louisa ? — At this time of 
 the night ? and alone too ? — No — No — No— -I 
 shall return in a few minutes — (goes.) 
 
 Ferdinand. 'Tis quite dark, Louisa — You had 
 better light your father — (As soon as Louisa leaves 
 the room with the candle, in order to light her fa- 
 ther, he goes to the table, and puts poison into the 
 lemonade J By Heaven it is decreed ! — She falls . 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 9 3 
 
 The powers above give the terrible nod of assenfc— 
 Her guardian angel sleeps—and vengeance is 
 awake ! ! ! 
 
 Scene VI. — Ferdinand and Louisa. 
 
 C Louisa returns slowly with the light, sets it down, 
 looking at Ferdinand with great fear and anxiety- 
 Then she places herself at the harpsichord which 
 is at one side of the room.) 
 
 ( A long and expressive silence should precede this 
 scene J 
 
 Louisa* Major Faulkener, I wish that you 
 would take your flute ; and we would play this 
 lesson together. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Fixed in thought, and gloomy, he 
 makes no answer — pause. J 
 
 Louisa. Or, at a game at chess, shall I take 
 
 the revenge which you know, you owe me ? 
 
 Shall w T e play ? 
 
 Ferdinand. ( As before, he makes no answer-— 
 another pause.) 
 
 Louisa. But perhaps you would like better to 
 retaliate upon me at your favourite game of 
 Piquet — C Ferdinand makes no answer. J Major 
 Faulkener, I have just finished drawing the 
 pattern for the waistcoat, which I promised to 
 embroider for you ; would you like to see it ? 
 
 Ferdinand. {Head sunk and lost in thought, he 
 makes no answer — pause. J 
 
 Louisa. Oh ! — I am very wretched. 
 
 Ferdinand. Art thou indeed ? — That may well 
 be true. 
 
 Louisa. As I apprehended, Major Faulkener, 
 we do not suit each other at this moment — We 
 are wretched company one to another — I trem- 
 bled, I confess, at the thought of our being left 
 alone, when just now you sent my father away. 
 
94 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act V. 
 
 Ferdinand. (With affected levity ) We mope too 
 much to night, to be sure — Suppose we call in some 
 of the neighbours ; and of this tedious duet make 
 a merry quintetto — Ay, by my honour, the cle- 
 verest thought, in a situation like ours — We will 
 be sprightly, and laugh at dull care ; and, by the 
 help of some sons of gay mirth, we will try to re- 
 venge ourselves on all the silly high-flown reveries 
 of passion and love. 
 
 Louisa. (Looking at Jiim ivith surprise ) Ferdi- 
 nand Faulkener ! 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Pursuing the strain of levity) Nay ! 
 why not ? — Thou, Louisa, must be the very first 
 to say, that they are all mere fools, who constant- 
 ly prate of never fading affection, and everlasting 
 love — Eternal sameness palls — Variety, dear, dear 
 variety only forms the soul of delight — ( Aside, 
 finding himself unable to support this levity any lon- 
 ger ) Oh Heavens ! — That word must be the very 
 last — I can no longer thus dissemble. 
 
 Louisa. (With feeling ) Oh Faulkener ! Faulke- 
 ner i — How it grieves me to see thee so wretch- 
 ed ! 
 
 Ferdinand. I wretched ? — Who has told thee 
 
 so? — Woman ! — Too fiend-like art thou to feel 
 
 How then of others the sensations weight ? — So— • 
 So — She knew, how her medicine would operate ; 
 Death and perdition 1 — She knew all this ; and yet 
 
 could Oh ! — Oh 1 — Oh 1 — thus whelm me in 
 
 agony's gulf {bitterly) Serpent ! — This avowal 
 
 seals thy doom— Had I not heard that word, to 
 thy folly's madness I should have imputed thy 
 crime ; and in the bosom of contempt have buried 
 all my rage But now — now — ( Striking his fore- 
 head ) So, when this imp's trick thou playedst, 
 thou didst it not in vile imbecility's form, but in 
 that of the very demon of malice and guile — ( He 
 snatches the glass and drinks) The lemonade is 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 95 
 
 tasteless — (Sneering horridly and shaking) Sadly 
 flat — Taste it I 
 
 Louisa. Oh heaven's — Groundless were not my 
 terrors for this scene. 
 
 Ferdinand. (In a commanding manner ) Taste it ! 
 
 Louisa, {Takes the glass and drinks) 
 
 Ferdinand. (Turns away, with a sudden paleness, 
 to the farthest corner of the room, as soon as she de- 
 gins to drink. J 
 
 Louisa. The lemonade is good. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Shuddering with horror) May good 
 come of it then ! 
 
 Louisa. Oh Faulkener ? — Didst thou but know, 
 how cruelly thou wrongs t my heart. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Looks at her, but makes no reply) 
 
 Louisa. The time will come, Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Looks again severely at her, but says 
 L nothing. J 
 
 Louisa. Yes, Ferdinand, a time indeed will 
 come, when thou wilt own, how cruelly hard is 
 my lot. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Walks about with increasing anima- 
 tion, becoming every moment more and more distur- 
 bed) Good God! — (Taking off his sword, and look- 
 ing at it with great emotion) Once my pride !— — 
 my glory my delight farewell (Throw- 
 ing it away) My steel alas I will shine no more I — 
 My sinewy arm I shall no longer toss ! — My coun- 
 try I can serve no more 1 
 
 Louisa. My God 1 — what is the matter with 
 you ? 
 
 Ferdinand. Oh ! — only a little too confined — Now 
 I shall be more at ease. 
 
 Louisa. You had better drink a little more of 
 the lemonade — That will cool you. 
 
 Ferdinand. That is true — The wench is kind—. 
 But that they all are. 
 
 Louisa. (Throiving herself into his arms with 
 
96 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Ad r. 
 
 the utmost tenderness) Do I live to hear this from 
 my Ferdinand ? 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Rejecting her embrace) Away ! — » 
 we have done with that — No more of thy insi- 
 dious lures None of those soft and melting 
 looks — Thy languishing eye I now behold with 
 
 antipathy Serpent with the tongue of guile, 
 
 thou may st now, if thou wilt, dart on me thy 
 
 deadly venom Arm&d with grisly terror, thou 
 
 mayst now try to destroy me by thy touch ; but 
 
 mark now I am awake ; and thy fell aim I 
 
 can parry with might. 
 
 Louisa, That it should come to this ! — (Go- 
 ing up the stage.) 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Looking after her with admiration ) 
 And still what harmony of form ! — What perfect 
 symmetry ! — All so divinely beauteous I — In eve- 
 ry part the work of Heaven's most happy hour ! 
 Celestial powers 1 I do not murmur, nor rebel ; — . 
 but in a clime so exquisite, why should the dire 
 blast of infection be known r 
 
 Louisa. Am I doomed to hear this ? — And 
 yet to undeceive him I dare not attempt. 
 
 Ferdinand. And then that heavenly melody of 
 voice, so in concord with that soft look of melan- 
 choly, which captivates the soul — Oh ! — would 
 not one have thought, that she was the very mir- 
 ror of sweetness and love, reflecting at once all 
 that the high hand of Providence could give, even 
 when most disposed to bless? — What pity, that, 
 when by the Creator's hand, that grand, noble, 
 finishing touch was given, the framing heart and 
 mind — Good God ! — How in that moment erred 
 thy mighty arm ! 
 
 Louisa. ( Aside) Rebellious youth ! — Even at I 
 the throne of Heaven he dares to level his at- 
 tack. 
 
Act r. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Falling upon her neck J Once a- 
 gain Louisa — Once again let me fold thee in these 
 arms, as on that clay, when in my heart dawned 
 affection's first morn : When o'er thy lovely form, 
 fixed and enraptured I hung : and from thy Fer- 
 dinand's breast the first sigh of love was reveal- 
 ed — ( animated ) Oh Louisa ! call to mind that 
 bright hour, when first faltered my name on thy 
 tongue ; and soft tenderness flowed from thy lips 
 — Heavens !- — How then throbbed my warm heart 
 with content ! — How glowed my fond mind with 
 delight ! — The very harvest of joy seemed at 
 hand ; and attained the summit of bliss — But, 
 now — here ( pointing to the heart ) rankles the 
 dart of distress ; — here {striking his forehead 
 with anguish) grows black misery's fang ; and 
 horror is around me as light— Where'er I look, 
 I behold destruction's fell fiend — Wheresoe'er I 
 turn, I feel the harrowing gripe of that monster 
 .despair— C in tears ) Oh Louisa 1 Louisa i Loui- 
 sa ! — why was I thus so cruelly deceived ? 
 
 Louisa. Faulkener 1 Faulkener I — I stop not 
 thy tears — Weep on—Weep on — Check not the 
 kindly gush — To thy tears I am entitled, but not 
 to thy wrath. 
 
 Ferdinand. Oh ! be not deceived — From the 
 source of dejection these tears do not flow — Those 
 are precious, to mine if compared — Not those 
 pearly drops that start from the bright humid eye, 
 when the heart with mild tenderness melts — Not 
 the gush of affection's sweet spring ; nor the tor- 
 rent of rapture's warm stream— Touched are then, 
 sensibility's chords ;— awake each fine nerve— 
 The tear then is the symbol of comfort, not sor- 
 row — But mine are like the sad maniac's groans, 
 which only re-echo the first cause of his wild* 
 ness and woe. 
 
 .(VOL. II.) 
 
B$ CABAL AXD LOVE. Act V, 
 
 Louisa* Oh spare me Faulkener !_-Spare my 
 aching breast ! Durst I but open these lips, thy 
 ears I could stun with surprize : — But, by the 
 decree of stern fate, my tongue is clogged with 
 the bars of restraint ; and, whilst there those 
 fetters remain, discord must sever our hearts, 
 and our minds can know no relief. 
 
 Ferdinand. What meanest thou by restraint ? 
 If now obligation's curs'd shackles thou feel, Oh I 
 'tis time to loosen them all — If even by oaths 
 thou be bound, forget them now ; for, at hand is 
 the hour, which all human ties must dissolve — 
 Oh Louisa, declare — this moment declare — How 
 long has the Baron thy love ? 
 
 Louisa. Ask what thou wilt, for ever are sealed 
 my lips. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Very pointedly) For thy own sake 
 
 I implore thee to say Has the Baron thy love 
 
 or esteem ? 
 
 Louisa. ( Makes no answe r < < p ause ) 
 Ferdinand. Oh Louisa 1 the sands of life are ra- 
 p-idly running away— -Then do not tarry ; but say, 
 has the Baron thy love or regard? 
 Louisa. {Makes no answer- — — pause) 
 Ferdinand. Oh ! — knew thou but all, with haste 
 wouldst thou solve every doubt; and each flying 
 moment thouwould'st strive to keep back- {in 
 
 a low voice) Louisa ! Louisa ! Short Oh short 
 
 is thy time here on earth. 
 
 Louisa. {Looks at him fearfully, but says nothing 
 ' p ause.) 
 
 Ferdinand. {In great agitation) Well then in. 
 thunder thus-^Speak— -How long has the Baron 
 thy love ? — {falling on one knee, and grasping her 
 hand eagerly ; then with great emotion) Louisa ! Be- 
 fore this taper burn out, thou wilt be no more, 
 
 Louisa. { Terrified) Gracious God !. What is 
 
 all this ? C sinking down again upon the chair ) and 
 aw I am feeble and faint. 
 
GA3AL AND LOVE 
 
 99 
 
 Ferdinand. What ! — Already ? — Mysterious in- 
 deed ? — Those very nerves, unmoved, when the 
 base act of guilt was performed — unshaken, when 
 the comfort of man was at stake, by a poor grain 
 of arsenic are fully destroyed. 
 
 Louisa. Ha! Poison! Poison! Oh Heavenly 
 
 Powers ! 
 
 Ferdinand. Yes Louisa, when that drink thou 
 didst taste, at that moment thou signedst death's 
 bond. 
 
 Louisa. Is it indeed so ? — Death ? — Death f — 
 Immediate death ! — Father of mercy ! — disregard 
 me not. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Looks at her with all imaginable anx~ 
 ieijj.) 
 
 Louisa. {Growing weaker and weaker) Oh my 
 poor father ! — Ferdinand can nothing save me ?— 
 I speak for riiy father's sake* 
 
 Ferdinand. Nothing can save thee, Louisa— 
 But be at peace — I shall close my eyes with thee— 
 Hence we depart together. 
 
 Louisa. Ha ! — Thou too Ferdinand ? — Poison 
 from thee ? — Oh God of goodness ! — On him turn 
 thy meek eye of forgiveness. 
 
 Ferdinand. Look to thy own account, Louisa— 
 That way I dread to think. 
 
 Louisa. Ferdinand, Ferdinand— I can no long- 
 er be silent -I am now about to tell thee some- 
 thing which will almost petrify thee. 
 
 Ferdinand. (With great avidity J Ha. I — Speak! 
 Speak ! 
 
 Louisa. Death annuls every oath ; therefore, 
 now, though too late, I will tell thee a truth, which, 
 if sooner divulged, might have saved and preserv- 
 ed us both. 
 
 Ferdinand. What do I hear ? — Impossible ! 
 
 Louisa. The whole earth contains not a wretch 
 so miserable as thou art j for innocent I die. 
 
10(5 » CABAL AND LOVE. , Ad Y. 
 
 Ferdinand. (Thunderstruck ) What I What ! 
 
 —Recollect thyself -Declare the truth, even 
 
 awful though it be — and swear 
 
 Louisa, By what ? 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Eagerly ) By what is dearest to thy 
 parting soul. 
 
 Louisa. Then let me swear by our first kiss of 
 love, affection's balmy pledge — By that I swear, 
 that, since that hour, when first by tender con- 
 cord and assent we sealed our mutual vows, I ne- 
 ver have been false to my Faulkener, innocence, 
 or truth — 'And what imports that letter, which thus 
 fatally destroys us hfA\\--( feeling the poison ) Oh 1 
 What shoots through all my veins? Ferdinand, 
 now I may speak — Alas 1 that letter. 
 
 Ferdinand. Ila ! — that letter ! 1 charge thee 
 
 — Speak, I do conjure thee, speak ! 
 
 Louisa. (Speaking with difficulty, from extreme 
 weakness ) Oh ! dearest Ferdinand, that letter " 
 Call up all thy mind to hear a dreadful tale — that 
 letter — Oh ! — that fatal letter was wrung from me 
 by thy father — What my hand wrote, my heart 
 abhorred. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Clasping his hands toivards Heaven^ 
 and all at once falling prostrate on the ground J Oh 
 inhuman father ! 
 
 Louisa. ( In agony ) Oh ! — now T the poison works 
 — Ferdinand, forgive .'twas all by- 
 force ( Ferdinand supports her J Thy— ——Louisa 
 
 —would have -preferred— even death 
 
 But 'twas from prison to 
 
 release my— father— — also— I cannot 
 
 telL thee all (sinking more and more.) 
 
 Ferdinand. Heaven of my heart ! Quit me 
 not thus. 
 
 Leu is a. My head turns round 
 
 All is dark Blessings on thee 
 
 my dearest Ferdinand !— Oh Hea- 
 
Act V. 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 10! 
 
 ven ! Mercy ! Oh ! Oh ! Oh !— « 
 
 (dies) . 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Sinking doivn by the body ) An^el of 
 
 Heaven ! fly me not thus Nor leave me to 
 
 madness a prey ! 
 
 President. (Without) Is my son here ?— 
 Where can I find my son ? 
 
 Scene the last. 
 Enter President. 
 
 President. {Ferdinand's letter in his hand.) What 
 can this^ean, my son ? —I hope nor 
 
 Ferdinand. 'Tis now too late to hope — Mur- 
 derer I see your work — (pointing to the body of 
 
 Louisa ) Gaze on her, who is alas ! no more— 
 
 \ She was my sweet Louisa — See you that mild 
 
 angelic face ? It was the mirror of truth 
 
 There fix your looks How lovely is she, even 
 
 in death ! — Attempered to the ties of tenderness 
 
 was her mind Yet my father has deprived 
 
 her of life (in agony) Ha ! 'Tis well — I 
 
 feel the potent draught. 
 
 President. My son ! — my son ! — Is there no 
 remedy ? 
 
 Ferdinand. None None- You have cast 
 
 the fatal die She'sleeps alas ! to wake no more ! 
 
 President. (Trying to take Ferdinand's hand) 
 Your hand, good Ferdinand. 
 
 Ferdinand. {Refuses giving his father his handy 
 shaking his head.) 
 
 President Who so miserable as I am ? 
 
 Miller. ('Behind the scenes. ) Louisa ! Louisa! 
 my child ! my child ! 
 
 Enter Miller. 
 
 Miller. Where are you my girl ? — Louisa, 
 
 where are you ? They talk of poison poison is 
 
 the cry — ( seeing Louisa dead, he shrieks out ) 
 
102 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 Act V* 
 
 Who has clone this ! — My only one, speak ! — 
 (receiving no answer, he takes her hand ) What I— 1 
 
 lifeless ?— Gracious Powers ! — • — Major i 
 
 explain. 
 
 Ferdinand. ( Pointing to the President.) Look to 
 
 my father for Louisa's life He tore her from 
 
 me He could not bear to see the angel live. 
 
 Miller. ( Falls on one side of Louisa's body, 
 Ferdinand being on the other, whence he does not move 
 during the remaining part of the scene. J 
 
 Ferdinand. (With a faint voice J I come Louisa 
 —soon we shall be again united—No power, or 
 time will part us then, soon we shall meet in those 
 brighter regions, where no shaft of malice can 
 
 ever reach us ( in agony, and in broken accents ) 
 
 Ha ! — cruel poison ! 'Tis the last struggle. 
 
 President* My dear Ferdinand 1 Can you 
 
 forgive your wretched father ? 
 
 Ferdinand. My moments are but short 
 ( voice more and more exhausted J Why should I dis- 
 turb your future days, by witholding my forgive- 
 ness ? — i — Take it — (holding his father his hand J 
 And so may Heaven have mercy upon me ! — Ah 
 Sir ! — How glorious the certainty, that, with this 
 my act of reconcilement, the past could be obliter- 
 ated from your memory But, alas ! I fear 
 
 'tis otherwise ordained ; and that, in some future 
 day, the idea of her ( pointing to Louisa's corpse J 
 mournful image will obstruct all peace — Before 
 your steps her faded form will glide ; Her dying 
 moan, alas! will strike your conscious ear— (in 
 agony) Oh ! — Oh ! my bursting heart ! 
 
 President. ( Eagerly kissing Ferdinand's hand J 
 Oh ! my son, my son ] A curse on my ambi- 
 tious views — A curse upon my former unkindness. 
 
 Ferdinand* Think not of it — ( sinking J Oh !— 
 Oh !— Oh ! — If possible — Bright be your remain- 
 ing days and Heaven grant* that you may happily 
 
Act V, 
 
 CABAL AND LOVE. 
 
 103 
 
 close life's finishing scene ! — But my father — * 
 ( pointing to Miller ) — forget— -not — that— broken 
 
 hearted man You have — robbed — him — of— 
 
 his — all He — is — old — and — poor Need — I 
 
 — say — more ?— Oh ! — Oh 1 — Oh !— .That — pang 
 is the last— Louisa — I— come — -Oh ! — ■( dies ) 
 
 President, ( Kneeling down by the dead body of hie 
 son,) 
 
 (The curtain falls to slow music) 
 
 e>id or the secokb volcise.