ROBBERS: a Cragei)}), In five acts. from the German of Frederick schill£& A NEW EDITION, revised and corrected from the various iranslatiorts « NEW YORK: EVBLISHED BY DAVID LONG WORTS* At the Dramatic Repository, Shakspeare ■ Gall erg. ADVERTISEMENT. - Frederick Schiller, the author of this tragedy ^ whs educated in the military school , founded by the duke of IVirtemberg. At the age of twenty-three , he wrote this drama , which procured him the highest refuta¬ tion throughout all Germany ; but the discipline of that institution not permitting such pursuits , he was prohibited the use of his pen , under pain of imprison¬ ment He therefore left his native country for Man- helm , where he soon received the appointment of aulic counsellor of the palatinate of Bavaria. He has writ¬ ten several other tragedies. —Fiesco, or the Genoese conspiracy-— The Minister (also translated under the title q/*Cabal and Love)—Don Carlos, the Infant of Spain—one on the story of the Maid of Orleans , and two under the title of The Piccolomini, or the Life and death of Wallenstein, parts the first and second '.-Mill of which will be hereafter published. 'The present is the fourth american edition of The Robbers, and has been revised by comparing the va¬ rious translations of this tragedy: the publisher trusts therefore r that it will be found more correct. PREFACE, pf this most extraordinary production, The Tra¬ gedy of the Robbers, it is probable that different opinions may be formed by the critics, according to those various standards by which they are in use to examine and to rate the merit of dramatical compo¬ sitions. To those who have formed their taste on aristotelian rules, derived from the meagre drama of the greeks, or on the equally regular, though more varied, compositions of the french stage, ac¬ commodated to the same rules this tragedy, as transgressing against the two chief unities of time and place, will be judged a very faulty composition. But even to such critics, if they are endowed with any real perception of the sublime and beautiful, this composition will be acknowledged, in spite of its irregularity as a whole, to abound with passages of the most superior excellence and to exhibit situ¬ ations, the most powerfully interesting that can be figured by the imagination. On the other hand, to those who are disposed to consider a strict adherence to the unities, as a facti¬ tious criterion of dramatic merit, as originating from no basis in nature or in good sense; and, as im¬ posing a limitation on the sphere of the drama, by excluding from it the most interesting actions or events, which are incapable of being confined with¬ in these rules, this performance will be found to possess a degree of merit that will entitle it to rank in the very first class of dramatical compositions* * preface This tragedy touches equally those great master- springs of terror and of pity. It exhibits a conflict of the passions, so strong, so varied, and so affect¬ ing, that the mind is never allowed to repose itself ; but is hurried on through alternate emotions of compassion and abhorrence, of anxiety and terror, of admiration and regret, to the catastrophe. The language top is hold and energetic, highly impas¬ sioned, and perfectly adapted to the expression of that sublipnity of sentiment which it is intended tq convey. A distinguishing feature of this piece, is a cer¬ tain wildness of fancy, which displays itself not only in the delineation of the persons of the drama, but in the painting of those scenes in which the action is laid. This striking circumstance of merit in the tragedy of the Robbers was observecland felt by a cri¬ tic of genuine taste 5 who, in an excellent account of the german theatre in which he has particularly an¬ alyzed this tragedy, thus expresses himself: “> The intrinsic force of this dramatic character, (the hero of the piece) is heightened by the singular circum¬ stance in whiph it is placed. Captain of a band of inexorable and sanguinary banditti, whose furious valqr he wields to the mqst desperate purposes; living with those associates amidst woods and de¬ serts, terrible and savage as the wolves they have displaced : this presents to the fancy a kind of pre¬ ternatural personage, wrapt in all the gloomy gran¬ deur of visionary beings **♦ * \ccount of the german theatre, by Henry Mac¬ kenzie, esq. Transactions of the Royal Society of Rdia- "burgh. PREFACE But the circumstance which of all others tends most powerfully to increase the interest of this tra¬ gedy, while it impresses on the delineation of its scenes a strong stamp of originality, is the princi¬ ple of fatalism, which pervades the whole piece, and influences the conduct of the chief agents in the drama. The sentiment of moral agency is so rooted in the mind of man, that no sceptical sophis¬ try, even of the most acute genius, js capable of era¬ dicating it: and it is a singular phenomenon, that the opposing principle of fatalism* while it urges on to the perpetration of the most flagitious acts, ha ; in reality no effect in weakening the moral feel¬ ing, or in diminishing that remorse which is atten¬ dant on the commission of crimes. For this rea¬ son, the compassionate interest which the mind feels in the emotions or sufferings of the guilty per¬ son, is not diminished by the observation, that he acts under an impression of inevitable destiny. On the contrary, there is something in our nature which leads us the more to compassionate the in¬ strument of those crimes, that we see him consider himself as bound to guilt by fetters, which he has the constant wish but not the strength to break. The hero of this piece, endowed by nature with the most generous feelings, animated by the highest sense of honor, and susceptible of the warmest af¬ fections of the heart, is driven by perfidy, and the supposed inhumanity of those most dear to him in life, into a state of confirmed misanthropy and de¬ spair. In this situation he is hurried,on to the per¬ petration of a series of crimes which find, from their very magnitude and atrocity, a recommenda¬ tion to his distempered mind. Believing himseM A 2 PREFACE an instrument of vengeance in the hand of the Al¬ mighty for the punishment of the crimes of others, he feels a species of savage satisfaction in thus ac¬ complishing the dreadful destiny that is prescribed for him. Sensible, at the same time, of his owiy • criminality in his early lapse from the paths of vir¬ tue, he considers himself as justly doomed to the performance of that part in life which is to consign his memory to infamy, and his soul to perdition. It will be allowed, that the imagination could not - have conceived a spectacle more deeply interesting, more powerfully affecting to the mind of man, than that of a human being thus characterised and act¬ ing under such impressions. This tragedy has been performed m several of the theatres of Germany with a success correspon¬ dent to its merit. So powerful, indeed, were its ef¬ fects. and, as some thought, so dangerous, that in several states its representation was prohibited by the legislature. An anecdote which is current in Germany, if admitted to be a fact, shows that these ideas of a rigor apparently impolitic were not ill- founded, 1$ j^fter the representation.of this trage¬ dy at Fribourg, a large party of the youth of the city, among whom were the sons of some of the chief nobility, captivated by the grandeur of the character of its hero, Moor, agreed to form a band like his in the forests of Bohemia, elected a young nobleman for their chief, and pitched on a-beauti¬ ful young lady lor his Amelia, whom they were to carry off from her parents’ house, to accompany their flight. To the accomplishment of this design, they had bound themselves by the most tremen? PREFACE r dous oaths ; but the conspiracy was discoveied by an accident, and its execution prevented. If the translator of The Robbers were not convin¬ ced that this anecdote, of which perhaps there has been some slight foundation in truth, hasibeen very greatly .exaggerated, and indeed altogether misrepresented, he would acknowledge himself to stand in need of a strong apology for introducing this piece to the knowledge of his countrymen : for Who could justify himself to his own mind for dis¬ seminating and even recommending that composi¬ tion which has shown itself, by its effects, to be of the most dangerous tendency ? but the translator, encouraged by the testimony of his own feelings, makes a bold appeal to the feelings of others, and has no scruple to assert, that this piece, so far from being hostile in its nature tp the cause ot virtue, is one of the most truly moral compositions that ever Bowed from the pen of genius; nor is there a hu¬ man being, whose heart is in the slightest degree susceptible of virtuous emotions, that will not reel them roused into a flame, and every latent principle of morality called forth, and strengthened by an exercise of the passions as salutary as ever wastur- nished by imaginary scenes, For, what example so moral in its nature, as that of a noble and ingenuous mind yielding at first to the blandishments ol plea¬ sure, embarking heedlessly in a course of criminal extravagance, which leagues him witn a society ot the most worthless and profligate ot his species—, perpetually at waf with his own better feelings, * Account of the german Theatre, Transactions of the Boy al Society of Edinburgh, 8 PREFACE which gave him the keenest pangs of remorse—the bonds of this association becoming at length indis. soluble, till, wading on gradually through scenes of increasing atrocity, he feels, in the shipwreck of all his happiness in this world, a dreadful anticipation of that inevitable doom of misery which he knows is to attend him in the next ? what is there, it must be asked, in an example of this kind, which is unfa, vorable to the cause of morality ? is it the grandeur . the character of Moor ? but this very grandeur is the circumstance which makes the example more forcibly persuasive to virtue. The grandeur of his character consists in those excellent endow, ments of nature which guilt has poisoned and per. verted to the bane of society, to a determined hostil¬ ity against his own species, and to the poignant misery of their once amiable possessor. this a grandeur of character which incites to imitation, or which can corrupt by its example ? far otherwise. With equal justice might we arraign the poem of Milton of immoral tendency, for having represented the arch-fiend with the characters of a fallen angel. v\ e admire, but it is with awe and horror. We gaze on the precipice with an astonishment mixed with delight, but we draw back while we gaze on it. The other principal characters in this play have the most direct tendency to produce moral instruc¬ tion. The weakness of an indulgent parent, whose over-weening affection for one of his sons excites the fraternal hatred of the other, is productive of the most fatal consequences. The unqualified de¬ pravity of the younger son, his fiend-like malevo¬ lence, and atrocious guilt, are attended with a punishment as horrible as it is merited. PREFACE § The exhibition of the tragedy of the Robbers at. Fribourg had in all probability produced among the youth of the public school some holiday-frolic, which in its consequences was serious enough to attract the attention of the police of the city. Some , boyish depredations might have been committed, r and perhaps a youthful iutrigue have been discover¬ ed, in which the principal party had availed: himself of the aid of his companions. These circumstan¬ ces, magnified by report, will sufficiently account for the anecdote above mentioned. A french translation of this tragedy appeal's in the Theatre Allemand, published in twelve volumes, . 8vo. by mess. Friedel and De Bonneville. The english translator’s opinion of that version is, that it is perhaps as good as the language of the transla¬ tion will admit of: but as the frenclj language in b point of energy is far inferior to our own tongue, and very far beneath the force of the german, he owns he is not without hopes that this translation * may be found to convey a more just idea of the striking merits of the original. DRAMATIS PERSONAL Original cast in the old american company # ► his sons. Maximilian, Count de Moor. Charles de Moor, > .. Francis de Moor, 5 llS Amelia, his niece. Speigelberg, Switzer, Grimm, Schufterle, Roller, Razman, Xozinski, Mr. Richards. Mr. Hodgkinson, Mr. Martin. Mrs. MelmotJ\, Mr. Prigmorc. Mr. Munto. I young libertines Mr. Lee . > who become Mr. Durang. I robbers. Mr. Hallam,jun. Mr. Ashton. Mr. Marriott. Mr. Fawcett. Mr. JVelson, Mr. Wools. Herman, the natural son of ? t a nobleman. 3 A commissary. Daniel, an old servant of the > count de Moor. 3 Robbers, attendants, See. by the rest of the com¬ pany* The scene is laid in Germany, at the time of the enactment of a perpetual peace, in the beginning of the sixteenth century. THE ROBBERS. A C T I. scene, Franconia, a hall in count de Moor's castle. the old count de moor, and hisson francis. >u look pale. 'hat have you to Fran . But you are not well, sir : you look pale. _ ~ A con \Vh a * have V( jrrciri* O. Moor. Quite well, my son. S * f’ra« me The post is come in. A letter from our cor- 'Tfi' newsof my so„ Charles , Fran. Bin. hm—Why, yes; but—I am afraid »f— you were ailing at all-or the least indisposed; I beg pardon—l will tell you at a convenient time. ( Jialfasiue ) Such tidings are not for a frail old man. O. Moor, What am I to hear! Fran Let me step aside one moment, while ‘drop a tear of compassion for my poor lost brother. But on this subject, as he is your son, I should be silent. As he is my brother, 1 ought for ever to conceal his shame. Yet it is my first duty to obey you— in this instance, a melancholy dutv. Pity me, sir; I need your pity. O Mom'. O Charles, Charles, if you knew how you tear your father’s heart at this moment 1 how the smallest eood intelligence of you would add years to his lm Alas, every fresh account I hear brings me a step near¬ er to the grave. 12 THE / [Schiller Fran. Is it so, my father r live then for me. Heaven forbid that I should abridge your days.* 0. Moor. Stay ; there is but one step more; one lit* tie step. Let him accomplish his will, (sitting down ) The sins of the fathers must be punished, to the third and fourth generation. Be it even so. Fran. (taking the letter out of his pocket ) You know our correspondent’s writing. There—1 would give a linger of my right hand, to be able to say he is a liar ; a black infernal liar Call up all your fortitude, sir- pardon me if I dont let you read this letter; it were too much to know all at once O. Moor. All, did you say ? my son, you wish to spare this gray head ; but--* Fran (reads) “ Leipzick, the first of May—Your brother seems now tb have filled up the measure of his shame, unless indeed his genius passes my comprehen¬ sion After contracting debts to the amount of 40,000 ducats,*’ (a pretty sum this, sir) « and seducihg the daughter of a rich banker, whose lover, a brave young gentleman, he mortally wounded in a duel, he thought proper, last night, at midnight, to decamp, with seven otners of his profligate associates, and thus evade the pursuit of justice.*’ Father, for God's sake—father- how is it with you ? 0. Moor. It is enough. Stop there, my son. Fran. Yes, I will spare you, I will indeed. “ They have sent off warrants-—the injured parties cry aloud for justice^there is a price set upon his head. The name of Moor -*■ ’ No, these lips shall not be guilty ot a father’s murder, (tears the letter in pieces) Believe it not, sir; believe not a syllable of it. 0 Moor . (weeps bitterly ) My name, my honorable name! * Germ f?ir wurden noch heuie die haare nufrausen eber everm surge We will not tear our hair oyer your coffin to-day. ROBBERS 13 r™*- 0 1 that he had ,)ev er borne the name of Moor —ithat my heart had not beat thus warmly for him! lmjpious affection, that will not be suppressed, that gjjV one da y nse in judgment against meat the throne of $* M °r r , °— a!I m y prospects-—my golden dreams ! T ,r fi ". 1 11 well—twas what I always predicted. ; n h ,r s P lrit ° f fire > said you, which sparkled forth even years > which showed itself in an exquisite sensibility to every thing that was great or beautiful— tna| generous openness of character—the soul which f ° rth 1 " his ,eyes—that tenderness of feeling, that courage, that youthful thirst of honor, that inflex- f s ° !utloa > and alJ those shining qualities that adorn my darling son, will make him one day the delight of his friends, the support, the hero of his country And now, sir, what has all come to f that spirit of fire has ai K d , lsplaye . d . ,tse1 ^ broke out vv,t h a vengeance, and produces glorious fruits indeed. Observe that ad- mired openness of character—now confirmed audacity : that tenderness of feeling—awake only to the allure-' mems of a wanton. Where now is that bright genius > s the oil which supplied that resplendent lamp quite ex- tioguished j have „i* short yeak consumed i? |h e S s f^c d W ! iat ,s now your hero? a spectre, a body wuhou life that walks the earth, whom the mob shall p -uit at as they pass along, and, scoffing, say, “ Twas love, forsooth, that made him so.” See now that spirit of enterprize, which has planned and executed such schemes that the exploits of a Cartouche vanish before them but when these splendid blossoms come to their lull maturity—for how can one expect perfection at so early an age?—perhaps, father, you may have the sat- isfacbon of seeing him at the head of oue of those troops that choose the hollow recess of the forest for their abode and humanely ease the weary traveller of his burden! rerhaps, before you go to the grave, you may have it in your power to make a pilgrimage to the monument erected for him between heaven and earth_perhaps. 1,4 {Schiller father-o my poor father ! seek, seek another name) lest the very boys in the streets point their fingers at yoji the bays who have seen your son’s effigy in the market¬ place of Leipzick, j 0. Moor. And you too, my Francis—must you Ukfc ■wise? o my children l how you pierce my heart ! r Fran. You see that I too have a spirit; but inline is a scorpion’s spirit. Y es, that poor ordinary creature, that Francis, that stock, that wooden p uppet,so frig[id, so insensible and all those pretty epithets with whijch you were pleased to mark the contrast twixt the brothers, when he sat on your knee and pinched your cheek. He, poor creature—twas of me you spoke—he will die wiw* in his own bounds, moulder away, and be forgotten while his brother’s fame, the renown of that great, that universal genius, shall fiy from pole to pole Yes, with uplifted hands, 1 thank thee, heaven, that the poor Francis, the cold, the stupid stock, has no resemblance of his brother. O. Moor. Pardon me, my child; reproach not thy miserable father, whose fondest hopes are blasted for ever. That God, who has ordained these tears to flow from the crimes of thy brother, has mercifully appointed that thou shouldst wipe them away Fran. Yes, my father; thy Francis will wipe those tears away; thy Francis will sacrifice his own life to prolong the days of his father : thy life shall be the rule of all my actions—the spring of every thought: nor shall there be in nature a tie so stroDg, a bond so sacred, as not to yield to the first of duties, the preservation and the comfort of that precious life 1 do not you believe ii)C sir ? 6. Moor. Thou hast many and great duties to fulfil, my son—may heaven bless you for what you have done, and what you shall yet do for me. Fran. Say then at once, that you were happy if you could not call that wretch your son. O.Mdor. Peace, o peace! when he first came into life, when my arms sustained for the first time his infant Act I] ROBBERS 15 limbs, did I not then appeal to heaven, did 1 not call God himself to witness my happiness. r Fran. You said so then. How have you found it now ? is there even among your own servants so low, so abject a being, that you would not exchange condi¬ tions with him—enviable in this respect his lot, that he is not the father of such a son. Yes, while he lives, what have you to look for but bitterness of soul—but still increasing torments? till nature herself shall sink under the weight of her affliction. f 0. Moor. Oh what a load of years has affliction al¬ ready anticipated on these gray hairs! Fran. W ell then, suppose you throw him off at once; "*• renounce forever this—r 0. Moor, (starting with emotion) What didst thou say i renounce him 1 wouldst thou L should curse my son ? Fran. Not so, my father—curse thy son 1 God forbid. But whom dost thou call thy son ? is it the monster to whom thou gavest life, and who in return does his ut- , most to shorten thine ? 0. Moor. Unnatural child? ah me—but still, still my child. Fran. Yes, an amiable, a precious child, whose con¬ tinual study is to get rid of an old father. O that you should be thus slow to discover his character l will noth¬ ing remove the scales from your eyes ? no—your indul¬ gence must rivet him in all his vices; your support en¬ courage and even warrant them. 1 hus you may avert the curse from his head—that eternal curse, which must now fall upon your own. 0. Moor. Tis just, most just: mine, mine alone is all the guilt. Fran, How many thousands, who have drank deep of the cup of pleasure, have been reclaimed by suffer¬ ing ? is not the bodily pain, which is the consequence of vice, a certain mark of the interposition of heaven ? and shall the tenderness of man impiously strive to avert that salutary consequence tj)ink on that, sir. If he is ex- 15 THE {Schiller posed for some time to the pressure of misfortunes, is it n ° l Probable he will amend ? but if, in the great school of affliction, he still remains incorrigible, then—woe be to that misguided parent, who counteracts the decrees of eternal wisdom !—what say you, father? O. Moor. I will write to him, that I throw him off for ever. F ran. Twere right and wisely done. O Moor. That he never see my face again._ F ran. That will have a good effect. O. Moor. (with emotion) 1 ill he becomes another man. Fran. Right, sir, quite right. But suppose him to come now like a hypocrite, and woo you to compassion, and fawn and flatter till he obtains his pardon—and the next moment he laughs at the fond weakness of his father in the arms of his harlots. No, no, sir; let him alone till conscience awaken him : then he will of his own accord return to his duty; then may we expect a sincere amendment O. Moor . I must write to him immediately. „ . (going out X tran stop, sir; one word more. I am afraid your anger may make you say something too harsh—it would be cruel to drive him at once to despair. A nd besides, dont you think, that he might be apt to interpret a let¬ ter from your own hand, as perhaps—a sort of pardon. Would it not be better, sir, if 1 should write to him ? O. Moor Do so, my son Oh, it would have broke my heart to have written to him. Write to him that— Fran, {hastily) Is that agreed, then ? O. Moor Write to him, that a thousand tears of blood, a thousand sleepless nights— but dont, my son, dont drive him to despair. Frew. Retire to bed, dear father: this affects you too much. O. Moor Write to him, that his father's heart-* hut do not drive him to despair. [gca off in great agitation Act /] ROBBERS 1? \Fran. (looking at him with, an air of mockery) Ay, be comforted, my good dotard. Never more shall you press your darling to your bosom;—no, there is a gulph between—distant as heaven from hell. He was torn for ever from your arms, before you knew it was possible you ever could have wished it. These papers must not be seen—that might be dangerous—,if the hand writing ■were known l—{gathers up the scraps of paper) I should be a pitiful bungler indeed, if I knew not yet how to tear a son from the heart of his father, even were they linked together with chains of iron. Courage, my boy! the favorite’s removed—that’s a giant’s step. But there is another heart, from which I must tear this Charles; ay, were that heart to break for it. ( walks to and fro with rapid strides) l have a heavy debt of hatred against Nature, and by my soul, I’ll make it good. Why was this hideous burden of deformity laid upon me alone ■—as if she had formed me only of the scum, the very refuse of her stuff! she damn’d me from my birth 1 and here I swear eternal enmity to her. I'll blast her fairest works.——What are to me the ties of kindred? I’ll burst those trammels of affection,—bonds of the soul— I never felt their strength—-she denied me the sweet play of the heart, and all its persuasive eloquence. What rqust its place supply ? imperious force? henceforth be that the servant of my wishes—force aided by craft— and all shall yield before me. enter amelia —she comes slowly forward. Fran. She comes! aha, the medicine works ; I know it by her step. I love her not; but 1 am resolved that no one else shall revel on her charms. In my arms, shall they be choakt and withered in the bud;—nor ever man shall reap their bloom, Ha, what are you do¬ ing there? (Amelia without observing him, tears a nose - gay in pieces) Fran, (approaching with an insinuating air) What crime have these poor violets committed ? Amel (starting, and surveying him with a long look). 28 THE [Schiller Is it you? you here? whom of all mankind 1 most de- sired to see. jP ran. Me? is it possible;—me of all mankind ! Amel You, sir, even you. [ have hungered—I have thirsted for the sight of you—Stay, I conjure you. Here* poisoner, let me enjoy my highest pleasure, let me curse thee to thy face. Frail. Why am I thus treated? you wrong me, child; go to the father, who- Amel. The lather, ha! that father, who dooms his son to eat the bread of despair, while he pampers him¬ self with the richest delicacies; who gluts his appetite with cosily wines, and rests his palsied limbs in down, while his son,—his noble son,—the paragon of all that’s worthy, all that’s amiable, that’s great,—wants the bare necessaries of life. Shame to you, monsters of inhuma¬ nity, unfeeling, brutal monsters. His only son ! Fran His only son ? I thought that he had two ? Amel. Ay, he deserves many such sous as you—yes, when stretcht on the bed of death, he shall extend bis leeble hands, and seek to grasp for the last time his in¬ jured noble Charles, let him feel thy icy hand, thou fiend, and shudder at the touch. O how sweet, how de¬ licious the curse of a dying father. Fran. You rave, my child ; I pity you. Amel. Dost thou so? dost thou pity thy brother? no, savage, thou hat’st him. Thou hatest me too, l hope. Fran. I love thee, Amelia—as my soul I love thee. Amel. Well if you love me, can you refuse me one small request? Fran. I can refuse thee nothing; were if even my life, Amel. Well then, I ask what you will grant, with all your soul, ( proudly) 1 ask you to—hate me. I should die for shame, if. while I thought on Charles, l could for a moment believe thou didst not hate me. Give me thy 'promise, villain, and begone Fran. Charming enthusiast; how that impassioned soul enchants me. (puts his hand on Amelia’s heart) Sweet flulterer. Palace of delight, where Charles reign Aei I] ROBBERS yj ed sole monarch. Temple sacred to his divinity, awake or on her pillow Charles was the idol of Amelia's fan¬ cy—ever present to those beauteous eyes, present even in thy dreams. In him all animated being seemed con¬ centrated. Creation itself spoke but of Charles alone to that enraptured soul. Amel. (with great emotion) Yes, I own it was so yes, in spite of you, barbarians, to the world I will avow it. I love him ; 1 adore him ^ Fran How ungenerous, fiow cruel, to make so ill a return to so much fondness—nay, to forget- AmeL Forget! what mean*st thou, wretch? Fran Wore he not once a ring of yours; a ring you put yourself upon his finger? a diamond ring, a pledge of your fond love ? it is a hard trial, I own, for the heat of youthful blood—and hardly resistible. T hose wan¬ tons have such arts, such fascinating charms—there is some apology for a young man—and then, how could lie help it ? he had nothing else to give her; surely she paid him amply for it by her caresses. Amel My ring to a wanton? how say’st thou ? Fran. Fy, fy, twas infamous indeed : but still, if that had been all, was it not easy to have redeemed it, ho w¬ ever costly; a good jew might have lent the money. But perhaps she did not like the fashion of it—it may be he changed it himself for a handsomer. Amel ( warmly ) But my ring —my ring ! Fran. Ay, think of that. Had 1 received such a jew¬ el, and from Amelia too! death itself should not have ravisht it from this hand. What think you, Amelia? tis not the value of the diamond, tis not the costly work¬ manship—tis love that gives it value. You weep, sweet girl. Oh, cursed be he that caused those precfous tears to flow. Alas, did you know all—could you but see him now—see him with those features- Amel. What features, monster? Fran. Hush, hush, dear Amelia; ask me no further, (speaking apart, but audibly) Twere something if that abominable Yice had but a veil to conceal its deformity THE [Schiller i w from the sight of the world , but how hideous its aspect, rnarkt by the yellow livid eye—the hollow death-like features, the bones that pierce the shriveil'd skin—the broken faltering voice—the frail and tottering carcase, while the poison preys into the very marrow of the bones. Horrible and loathsome picture—how the thought sick¬ ens ! Do you remember, Amelia, that miserable object who died lately in the hospital, whose contagious breath tainted the air—whom modesty forbade to look at. Re* cal, if shou canst, that loathsome image. Such, o hor¬ rible to think, is now thy once loved Charles 1 his iips- distil poison—his kisses pestilence and death. Amel Detested, shameless slanderer! Fran. Does this image of thy love inspire thee with horror? then paint him, Amelia, in your own imagina¬ tion—the lovely, the divine, the angelic Charles ! go, enjoy the ambrosia of his lips—inhale his balmy breath ! (Amelia hides her face with her hands) Oh ectasy < what rapture in those embraces!—but is it not unjust, nay cruel, to condemn a man because he is the victim of dis¬ ease? may not a great soul inhabit a foul carcase ? {with malignant irony) May not the beauties of the mind dwell in a tainted body, or the soft voice of love issue from the lips of corruption ? true indeed, if the poison of debauchery should taint the soul as well as the body; if impurity and virtue were inconsistent, as a withered rose loses it perfume, then—— Amel. (with rapture ) Ha, once more I know my Charles! my own Charles! liar ! thy tajeis false—mon¬ ster, it is impossible! (Francis remains a while absorbed in thought, then turns suddenly, as if going) Whither art thou going ? does shame overpower thee? Fran . (covering his face ) Let me be gone—let my tears have their free course. Cruel, tyrannic father! that could abandon to misery the best, the worthiest of thy children ! let me hence this moment, to throw my¬ self at his feet, and on my knees intreat him to heap upon my head that heavy malediction—to throw me off, disinherit} me for ever—to sacrifice rov blood, my life, my all for him. Act J] ROBBERS 21 AmeU (much softened) Brother of my own Charles, most kind, most tender! Fran. O Amelia 1 how I love, how I admire that matchless constancy of affection! wilt thou pardon me that most severe, that cruel trial of thy love ? how hast thou justified all I hoped, all I could have wished to have found in thee \ those tears, those sighs—that ardent indignation ' ah! such are the certain proofs how much our souls have ever sympathised. Amel. (shakes her head ) No! by the chaste light of heaven ! not an atom of him, not a spark of his soul, not a particle of his sensibility. Fran. Twas on a calm, still evening, the last before his departure from Reipzick, when taking me along to that grove which has so often witnessed the rapturous expressions of your passion, your vows of mutual love; there, after a long silence, he took my hand in his; and. while the tears almost choaked his utterance, I leave my Amelia, said he. 1 know not how to account for it— but I have a sad presentiment that it is for ever! do not abandon her, my dear brother. Be her friend, her Charles! should it happen, that Charles—should never return; that he were gone for ever, (throws himself at Amelia’s feet, and kisses her hand with ardor) And he is gone for ever, no more will he return; and I have pledged my sacred promise-—— Amel (springs back ) Traitor 1 are you now detect¬ ed ! twas in that very grove that we exchanged our so¬ lemn plighted oaths, that no other love, even after death. What an impious wretch art thou, how execrable ! quit my sight. Fran You know me not, Amelia. Still, still you know me not Amel . O l know you well, most completely at this instant. And you my Charles’s confidant! yes sure—. to you he would have opened all his soul; on your bo¬ som he would have shed those tears forme! sigh’d forth my name in your blasted ear. As soon would Re have written it on the gibbet! quit my sight I THE [Schiller U2 Fran . You insult me grossly, madam. Amel. Quit my sight! thou hast robbed me of a pre¬ cious hour. May it be counted on thy worthless life ! Fran. You hate me then - Amel I scorn you, wretch Begone! Fran. W hat ? (stamping with fury) Thou shalt quake for this To be sacrificed for an out-cast! (goes off in will you be the less an honest min, if you follow my advice, than you are at present? tvhat do you call honest? to ease the miser of a part of his load, and give him sound sleep and golden dreams for it; to bring the stagnating metal into circular* tion, to regulate the unequal balance of fortune—in short, to bring back the golden age—to rid providence of a burden, and save it the trouble of sending war, pesti¬ lence, famine and physic, into the world :—to have the proud thought when we sit down to our meal, this is the frht of my own ingenuity—this was gained by the edurage of a lion—this the reward of watchful nights ■—ta dr$w the respect of all ranks and conditions. no 30 THE [Schiller RoL And finally to be dispatched by the hangman, to set storm and tempest, and time himself at defiance, ■while you dangle under the sun, moon, and stats, with the sweet birds in concert around you; and while kings and potentates are the food of worms, to have the honor of frequent visits from the royal bird of Jove. Maurice, Maurice, have a care of yourself; beware of the beast with three legs. Speig And you fear that, yon pitiful animal ? many anoble fellow, fit to have reformed the wrarld, has rot¬ ted between heaven and'earth And does not the re¬ nown of such men live for centuries ? ay fora milienium l while the vulgar herd of kings and princes would be overlooked in the catalogue, but that the historian find* it necessary to complete his genealogical tree, and swell the number of his pages—ay, and when the traveller sees him dangling in the wind—there, says he, mutter¬ ing to himself, that fellow had no water in his brains, I’ll warrant him—and curses the hardship of the times. Raz Great and masterly, by heaven 1—Speigelberg, thou hast a charm, like Orpheus, to lull the yellow- Cerberus, conscience. Take me to yourself; I am yours. Grimm. And let them call it infamy. What then? at the worst, tisbut carrying a smalt dose of powder inyour pocket, which will send us over Styx—to take a nap in that country where no cocks will crow to awaken us.— Courage, Maurice ! that’s Grimm’s confession of faith. (gives him his hand) Schuf. ——Zounds! what a burly burly’s inthis head of mine. It’s a fair auction: mountebanks, lotteries, at- chymists, pickpockets—you have all your chance ; and he that offers most, shall have me. Give me your hand, cousin. ' Suit. (comes forward slowly, and gives his hand to Speigelberg) Maurice, thou art a great man ; or rather the blind sow has smelt out the mast. ‘ RoL ( after a long silence, with his eyes fixed on Swit¬ zer) What, and you too, friend—giyeme your hand.— Roller and Switzer for everay, to the pit of hell 1 Act I] ROBBERS 31 * - ■-^ Yes, very right. Roller speaks to the purpose; you must have a chief, a man of talents, great reach, a politic head. Ha, ha! ( standing with his awns across) when 1 think what you were a few minutes ago, and what a single lucky thought has made of you now. Yes, truly you musthavea chief; and you’ll own, that he that struck out a t hought of that kind had a head-piece, wise, crafty, politic- Rol. If there was any hope, any chance that, but I despair of his consent. Speig. (cajoling ) Why despair, my friend ? difficult as it may be to guide the ship when she’s buffeted by winds and waves, and however cumbersome may be the weight of a diadem, speak it out boldly, my boy. Perhaps-—perhaps—he may be prevailed upon. Rol. It will be all children’s play if he r s not our lea¬ der. Without Moor, we are a body without a soul. Speig. (turning aside peevishly) Blockhead. enter moor, with wild gestures, stalks to and fro, speak¬ ing to himself. Moor. Men, men, false, treacherous crocodiles ? your eyes are water; your heartsare iron ; kisses on your lips, and poiguards in your bosoms; the lion and the panther feed their whelps—the raven strips the carrion for her young ; but man—nan ! whatever malice can de¬ vise I have learnt to bear—I could smile vrhen my ene- 32 THE [Schiller my quaffs my heart’s blood But when a father’s love becomes a fury’s hate—O then, let fire rage here where once humanity dwelt! the tender hearted lamb become a tyger—and every fibre of this tortured frame be braced, that I may scatter round me ruin and despair. Rol. Harkee, Moor—what’s your opinion—is’nt the life of a robber better than starving in a dungeon on bread and water? Moor. Why did not this soul inhabit the tyger’s bo¬ som, that satiates his maw on human fiesh ? was that a father s kindness ?—love for love—would I were a bear of the north, and could arm my ravenous kind against those murderers—to repent, and not to be forgiven r oh ! i could poison the ocean, that they might drink death in every source. I trusted to his compassion—relied on it wholly—f found no pity Rol. Hear me, Moor, hear what 1 say Moor. It is incredible—all a dream. So earnest a request, a picture of misery so strong—contrition so sin¬ cere J the most savage beast would have melted to com¬ passion—stones would have wept j and yet—tf 1 should publish it to the world, it would not be believed— twould be thought a libel on the human species: and yet—oh that I could blow the trumpet of rebellion through all nature, and summon heaven, earth, and seas, to war against this savage race. Grimm Do you hear, Moor? this frenzy makes him deaf. Moor Begone; fly. Is not your name man ? were not yo|i born of woman ? out of my sight with that human face. I ioved him with unutterable affection: nosonever loved a father so; I would have sacrificed a thousand lives for him (stamping with fury) Ha? where is he that will put a sword in my hand, to extinguish with one mortal blow this viperous race? who will teach where to strikefthat I might destroy the very germ of existence? oh ; he were my friend, my angel, 1 would fall down @nd worship him. RoL We will be such friends. Listep to us Moor. Act /] ROBBERS 33 Grimm. Come with us to the forests of Bohemia— ■we’ll form a troop of robbers—and thou. (Moor stares stedfiastly at him) ' Swit. Thou shalt be our captain—thou must be our captain. Speig. (sits down in rage) Slaves and paltroons. J Moor. Who put that thought in your head? tell me r fellow ! (seizes Roller with a rough grasp) that man's heart of thine never conceived the project! who put it in your head ? yes, by the thousand arms of death : that ■we will—that we shall do ; tis a thought worthy ofdivini- ^ ty? robbers and assassins—as my soul lives, I will be your captain. All. (with a loud shout) Long live our captain. Speig. (aside) Till 1 give him his mittimus ! Moor. So now ;the scales drop From my eyes! what a fool l was to think of returning to mv cage : my soul thirsts for action, my spirit pants for liberty! robbers and assassins! with those words l set all laws at defiance. Man had no humanity when I appealed to humanity l pity and compassion! here let me throw you off for ever, I have no father—no affection more ? come, death and murder be my masters ! and teach me to forget that this heart e’er knew what fondness was? come to my soul ye fiends! now for some horrible exploit—tis resolved. J am your captain, and glory to him who most shall mur¬ der and destroy—he shall have a king’s reward. Here stand around in a circle, and swear to be true to me till * death All (giving him their hands) Till death! (Speigel- berg walks aside dissatisfied) Moor. And now, by this man’s right hand, (stretching out his hand) 1 swear to be your faithful commander— till death ! now by my soul I’ll make a corse of him who first shows fear among you! and when I break my oath, be such my fate from you; are you agreed ? All. (throwing theifi hats in the ah') We’re all agreed. (Spiegeiberg grins a malicious smile) Moor. Then let us go! fear neither danger nor death, 34 THE [Schiller Overu presides auestiuy that cannot be controlled, and each shall meet his end as fate decrees—-on the down bed, or in the bloody field—the gibbet or the wheel! one of these deaths we die for certain ? [exeunt Sprig, The catalogue’s defective? you have forgot treason. END OF THE FIRST ACT. ACT II. s c e n e— Moor's castle . francis de moor alone in his apartment. Fran. I’ve lost all patience with these doctqrs. An old man’s life is an eternity. Must my towering plans creep the snail’s pace of a dotard’s lingering hours? could not one point out a new track for death to enter the fort? kill the body by tearing of the soul! ay, that were an ori¬ ginal invention; he that should make that discovery were a second Columbus in the empire of death; think on that, Moor. Twere an art worthy to have thee for its inventor ! how then shall we begin the work? what horrible emotion would have the force to break at once the thread of life? rage P no; that hungry wolf surfeits himself and regorges his meal ‘.grief ? that’s a worm that lingers in the fiesh, and mines his way too slowly! fear ? no; hope blunts his dart, and will not let him strike his prey ; what? are these our only executioners? is the ar¬ senal of death so soon exhausted ? hum, hum 1 (musing') no more? ha! I have it; terror is the word?—ter¬ ror' reason, religion, hope—ail must give way before this giant fiend; and then—should he even bear the shock—there’s more behind. Anguish of mind, come aid the imperfect work! repentance, gnawing viper of the soul—monster that dost ruminate thy baneful food? and tliou remorse! that Uvest on thy mother’s flesh, and Art 11 ] ROBBERS 35 wast’st thine own inheritance: and you, even you, ye blissful years o’erpast, display your charms to memo¬ ry’s retrospect, and poison with your sweets the present hour; ye scenes of future bliss,' combine to wound_ show him the joys of paradise before him, and hold the dazzling mirror out to hope, but cheat his feeble grasp ! , thus let me play my battery of death—strokeafter stroke incessant—till nature’s mound is‘ broken—and the whole troop of furies seize the soul, and end their work | by horror and despair ? triumphant thought; so now_ the. plan’s my own : now for the work. Yr enter hehmant. Ha ! Deus ex macliind ! Herman Her Herman, at your service, good sir. Fran, (gives him "his hand ) 1 am much obliged to you, Herman, I am not ungrateful. I* Her. I have proofs of that, sir. Fran, You shall have more anon—anon, good Her¬ man ! I have something to tell you. Listen to me Her¬ man. Her . I hear you with a thousand ears. Ifran. I know you well—you’re resolute and brave_ you have a soldier’s heart ? my father, Herman—by hea¬ vens he wrong’d you much. Her. By hell, I wont forget it? Fran. Spoken like a man ? revenge becomes a man ? 1 like you, Herman: here take this purse; it should be 4 heavier, were I master here. Her. Good sir, I thank you heartily. Tis my most earnest wish you were so. Fran. Say you so, good Herman? do you really, do you in your heart wish me to be the master? but my fa¬ ther, he has the marrow of a lion in his bones; and 1 am but a younger son. tier. I wish you were the elder—and he in the last stageofa consumption. Fran. Ha! were that the case, the eldest son would aot forget you, my friend. Then would he raise you THE [Schiller 36 from the dust; from that low condition which so ill be¬ comes ypur merits—nay, your birth he would draw you forth into light: then should you roll in gold—a splendid equipage, then would—but I have wandered from what 1 meant to say. Have you forgot the fair Edelreich, Herman ? Her. Thunder of heaven ! why have,you called up that idea? Fran. You lost her. Twas my brother that was the conjuror there.-- - — Her He shall pay dearly for it. Fran. She dismissed you, I believe, and he thrust you down stairs.- Her. I shall thrust him down to hell for that. Fran. He used to say, twas whispered, that your father could never look at you, without smiting his breast, and crying, “ god-a-mercy on my sins.’* Her. ( furiously) Lightning blast him !—-stop there ! Fran. He advised you to sell your patent of nobility to mend your stoekiugs. Her, Hell consume him ! I’ll tear his eyes out with these nails-- Fran. What l you’reexasperated at him. Poor Her¬ man ! what signifies your malice ? what harm can you do to him?—what can a rat do to a lion ?—your rage but. makes his triumph the sweeter r —you have nothing for it but to grind your teeth in silence, to spend your fury in gnawing a dry crust. Her. ( stamping ) I’ll crush him, trample him beneath my feet! Fran. (clapping him on the shoulder) Fie, Herman:! you are a gentleman. This affront must not be put up with. You would not renounce the lady ! no, not for t the world—fire and fury ! I would move heaven and earth if I were in your place ! Her. I will not rest till I have him under my feet. Fran. Not quite so violent, Herman. Come near—* thou shalt have Amelia. Her. That I will! in spite of hell, I’ll have her 1 Act /i] ROBBERS 3 1 Fran. You shall have her, 1 tell you—and from my hand. Come near! you dont know perhaps that Charles is as good as disinherited Her (coming near) Impossible ! I never heard a syllable of that. Fran. Be quiet and listen ! another time I'll tell you more of this. Tis uow eleven months since he (my brother) has been in a manner banished. But the old man begins to repent the precipitate step. Though ( smiling ) I flatter myself it was not all his own doing neither ; and the girl too, Amelia I mean, pursues him incessantly with her tears anr^eproaches. He'll be send¬ ing in quest of him, by and by, all over the world; and if he’s found, good night to you, Herman! you may then make your obeisance, and open the coach-door when he goes to church with her. Her. I'll strangle him at th^ altar I Fran. My father will soon give up his estates to him, and live in retirement at his solitary castle. Then that proud hot headed blusterer will have the reins in hisown hand, and laugh his enemies to scorn; and I, Herman, and I, who would make a man of you, and load yon with riches, I myself must make my humble obeisance at his door. Her. (zuarmhj) No, as sure as my name is Herman, that shall never be! Fran Will you prevent it ? you too, my dear Herman, must sink beneath his scourge He’ll spit in your face when he meets you in the streets; and woe be to you if you but shrug a shoulder, or crook your mouth at him ! ay—there’s the amount of all your fine prospects, your hopes of love, your mighty plans .— .. . Her ( eagerly ) Tell me then what I must do. Fran. Hear then, Herman! you see how I enter ir.t* your feelings like a true friend. Go change your clothe* •—disguise yourself, so as not to be known—get yourself announced to the old man as one that is just returned from Hungary—give out, that you were with my 38 THE [Schiller brother in the iast oaitie, anil present when he breathed bis iast upon the field! Har. Will they believe me ; Fran. Poh 1 let me alone for that—take this packet— here you’ll find a commission, and all thenecessary docu¬ ments, that would convince suspicion itself. Only be quick in getting out, and take care you are not seen. Slip out by the back door into the court, and thence over the garden wall. As for the winding up of the plot, leave that to me. Her. And then it will be, long live our new master, qur noble lord, Francis de Moor Fran, (patting him on the cheek) Ha ! what a cun¬ ning rogue you are—you see it at the first glance, for look’ye, how sure and how quick the project works— Amelia's hopes are gone at once—the old man lays his son’s death at his own door—he falls sick—a tottering house does not need an eaithquake to bring it down— he’ll never outlive your intelligence—then—then am I his only son — Amelia has lost every support, and is the plaything of my will—then you may easily guess what follows—you—in short all goes to a wish. But you must not flinch from your word. Her Flinch I did you say ? the ball might as.soon fly back to the cannon ! you may depend on me. Farewel. Fran. (running after him) Remember tis all for yourself that you are working (follows him with his eyes to the end of the stage—and then breaks out into an infernal laugh ) Keen, earnest to a wish ! how impetu¬ ously the block head throws off his honesty, to snatch at an object, that the smallest spark of common sense must convince him he can never attain, (peevishly) No, that’s unpardonable! this fellow is an arrant knave—and y (>t he trusts to one's promise, it costs him nothing to de¬ ceive an honest man—and yet when deceived him¬ self he never will forgive it. Is this the boasted lord of the creation ? Pardon me, dame nature, if I owe you a grudge for that form you have given me Complete your work, by stripping me of every vestige of humam- Act II) ROBBERS 39 ty Man! thou hast forfeited ail my rega>d—nor in my conscience do I think there is the smallest crime in straining every neive to injure thee. [exit scene— count de Moor’s bedchamber. f/re count asleep, amelia Amel- Softly, oh softly let me tread—he sleeps, {she stops and looks at him) How good! how venerable - such is the countenance with which they paint the blessed saints! angry with thee: oh no—with that grey head ! oh never, never! {scatters roses on the bed) sweet be thy slumber, as the rose’s sweet perfume. May the image of my Charles visit your dreams; may you wake in a bed of roses! 1 too will go and sleep amidst perfumes; mine is the rosemary (goes a fciv steps) > O. Moor, {in his sleep) My Char es, my Charles. Amel Hark 1 his guardian angel has heard my prayer, (coming near him) tis sweet to breathe the air in which his name was uttered. I will remain. 0 Moor, {still in his sleep) Are you there? are you truly there ? ah ! do not look so pitiful upon me ; lam miserable already, {stirs restlessly) Amel (wakens him hastily ) Uncle; my dear uncle ! ’twas but a dream. O. Moor {half awake) Was he not there? had I not his hand in mine? is no' this the smell of roses? o hate¬ ful Francis, will you not let me dream of him ? Amel (drawing back) Mark’st thou that, Amelia ? O. Moor. {wakens) Where am I? you here, my niece' Amel You had a delightful slumber, uncle. O. Moor. I was dreaming of my Charles. Why did they break my dreams ; 1 might have had my pardon from his mouth. Amel. (passionate ! y) His pardon ! angels have no re¬ sentment. He forgives mee. (pressing hit hand) Fa¬ ther of my Charles, l forgive thee too. 40 THE [Schiller O. Moor. No, no, my child,—that wan cheek,— that deadly pale bears witness,—in spite of thee! poor «irl!_ [ have blasted all the promise of thy spring,—all thy joys of youth. Do not forgive me,—but oh, do not curse me. Amel. Can there be a curse of love?* here it is then, my father (kisses his hand with tenderness ) O. Moor . (rising from the bed) What’s here, my childi 1 roses? did you strew these roses here? on me? on me, who killed your Charles? Amel. I strewed them on bis father! (falling on his neck) On him I cannot strew them. O Moor. With what delight wouldst thou have done so' and yet, my child, unknowingly tis done;—for see, —know you that picture >'(drawingaside the curtain of the bed) Amel. (rushing towards the picture) Tis Charles' 0. Moor Such was he in his sixteenth year-but now how changed—l shudder to think upon it. That sweetness, now fell misanthropy—that smile, despair! is’t not so, Amelia?-It was upon his birth-day, in the bower of jessamine, that you drew that picture of him. Amel. O, never will I forget that day—past and gone forever. He sat just before me; a ray of the setting sun shone full upon his face, and his dark locks floated carelessly on his neck. O, in that hour twas all the wo¬ man here—the artist was forgot—the pencil fell from my hand; and my trembling lips fed, in imagination, on every line and trace of that dear countenance. My heart was full of the original. The weak, inanimate touches fell feebly on the canvas—languid as those faint traces memory bears of music that is past!—f * Germ Die Hebe hat nur einen Jluch gelernt. Love has learnt but one curse. f Germ. Gestriche adagio. Soft music of yester¬ day. Act II] ROBBERS 41 O Moor say on : continue thus! tiiese images bring back past time. O my ch Id, l was so happy in your loves. Arnel (keeping her eyes still on the picture) No, no, it is not he! no, no, by heaven, tis not my Charles ! -—here, (striking her heart and her forehead) here he is quite himself— so like — hut there so different. The pencil can give no idea of the soul that spoke in his countenance. Away with it—tis a poor image —an or¬ dinary man. Oh, 1 was a mere novice in the art! enter daniel. Dan. There is a man without who wishes to see you, sir. He says he brings you tidings of importance. O. Moor. To me, Amelia, there is but one subject of such tidings—you know it —-Perhaps tis some poor wretch who comes to me for charity—for relief : he shall not go hence in sorrow. [exit Daniel. A met \ beggar' and he is let in at once ! O. Moor. Amelia, oh spare me, my child. enter francis, herm an in disguise, and danie i.. Fran. Here is the man, sir He says he has terrible news for you. Can you bear to hear it, sir ? 0. Moor. I know but one tiling terrible to hear.— Speak it out friend Give him a cup of wine. Her. (in a feigned voice ) Will your honor take no of¬ fence at a poor man because he brings you bad news ? tis against my will. I am a stranger in this country— but l know you well: you are the father of Charles do Moor. O Moor. How know you that? Her I know your son- Amel. Is he alive ? is he alive?—do you know him ? —where is he ? where, where? (is running out) 0 Moor. Do you know my son ? Her He studied at the university of Leipzlck ; whither he went from thence 1 know not. He wander¬ ed all over Germany bare headed and bare footed, as D2 4 2 THE [Schiller he told me himself, and begged his bread from door to door. About five months afterwards that terrible war broke out between the poles and turks, and being quite desperate, he followed the victorious army of king Mat¬ thias to the town of Pest. Give me leave, said he, to the king, to die on the bed of heroes. I am fatherless. 0. Moor. O do not look at me, Amelia. Her. He got a pair of colours; be accompanied Mat¬ thias in liis victories ; he and I slept in the same tent: often did he speak of his old father, of the days of his former happiness, and of his blasted hopes—tilfhis eyes ran over at the thought. O. Moor. (hiding his face ) Enough, enough, no more!- Her. Eight days after we had a hot engage¬ ment. Your son behaved like a gallant soldier ; he did prodigies that day, as the whole army witnessed; he saw five regiments successively relieved, and he kept his ground. A whole shower of fire was poured in on every quarter: your son kept his ground. A ball shatter¬ ed his right hand ; he seized the colours with the left, and still he kept his ground. Amel (in transport) He kept his ground, father, he kept his ground Her On the evening of the day of battle, 1 found him lying on the field,on that same spot. With Ins left hand he was stopping the blood that flowed from a large wound. He had buried his right hand in the earth. Comrade, said he, I am told that our general has fallen. He has, answered I. Then, said he, let every brave soldier follow his commander. He took his hand from the wound; and in a few moments breathed his last, like a hero Fran, (pretending rage ) Curst be that tongue! may it be dumb for ever. Wretch, are you come here to be our father’s executioner? to murder him? (to Amelia 4' O. Moor)——My father! Amelia ! my dear father! Her. It was the last request-of my dying comrade. Take this sword, said he, in a faltering voice; carry it Jcf/I] ROBBERS 43 to my father. It is markt with the blood of his son. Tell him, his malediction was my doom: twas that which made me rush on battle and on death ; I die in despair The last word he uttered was, Amelia. Arnel (as if roused frgm a deep reverie) The last word was Amelia! O. Moor, (with a dreadful shriek and tearing his hair) My malediction was his death He died in de¬ spair! Her. Here is the sword, and here a picture that he took from his bosom at the same time Methinks it is this lady’s picture. This, said he, my brother Francis will-what more he would have said, 1 know not. Fran , (with astonishment) To me, that picture? to pie? Amelia, to me ? Amel (coming up to Herman with •violence') Impos¬ tor! villain, base, hired, perfidious villain I (seizes him rudely) Her. Madam, I know nothing of it. Look at it your¬ self. See whether it is your picture: perhaps you gave it him yourself. Fran. By heavens, Amelia, tis your picture—yoqrs, as 1 live! Amel. (giving it back ) Tis mine—tis mine! o heaven and earth! O. Moor, (with agony) Oh, oh! my malediction, was his death ! he died in despair. Fran He thought of me in the last moment cf exis¬ tence: of me!—blessed spirit- (to Herman) when the hand of death was on him—— 0. Moor. Twas my curse forced him to the field—he died by my hand—he died in despair. Her, (ivith real emotion, and much agitated) I can¬ not stand it; this sight of misery unman- me. My lord, farewel. (aside to Francis) Have you a heart ? how could you do this? [exit hastily Amel. Stay, stay What was his last word? Her. ( corning buck) With his last breath he sighed Amelia. THE [Schiller U Amel. Amelia with his last sigh! no, thou art no im¬ postor—it is true—alas, too true! he is dead—my Charles is dead ! Fran. W hat do 1 see ? what is that’upon the sword? ■written in blood—Amelia ! Amel. With his blood ? Fran. Am 1 in a dream ? or is it really so ?—look at these characters—they are traced in blood ; “ Francis, do not abandon my Amelia /” See again—see here, on the other side, “ Amelia, death has freed you from your vows!" Do you mark that? with his dying hand be, traced it; he wrote it with his heart’s blood—yes, on the awful brink of eternity he wrote it. Amel. Almighty God! it is his hand—o horrible, he never loved me f exit Fran. ( aside with vexation) The dotard has a heart of adamant! thus buffeted, and yet unbroken—-all my art is lost upon him. O. Moor O misery ' my child, mv daughter, do not abandon me. (to Francis) Wretch, give me back my son Fran. W T ho was it that gave him his malediction? ■who was it that made him rush on battle and on death ? ■who drove him to despair ? oh, he was a noble youth ! a curse upon his murderers! O. Moor, (beating his breast and forehead) A curse ! a curse 1 curse on the father w ho murdered his own son ! I am that unnatural father. He loved jweeven in death : toexpiaie my vengeance, he rushed on battle and on death Monster that l am ; oh monster I Fran, (with malignant irony) He’s dead; what sig¬ nifies this idle lamentation. 1 is easier to murder a man than to bring him alive. O. Moor Wretch, it was you who made me throw "him off: who forced that malediction from my heart? twas you—you !—oh, give me back my son ! Fran. House not my fury, I abandon you in death ! O. Maor. Monster, inhuman monster, give me back my son. (risesfuriously, and endeavors to seize Francis Act J/j ROBBERS 45 > by Me throat, who runs out) fen thousand curses on hy head! lightning of heaven consume thee! thou hast robbed me of my only son. (sinks down) Oh, oh—to be in despair, and not to die! they abandon me in death. Is my good angel iie^l ? yes, every angel must desert the murderer, the hoary murderer, Oh, oh! will none for pity hold this head l will none release this spirit ?— no son, no daughter, no friend !—is there to be lound not one kind .— oh, despair—and not to die. (he faints) Amel (coming slowly in, sees him and shrieks ) Dead, quite dead! scene, the forests of Bohemia . razman enters from one side of the stage, and speigelberg, with a band of robbers,from the other. Raz. Welcome, comrade, welcome, my brave fel¬ low, to the forests of Bohemia, (they embrace) Where have you ranged, in lightning and in tempest? whence come you now? Speig. Piping hot from the fair of Leipzick. There was rare sport! ask Schufterle; lie has joined our Captain’s great troop on the road, (sitting down on the ground ) And how has it fared with you since we left you ? how goes the trade?—I could tell you of such pranks, my boy, that you would forego your dinner to hear them. Raz. I have no doubt on’t—we heard of you in all the newspapers. But where the devil have you picked up all this canaille ? blood and thunder! you’ve brought us a little army—you recruit like a hero. Speig Han’t I ? ay, and a set of clever dogs too. Hang up your hat in the sun, and I’ll lav you five pounds tis gone in a twinkling, and the devil himself shan’t tell where. Raz (laughing) The captain will make you welcome with these brave boys. He has got some fine fellows too. THE [Schiller 46 Speig Pshaw, your captain \ put his men and mine in comparison—bha ! Raz. Well, well, yours may have good fingers; but I tell you our captain’s reputation has got him some brave fellows: men of honor. Sprig So much the worse. enter grimm, running. Raz What now? who’s there? are there travellers in the forest 5 Grimm Quick, quickwhere are the rest? zounds, ’why do you stand chattering there ? dont you know- poor Roller? Raz What now ? what of him f Grimm. He’s bang’d, that’s all—he and four more. Raz Roller ? what ?—when ?—where did you hear of it ; Grimm. We heard nothing of him for three weeks.— He was all that time in jail, and we knew nothing of it: he was three times put to therack, to make him discover his captain : the brave fellow never squeak’d Yesterday he got his sentence—and this morning—he went off ex- pre'S to the devil Raz What a damned affair 1 has the captain heard of it ? Grimm. He heard of it only yesterday : he is foam- s ing with rage : sou’know he was always fond of Roller; and now that he had underwent the rack—we got ropes and a ladder to try to get him out—but it was all in vain — Moor himself put on the dress of a capuchin, and got in to him He endeavored to persuade him to change clothes with him—but Roller positively refused. And this morning the captain has sworn an oath, that made all our hairs stand on end [ he vows he will light him such a funeral pile as never king had ; the town itself, 1 fear, will go for it: he has long owed them a spite for their intolerable bigotry ; and you know, when he says a I’ll do it.” tis as good as if he had done it already. - Raz. Poor Roller I Act //] ROBBERS 47 Speig “ Memento mori ” What care 1? (sings )—— The gallons, my boys, whene'er I pass by, / cock my left eye, and I blink with the t'other; When l see the poor rogue on't says l my dear brother. You may hang there for me — who’s the fool, you or 1 ? Tol de rol, tol de rol * Raz. (hastily rising) Hark, a shot! {agreat noise of huzzaing) Spei g Another! Raz And another! tis the captain, (a noise of sing' ing behind the scenes) The wittols of Nuremberg these are the men ! They ne’er hang a thief till they catch him ! Da Capo. ( Roller’s voice is heard, and Switzer’s) Halloa, hal¬ loa*. Raz. Roller’s voice or a thousand devils seize me ! Swit and Rol, (still behind the scenes ) Razman, primm, Speigelberg, Razman. Raz. Roller; thunder and lightning; fire and fury ! (they run to meet them) enter moor, as disinounting, roller, switzer, schufterle, and the whole band, all bespattered, as from the road. Moor. Liberty, liberty, my boys. Roller is free— take my horse, and dash a bottle of wine over him. (throws himself on theground) Twas hot work ! Raz. (to Roller) By the forge of Rluto, you have had a resurrection from the wheel 1 * ANOTHER TRANSLATION. When a gibbet I pass , lam not such an ass As to blubber and think of my end ; But I shut my left eye. Nod and wink, while I cry Rather you. there than I, honest friend 48 THE [Schiller Speig. Are you his ghost f or are you flesh and blood ? Rol. (quite breathless) Flesh and blood, my boy. Where do you think I come from? Grimm. Who the devil knows? ask the witch on ■whose broomstick you rode. Hadn’t you received sen¬ tence ? Rol Ay, truly; and something more. I was at the foot of the gallows, man-slay till 1 get my breath—- Switzer will tell you. Give me a glass of brandy.-- Are you there, Maurice? come back too? 1 thought to have met you somewhere else. Give me a glass of brandy. I have not one bone sticking to another—that damn’d rack f the captain ; where’s my captain ? Raz. Have patience, man, have patience. Come, tell us, tell us; how did you escape? how came you off? I am in a maze. From the foot of the gallows, did you say ? Rol (drinks off a bumper of brandy) Ha, that smacks;—’t has the right bite ;—straight from the garb lows, my boy.-You stare at me:—what, you dont believe it! 4 was but three steps off from Abraham’s bosom : no more. You would not have given a pinch of snuff for my life. Twas my captain ; 1 thank my captain for my breath, my liberty, my life. Szvit. Hah, twas a trick worth thetelling It was but yesterday we got notice by our spies that Roller lay snug in pickle;* and that unless the sky fell, or some such accident, before morning—•that’s to day, he would be gone the way of all flesh Come, paid the captain, shall our friend swing, and we do nothing for him ? save him or not, I promise you. I’ll light him such a pile, as few have seen the like, lie gave his or¬ ders to the band. We sent a trusty fellow, who contri¬ ved to give Roller notice, by slipping a scrap of paper in his soup. Rol. I had no hopes of the thing succeeding. * Germ, Leige tiushtig in salts ; Act //] ROBBERS 4<> Szvit We watched for the moment when every thing j was quiet—the streets deserted—every mortal gone to see the sight—horse, foot, coaches, all pell-mell We heard even the noise at the gallows, and the psalin sing¬ ing. Now, said the captain, now*s the time: set fire ! our fellows darted like a shot through the whole town— [, set fire to it at once in three-and-thirty different places ; threw burning matches on the powder magazine, into the churches, and the store-houses. Sdeath, it was scarcely a quarter of an hour when a brisk gale from the north-east, which certainly owed them a spite, gave us all the help we wished; and in a moment the whole town was in a whirlwind of fire. We ran up and down the streets like furies, crying, “ Fire, fire!”in every quar¬ ter. Then there was such a horrible noise and confusion —the great bells were set a ringing—the powder maga¬ zine blew up. Twas as if heaven, earth, and hell had. P all gone together. Rol. Then my attendants began to look behind them. Twas like Sodom and Gomorrah ; the whole town in a blaze: sulphur, smoke, and fire %■ -all the range of hills Dl re echoed with the explosion. The terror was univer¬ sal:-- now was the time:—they had taken off my irons; so very near was it;—touch and go; off I went like an arrow:—out of sight in a moment, while they stood petrified, like Lot's wife. Luckily I had but a few paces to run to the river. I tore off my clothes, jumped > in, and swam under water till 1 thought they had lost ■„ sight of me. Our brave captain was on t’other side ■with horses ready, and clothes for me. And here, my boys, here 1 am. Moor, Moor, my brave fellow—£ wish only you were in the same scrape, that I might pay off the debt. Raz. Spoke like a brute; a beast that ought to be bang’d. Egad, it was a masterly stroke. Rol. Ay, so it was. A friend in need is a friend in¬ deed, say I; but you can’t judge of it. No, unless you had the rope about your neck, and were walking alt alive to vour grave. Then those hellish preparations*? THE (Millet 5' l would not undergo that again. Dying! zounds, tis no more than cutting a caper—tis what goes before, that’s the devil. Speig. And the powder-magazine was blown in the air ? that accounts forthe stink of brimstone we smelt far and near, as if the devil’s wardrobe had been hung out to air. Swit. If they made a holiday for the hanging Of our poor comrade, why shouldn’t we make a holiday for the burning of their town when he was to escape by it. Schufterle, can you tell how many were killed ? Schuf. Eighty-three, they say; the steeple alone cru$h rf ed sixty of them. Moor, (in a serious tone) Roller, you were dearly- bought, Schuf. Pah, pah, what signifies all that? indeed* if they had been men-—but they were babies in leading-strings, mere bantlings—or old beldames, their nurses—and perhaps a few poor atomies that-bad not strength fa crawl to their doors—>all that bad any soul or spirit in them were at the show. Twas the mere scum, the dregs that staid at home. Moor. Poor wretches! the old, the decrepid, and the infants! * The executions in Germany are performed at day< break. Act If] ROBBERS 51 Sc/iuf. Ay, a few sick, wretches too—women in labor, perhaps, or just at the downlying tla, ha, in passing one of those little barracks, L heard some squalling—X peep’d in, and what do .you think it was? a child, astout little rogue, that lay on the floor beneath a table, and the fire just catching it. Poor little fellow, said I, you are starving for cold there—and so I chuck d him into the fire. , . , , Moor. Did you so ? may that fire burn in thy bosom till eternity grows grey. Out of my sight, monster— never be seen in my troop again! (some of the robbers begin to murmur) What, you murmur, do ye? who dares to murmur, when 1 command ?—out of my sight, I say, sir- there are others among you who are ripe for mv indignation. Speigelberg, 1 know you. It won’t be long .ere I call over the roll, and I’ll make such a muster as shall make you all tremble, (they go out much agitated) , \ Moor. C alone, walking hackxvards ,and forwards in great.agitation) Hear it not, o God of vengeance! ain i to blame for this? do not the instruments of thy wrath, the pestilence, flood, and famine, overwhelm at once the righteous and the guilty ?—who can command the flames to stay their course, to destroy only the noxious vermin, and spare the fertile field > poor fooli o shame, hast thou then presumptuously dared to wield Jove’s thunder, and with thy aimiess arm to let the l itan ’scape while the poor pigmy suffers?—go, siave! tis not for thee to wield the sword of the Most High ! behold thy first essay 1 —here then 1 renounce the rash .design— hence let me seek some cavern of the earth to hide me— to hide ray shame from the eye of day’, (is going out) enter roller. Rol Take care of yourself, captain—the spirits are walking—there are several troops of bohemian horse¬ men patrolling all around us—that cursed Blueshanks $aust have betrayed us. THE [Schiller eater grimm. Grimm. Captain, captain, we are discovered, tracks ed! theie’s a circle drawn in the forest, and some thou-* sands surrounding us I enter sfkigelberg. Speig. O lord, o lord, o lord, we are all taken—every man of us hang’d, drawn and quarter'd—ten thousand hussars, dragoons, and yaagers, have got to the heights above us and block’d up all the passes [Moor exit enter switzer, razman, schufterle, and other jobbers, from every side of the stage. Swit. Ha, have we unkenneled them at last? give vou joy, Roller 1 ’tis long since 1 wish’d to have a fair tilting-bout with the regulars Where is the captain? is all the band assembled ? have we ammunition enough ? Raz. Plenty of that*—but we’re only eighty in all—^ not one to twenty ! Swit . -So much the better—these poor dogs are shot atfor sixpence—we fight for life and liberty—we’ll pour down on them like a deluge—give them a volley like thunder 1 where the devil is our captain? Speig. He deserts us at this extremity. Is there no ■wav left for an escape then ? Swit. Escape! coward, you gape there with your lanthorn jaws, and when you hear a shot--zounds, sirrah 1 show your face in the ranks, or you shall be sew'd alive in a boar-skin and thrown to the dogs! Raz. The captain,, the captain! enter moor, with a slow pace. 1 Moor. (apart ) 1 find that we are completely sur¬ rounded—they must fight like desperadoes.-Well, my boys, we’re tied to the stake—one choice—fight or die! Swit Ha ! I’ll rip them up alive! lead us on, captain, ve’l! folio - you to the gates of hell! Moor. Load all your muskets. Have you powder 'fjjqugh i ROBBERS 53 Act 11 ] Swit. (starting up) Powder enough ! ay, to blow the earth up to the moon ! Raz. Each of us has five pair of pistols loaded, and three carbines Moor. That is well —some of you must get upon the trees, and others conceal themselvesin the thickets, and fire upon them in ambush. Swit. Speigelberg, that will be your post. Moor, i'he rest will follow me and fall like furies on their flank. Swit. I’ll be one, by heavens! Moor. Every man must sound his whistle, and gallop through the wood, that our numbers may appear the more terrible. We must let loose all our dogs, and spirit them to fly at the ranks and throw them into confusion, that they may run upon ourfire. We three, R' iler, S wit¬ zer, and I, will fight wherever the main force is. ( trum - pet sounds) enter a commissary. Grimm. Hal here comes one of the blood-hounds of justice J Swit I)own with him. I?ont let him open his mouth! Moor. Peace there*. I’ll hear what he has to say. Com . With your leave, gentlemen. 1 have in ray { jerson the full authority of justice; and there are eight tundred soldiers here at hand, who watch over every hair of my head. Swit. A very persuasive argument tp stay our stom¬ achs. Moor. Comrade, be quiet! speak sir, and be brief.— P What are your commands ? Com. I come, sir, by authority of that august magis¬ trate who decides upon life and death ; and I have one word for you and two for your band. Moor. Which is ?- resting upon his sword) Com. Abominable wretch ! are not those cursed bands imbrued in the noble blood of a .count of the empire l—~ JE2 5 * THE {Schiller hast thou not with a sacrilegious arm, broke open the sanctuary of the Lord, and impiously carried off all the consecrated vessels ? hast thou not set fire to our most upright and sanctified city, and blown up our holy pow¬ der-magazine over the heads of many pious Christians? (clasping his hands) abomination of abominations | the horrible savour of thy sins has ascended to heaven, and jnay bring on the day of judgment before its time, to punish such a wicked-~infernartnonster! Moor. A masterly oration!—but now to the point in hand. What doth the most august magistrate please to inform me by your mouth ? Coin. What von never will be worthy to receive—. Look around you, you horrible incendiary—as far as yoilr eye can reach, you are surrounded by our horse¬ men. Escape is impossible-r-you may as soon expect these stunted oaks and pines to bear peaches and berries. Moor Hear you that, comrades?—but go on, sir. Com Hear then how merciful, how long-suffering is justice If this very moment you lay down your arms, and humbly intreat for a mitigation of your punishment, then justice wiji be like an indulgent mother—she will shut her lyes on one half of your horrible crimes—and only condemn you rethink well of it—to be broken alive Upon the wheel I Swit. Captain, shall I cut his throat ? Rol. Hell, fire, and fury ? captain !--how he bites hi? lip ; shall I cut this fellow down like a cabbage I Moor. Dont touch him—let none of you dare to lay 3 finger on him. Harkee, sir! Clothe Commissary in q Solemn tone) There are here seventy-nine of us, and I, their captain Mot a man of us has been taught to trot at a signal, or dance to the music of artillery; and on your side are eight hundred disciplined troops, staunch and experienced veterans. Now, hear me, sir! hear .Moor, the captain of these incendiaries. It is true 1 have assassinated a count of the empire. It is true 1 have burnt and plundered the church of the dominicans. It IS tfue i liSfV's set fire to your bigot ted town, and blown Act ir\ ROBBERS up your powder magazine. But 1 have done more than all that. Look here, (holding oat his hand) at these four rings of value. This ruby 1 drew from the finger of a minister whom I cut down at the chase, at his princess feet. He had built his fortune on the miseries of his fel¬ low creatures, and his elevation was mark'd by the tears of the fatherless and the widow. This diamond 1 took from a treasurer-general, who made a traffic of offices of trust, and sold honors, the rewards of merit, to the high¬ est bidder. This cornelian l wear in honor of a priest whom I dispatched with my own hand, for his most pious and passionate lamentation over the fall of the inqui¬ sition. 1 could expatiate at large, sir, on the history of these rings, did I not already repent that I have wasted words on a man unworthy to hear me. Com. Is there so much pride in a vile felon ? Moor. Stop, sir. I shall now talk with some pride. Go, tell your august magistrate—-he that throws the dice on life and death—tell him, I am none of those banditti who are in compact with sleep, and with the midnight hour—r scale no walls in the dark, and force no locks tp plunder. What 1 have done shall be engraven in that book where all the actions of mankind are recorded—ip the eternal register of heaven. But with you, poor ministers of earthly justice, I hold no further com¬ muning. Tell your master, that my trade is the lex tal- ionis ; like for likevengeance is my trade ! (turns away with contempt) Com You refuse then to hearken to the voice of mercy 1 if that is the case, I have done with you. (turns to the band) Hear, you fellows—hear the voice of jus¬ tice' il you immediately deliver up to metkiscondemned malefactor, you shall have a full pardon—even the re¬ membrance of your crimes shall be blotted out—oiir holy mother church will open her bosom to receive you, like the strayed sheep of theflock—you shall be purified in the waters of regeneration, and every one of you shall get posts and places! here—read with your own eyes—here is a general pardon—signed and sealed, (gives Switzer S6 THE {Schiller. a paper with an air of triumph) Well, how does jour majesty like that ?—come, courage i bind your leadef hand and foot—and be free. Moor . Do you hear that, fellows? hear you that? why stand you thus in amaze ? what stops you? how can you hesitate ? you are already prisoners, and you have an offer of your liberty--you are already under sen* tence of death, and you havean offer of your lives-- you are promised honors, places, and emoluments—and what can you gain, even if you conquer, but execration, infamy and persecution ?—you have the grace of heaven offered to you, and at present you are in a state of repro- bation—not a hair of your heads but must blaze in everlasting flames!—how now, still in doubt? is it so difficult to make a choice between heaven and hell?— help me to persuade them, mr. Commissary. Com. What can be that devil’s name that speaks out qfhis month ? he makes me all quiver, (apart) Moor. What 1 have you no answer ? do you hope fq gain your liberty by your swords? look around you— look well, tis impossible—twere to think like" chil¬ dren Perhaps you flatter yourselves with an honor¬ able death, that you’ll fight like men, and die like heroes —you think so because you have seen Moor exult amid scenes of carnage and of horror—o, never dream it— there’s none of you a Moor „ You are a set of miserable thieves—poor instruments of my great'designs—despi¬ cable as ttie cord in the hands of the hangman ! no, no; a thief cannot die like a hero—a thief may be allowed to quake at the sight of death, (trumpets sound) Hark how those trumpets echo through the forest! see how their sabres gleam ! what! still irresolute ? are you mad ? do you think 1 thank you for my life? not at all—! dis¬ dain the sacrifice you are making! ( (Jiesoundof warlike instruments is heard) Com. (in astonishment) Phis is beyond belief! never did 1 see a man like this. I must make off! (apart) Moor. You are afraid, perhaps, that 1 shali destroy myself, and that, as the bargain is to deliver me alive, Art III] BOBBERS 57 that may break it. Your fears are groundless See, there is my dagger, my pistols, and, what I have always carried with me, my poison !-( throws them away ) what ! not determin’d yet? but perhaps you think 1 shall struggle when you seize me. Look here—1 tie my right hand to this branch of an oak ! now l am quite defence¬ less—a child might overpower me. Now come on J who will be the first to betray his captain ? Rol (with frantic violence) Ay, if all hell should open! who is the scoundrel that will betray his captain?* Swit : (tears the pardon in pieces, and throws it in the Commissary’s face) There ! our pardon is at the mouth of our muskets--Tell your magistrate, that you have not found one traitor in ail our band. Huzza, save the captain; huzza, save the captain! All. Save the captain ; save him ! save our noble cap* tain ! (Commissary goes off hastily) Moor. (untwisting his hand from the tree, and in a transport of joy) Now, my brave lads —now we are free indeed I have a whole host in this single arm.— Death or liberty ! we shall not leave a man of them alive! (they sound the charge with great noise, and pxeunt sword in hand ) END OF THE SECOND ACT. ACT III. scene— a gar dan. Amelia, sitting in a pensive attitude. Enter Francis. Both in deep mourning. Fran. What, still here, my little enthusiast ? you stole * Germ. IVur hand kein ist rette den Hanptman,. LJe why is not a dog, let him save his captain, THE [Sclrilkr is away from our entertainment. My guests were it} charming spirits, but you disturb’d all our mirth Amel. Shame on such mirth! when your father’s fu¬ neral dirge is yet sounding in your ears. Fran. What, still sorrowing? will those pretty eyes never be dry? come, let the dead sleep in their graves, and be thou the joy of the living. l am just come- Amel And when do you depart? Fran. Fie now \ why that haughty, that severe coun¬ tenance ? I come to inform you- Amel. That Francis de Moor is now lord and mas- ter. Fran. Precisely so. It was upon that subject I want¬ ed to talk with you. Maximilian de Moor is gone tq sleep with his fathers. 1 am now the lord of these do¬ mains, and all that they contain Pardon me, Amelia: I wish to be the lord of all You know that you were properly a part of our family. You know my father re¬ garded sou as his own child: you have not forgotten him, Amelia: you never will forget him. Amel Never, sir ! never; no banquet, no mirth and revelry, shall banish his idea from my mind. Fran. Pious affection! but what you owed to the fa¬ ther, the son sure now may claim; and Charles being dead. Ha! you are surprised ! overwhelmed ! are you not fay truly, so flattering a thought, a prospect so bril¬ liant, and that so suddenly presented to your mind, was too much even for woman’s pride—that Francis de Moor should spurn the proud ambition of the noblest families, and offer at the feet of a poor orphan, destitute and helpless, his heart, his hand, his wealth, these castles and domains! he, whom all envy, all fear, declares him? self Amelia’s voluntary slave. Amel. Why does the lightning sleep? nor cleave that impious tongue? curs’d wretch' my Charleses murderer! and thou hopestto be the husband of Amelia? thou. Fran. Less heat, my princess! not quite so high a tone! think not you have a lover who will bow at a dis. tanpe, and sigh, and coo, and woo you like a Celadon. Act 7 / 7 ] ROBBERS No; Francis de Moor has not learnt, like the arcadian swains, to breathe his amorous plaints to caves, and rocks, and echoes. He speaks; and when he is not an¬ swered, he commands. Amel Worm! reptile! thou command? command me? and if 1 laugh to scorn your commands, what then? Fran. A cloister and imprisonment. I know how to tame, a stubborn female spirit. Amel. Ha! excellent' welcome the cloister and im¬ prisonment, that hides me from the glances of that basi¬ lisk—there 1 shall be free to think of Charles, to dwell on that dear image. Away, away ! haste to that blest abode! Fran. Is it so then ? than ks for that instruction—now I have learnt the art to gall you. This head, armed like another fury with her snakes, shall fright your Charles from your heart The horrible Francis shall lurk behind the picture of your lover, like the hound of hell. I will drag you by the locks to the altar, and, vt'ith. my dagger, force from your quivering lips the nup¬ tial oath. Amel ("strikes him) Take this love token first. Fran Hah! tenfold, and twice tenfold, shall be my vengeance. My wife ! no, that honor you never shall enjoy—you shall be my wench, mv paramour* The honest peasant’s wife shall point at you, shall hoot you in the streets Ay grind your teeth ? dari fire and mur¬ der from those, eyes. A woman’s fury is my joy, and pastime; it makes her lovelier—more desirable! these struggles shall enhance my triumph. How sweet is enjoyment when thus forced, thus ravished. Come to the altar—this instant come. (endeavors to force her ) Amel. (throwing herself about his reck) Pardon me, Francis, {idten going to take her in his arms, she draws his sword, and steps back a few paces ) Seest thou now, villain, what 1 can do? 1 am a woman, but a woman, roused-dare to come near me, and this steel— my uncle’s spirit shall guide it to thy heart. Fly me this instant! (she pursues him out with the svjord) Ah J THE [Schille? now I am at ease! I can breathe again. I felt a tyger’s rag£, the mettled courser’s strength. To a cloister, did he say? thanks for that blessed thought! love, forlorn and hopeless love, finds there a kind retreat! the grave of buried love. [exit scen e —the banks of the Danube, the robbers stationed on a height, while their horsey are grazing on the declivity below. Moor. I must rest here, (he throws himself on the ground) My joints are shook asunder; my tongue cleaves to my mouth, dry as a potsherd. 1 would beg of some of you to fetch me a little water in the hollow of your hand from yonder brook, but you are all weary to death. (while he is speaking , Switzer goes out uripef - ceived) Grimm. Our wine-cantines are empty long ago. Moor. How glorious, how majestic yonder setting sun! (lost in contemplation) tis thus the hero falls: tis thus he dies—in godlike majesty. Grimm. The sight affects you. Captain! Moor. When l was yet a boy, a mere child, it was my favorite thought, my wish to live like him! (looking earnestly on the sun) like him to die. (suppressing his anguish) Twas an idle thought, a boy’s conceit!- Grimm. It was so. Moor, (pulling his hat over his eyes) There was a time. Leave me, my friends, alone. Grimm. Moor, Moor! ’sdeath! how his countenance changes! Raz. Zounds! what is the matter with him ? is he ill ? Moor. There was a time, when I could not sleep, if 1 had but forgot my evening prayer. Grimm Have you lost your senses? what! yet a school boy ! twere fit indeed such thoughts should vex you. Moor, (resting his head on Grimm’s bobom) Brother,- brother 5 Act III ] ROBBERS 6l Grimm. Come, come—be not a child. Moor. A child ! oh that I werea child once more! Grimm. Fie, fie! clear up that cloudy brow! look yonder, what a landscape! what a lovely evening Moor. Ay my friend ! that scene so noble! this world so beautiful. Grimm '. Why that’stalking like a man. Moor. This earth so grand. Grimm. Well said! that’s what I like. Moor. And I so hideous in this world of beauty—and 1 a monster on this magnificent earth—the prodigal son. Grimm. (affectionately) Moor, Moor! Moor. My innocence! o my innocence 1 see how all nature expands at the sweet breath of spring. () God ! that this paradise—this hCaven, should be a hell to me ! when all is happiness—all in the sweet spirit of peace— the world one family—and its father there above J who is not my father! I alone the outcast—the prodigal son ! ofall the children of his mercy, 1 alone rejected. ( start¬ ing back with horror ) The companion of murderers— of fiends—bound down, enchained to guilt and horror. Raz. Tis inconceivable ! I never saw him thus mov’d before. Moor, (with s;reat emotion ) Oh! that I could return once more into the wom^T that bare me! that I hung an infant on the breast! that 1 were born the meanest pea¬ sant of the field! I would toil till the sweat of blood dropt from my brow to purchase the luxury of one sound sleep, the rapture of a single tear. Grimm. {to the rest) Dont disturb him! the paroxysm •will soon be over. Moor. There was a time when I could weep with ease. O days ofbliss! mansion of my fathers! o vales so green, so beautiful! scenes of my infant years, enjoy’d by fond enthusiasm! will you no more return ? no more exhale your sweets tocool this burning bosom ? oh never, never shall they return—no more refresh this bosom with the breath of peace. They are gone! gone for ever. THE [Schiller C2 enter switzer, with water in his hat. Swit. Captain, here is drink! water fresh and cool as ice. Grimm. What’s the matter, Switzer? you bleed. Swit- Matter? a mere joke—a trifling accident, that might have cost me only my neck or a couple of legs. I was trotting .along a steep bank of the river on the brow of youder declivity—tis all sand you know, plump, in a moment, down goes the bank under my feet, and I made a clever tumble of ten good rhenish yards at the least—there I lay for a while like a log, and when I came to my senses, 1 found myself safe on the gravel, and fine fresh water just at my hand. Peh ! not a bad caper, said I, since Pvegot my captain a drink by it. Moor -(gives back the hat to Switzer and wipes his face) Why, you're all so besmeared, one can’t see the cuts you got from the bohemian dragoons. The water was very.good, Switzer. These cuts become you, man. Swit. Poll! there’s room enough f6r twenty more of ’em. Moor. Ay, my boys—it was a hot day’s work—and only one friend lost. Poor Roller 1 he had a glorious death, if he had died in any cause but our’s he’d had a marble monument: let this suffice—this tear from a man’s cheek, {wipes his eyes) Do you remember how many of our enemies were left on the field? Swit. Sixty hussars—ninety-three dragoons—-and about forty light horse—in all, two hundred. Moor. Two hundred for one man every one of you has his claims upon this bead, {lakes of ins hat) Here 1 lift this poinard—so may my soul find life of death eternal, as Lkeep faith with you. Swit. Dont swear*, you dont know, if good fortune should once more smile upon you, but repentance-* Moor. No! by the ashes of Roller! I never will for¬ sake you. enter kozinsjci. Koz. They told me \ should find him somewhere Act Ill ] HOBBERS 63 hereabout. Ha! halloa I what faces are these? should these be the men—they are—they are—I’ll speak to them. Grim. Have a care* who goes there ? Koz. Gentlemen, excuse me—1 know not if I am right in my conjecture.' Moor. Suppose right. Whom do you take us for l Koz. For men. Szvit. Have we shown ourselves to be so, captain? Koz. I seek for men who can look death in the face, -who can play with danger as with a tamed snake—who prize liberty above life and fame—whose names speak comfort to the oppress’d, who can appal the bold, and make the tyrant shudder. Swit. L like this fellow. Hear me, good friend, you have found the men you seek. Koz, I think so—and hope I shall be anon their com« rade. You can point me out the man 1 look for—tis your captain, the intrepid count de Moor. Szvit. (gives him his hand ) We are brothers, my boy. Moor Would you know this captain? Koz Thou art he! in those features—-that air—who could behold you, and not discover it? (looking ear¬ nestly.at him for sometime ) it haslongbeen my wish tosee that man, whose countenance spoke terrors—whose eye could not be borne; he who sat on the ruins of Carthage. aSJow my wish is satisfied. Szvit. A fine mettled fellow. •Moor And who sent you to me? Koz O captain ! fate, the cruellest fate! I have been shipwrecked on the stormy ocean of the world. I have seen my fondest hopes evaporate in air—and nought re¬ main but the bitter recollection of my loss; a recollec¬ tion that would drive me to madness, if I sought not to drown it in feeding this restless, this impetuous, spirit with new object of pursuit. Moor. Another of heaven’s outcasts. Goon. Koz. I have been a soldier, and in that station unforr female: I embark’d for the Indies; my vessel went to 64 THE [Schiller pieces in a storm ; all my projects failed: at last, I heard the fame of your great exploits—assassinations as they term them ; and I have travelled many miles in the firm resolution of offering you my services: deign to accept them. I intreat you, noble captain, refuse not my re¬ quest. Swit. (leaping with joy) Huzza boys! Roller again a thousand times over : a noble fellow for our troop. Moor. VV hat is your name ? Koz. Kozinski, Moor. Kozinski, you are a light-headed boy. You are ready to take the most decisive step of life with no more consideration than a thoughtless girl. Here’s no game at bowls, no tennis-play, as you perhaps im¬ agine. Koz. I understand you, sir—but you mistake me. Tis true, I am but four-and-twenty; but I have seen the gleaming of swords, and heard the balls whistle before now. Moor. Have you so, young master f and have you leaned the use of arms merely to kill a poor traveller for a few dollars, or knock down helpless women 5 go, go, you have run away from your nurse, child, because you saw the rod. Swit What the devil, captain ! what do you mean? would you dismiss this Hercules, this glorious fellow, whose very looks would scare Julius Cassar into a coal¬ hole ? Moor. And so when your wrong-headed schemes misgave, you would go seek for an assassin. You would become an assassin yourself. Sdeath, young man, do you know' what that word means ?—you may perhaps sleep sound after beheading a few poppies ; but to car¬ ry a murder on your soul--— Koz 1*11 answer for all the murders that you shall give me in charge. Moor. What, are you so clever—would you take one in by a cajoling speech ? how know you whether 1 mayn’t have my bad dreams—whether 1 shan’t flinch wjheq Act nr] ROBBERS 65 1 come to my death bed ?—how many things have you done, for which you thought you had to answer on ac¬ count? Koz. Why, truly not much, except this last journey to you, noble Moor. Moor. Has your tutor been amusing you with the his¬ tory of Robin Hood? such senseless scoundrels should be sent to the galleys. And thus you have heated your childish imagination with the mad idea of renown. Do you thirst for fame ? for honor?—would you buy immor¬ tality by murders?—mark me well, young man; no laurel springs for the assassin—no triumph waits the vic¬ tories of the robber; but curses, dangers, death, disgrace. Seest thou yon gibbet on the hill? Speig. {aside, walking about in a huff) What an ass! blockhead ! abominable stupid ass ! is that the way to increase our band ? Koz . What shall he fear, who does not fear death? Moor. Bravo, well said! you have got your Seneca by heart, l perceive. But, my good friend, with those fine sentences you will not lull to sleep the sufferings of nature—they will avai| you nought against the sharp tooth of anguish. Think well, young man, ( takes him ■by the hand ) think on the step you are going to take; 1 advise you as a parent—%umd first the depth of the precipice, before you dare to leap it^ff in this world you can yet catch at a single glimpse'of joy—there may be moments when you woul<|«awake—and then—it might fye too late Here thou withdraw’st thyself at once from the circle of humanity, Man thou must be, or demon. Once more, my son, let me intreat—-if one spark of hope lurks in your bosom, fly this dreadful as¬ sociation. You may deceive yourself, impose on your own mind, and take for fire, for spirit, what in the end ■will be despair. Take my counsel—retreat—fly, while there it is yet time. Koz. No, never. If you refuse my intreaty, hear ■ 5 >t least the real story of inv sorrows. Yourself will then P 2 THE [Schiller put a dagger into my hand—you will. But sit down, and listen 10 me with attention. Moor. I’ll hear you. Koz. Know then I am a nobleman of Bohemia. By the sudden death of my father I became master of a considerable estate. In the neighborhood——a paradise to me, there dwelt an angel—a maiden—adorned with all the charms of blooming youth—and chaste as is the light of heaven But why speak thus to men who can¬ not comprehend me, who never loved, who never were beloved ! $zvit. Softly s softly ; our captain is as red as fire. Moor Have done; i’ll hear the rest another time- to-morrow—another time—when I have seen blood. Koz Blood ? blood ? nay, hear me, Moor—mine is a tale that calls for blood. She was of plebeian birth, a german ; but such her air and look as to dispel all pre¬ judice. With sweet reserve, and maiden modesty, she had accepted a ring from my hand—a ring, the pledge of my vows; and the next day I was to have led my Amelia to the altar.-. (Moor starts and rises ) While tn this state of rapturous bliss, in the midst of prepara¬ tions for our nuptials, I was called to court by an express. J went—letters of the most treasonable nature were pro¬ duced, which it was alleged that I had written. I blushed at the baseness of the charge; my sword was taken from me, and I was hurried to a dungeon, where for some time my senses intirely forsook me. Swit. And in the mean time-well—go on—I smell the roast already .* Koz. Here I remained a tedious month. I suffered most for my Amelia, to whom I knew that my impris¬ onment would give the deepest affliction. At length I had a visit from the prime minister, who was pleased to congratulate me on the full proof of my innocence. With many flattering compliments, he read to me the * Germ, Ich rieche dembraten schon. Act III] ROBBERS Warrant for my release and gave me back my sword. 1 flew in triumph to my castle, to clasp my loved Ame¬ lia to my bosom. She was gone—she had been carried off at midnight, and none could tell by whom or whith¬ er. This was a thunderstroke—l flew to town—made inquiry at court. All riveted their eyes on me, byt none would give the least intelligence. At last, through a gra¬ ted window of the palace, 1 discovered my Amelia— She threw me a letter—— Swit. Didn’t Isay so? Koz. Death and fire! thus stood the case—twas given her in choice, either to see her lover die or to be¬ come the prince’s mistress. She decided the contest between love and honor, ( smiling bitterly ) by saving me. Swit. Well, what then ? Koz. I remained rooted (o the spot, as if I had been struck with lightning Blood was my first thought, blood my last—I foam'd at the mouth, like a tyger— seizing a three»edged sword, I ran furiously to the pal¬ ace ot the minister—be had been the infamous pander. They had perceived me from the windows, for I found all the apartments locked. In answer to my eager in¬ quiries, I was told he was gone to the palace. Thither 1 flew direct!)—lie was not there. 1 returned to his house, forced the door of his apartment, and found the wretch ; but at the very moment five or six of his do¬ mestics beset me, and wrested my sword from me. Swit (stamps with his feet) And did lie escape?— no vengeance? Koz. I was immediately thrown in irons—brought to trial—condemned ;—and, mark me now—by a singular exertion of lenity, banished as a malefactor from my native land, my fortune confiscated to the minister. Amelia, my Amelia, remains as a lamb within the ty* ger’s grasp, and I must bend submissive to the yoke of despotism. Swit. (rises and whets his sword) Captain, this is THE' [Schiller something to sharpen our blades—this must set us at ■work* Moor. (who had been walking to and fro in great agitation, stops suddenly) I must see her—come along —rise there. Kozinski, thou remain’st with us.—-— Quick—prepare to set out this moment. The Robbers. Where? what now ?—— Moor. Where! who dares to question ? [to Switzer) Traitor, you want to keep me back ; but by the hope of heaven, if- Sivit. Traitor ! I a traitor?—lead on to hell, and I’ll follow you. Moor , (falls on his neck) Yes, brother ; I know you will. Site suffers in anguish and despair—that is euough.->-Come, my brave boys:—Courage.-To Franconia ! there must we be within these eight days. [exeunt END OF THE THIRD ACT. ACT IV. scene, a gallery in the castle of Moor. ^Charles be moor in disguise under the name of COUNT DE BRAND, With AMELIA, both looking intently at a picture on the wall. The habit of a nun lying on the table Moor. (with emotion ) He was a most excellent man. Jmel. Count de Brand, you appear to take great in¬ terest in that portrait. Moor. (still looking earnestly at the picture) A most * Germ. Das ist wassar aus unsere muhle. This is $at£r to our mills. Act II/] ROBBERS 69 excellent—a most worthy man ;—and he is now no more ? Amel. No more. \ He has past away, like all the joys of life. ( takes his hand gently ) Count, all earthly bliss is vain. Moor. True, most true! but can you have proved that truth already ? you who scarcely yet have seen your twentieth year? Amel. Yes, 1 have proved that all who live must die in sorrow. We gain a little, that we may lose it with tears: we engage our hearts, only that those hearts may break. Moor. What, have you already lost so much? Amel. Nothing !—all!—nothing ! Moor. And would you learn forgetfulness in that holy garb—the habit of a nun ? Amel. To-morrow I hope to do so. Shall we contin* ue our walk, sir ? Moor. So soon ? whose picture is that on the right ? he has, methinks, a countenance that bespeaks misfor¬ tune— Amel. The portrait on the left is the count’s son—he who is now master of this castle. Moor. His only son ? Amel Come, come away- Moor. But that on the'right? Amel. Will you not walk into the garden ? come— Moor. But that picture on the right?-you are in tears, Amelia! (Amelia goes out with peecipitatiori) Moor, {alone) She loves me! loves me still!—her tears betray her! yes, she loves me 1-oh heaven? is that the couch on which we so oft have sat—where [ have hung in rapture on her neck ? are these my father’s halls ? o days of bliss for ever past!—for ever! oh, how the dear remembrance of those days shoots through my soul, like the first burst of spring ; here should have been my happy residence—here should 1 have pass’d my days—honored, respected, loved ; here have seen the 10 THE {Schiller years of niy blest infancy revive in the blooming off¬ spring pf my Amelia; here received the willing hom¬ age of my happy vassals No more, no more! I must return, return to that dread station fate has des¬ tined me. Farewell, dear mansion of my fathers ! scenes that have seen me in my years of childhood, when my free bosom beat with rapture—that this day witness my despair ! (walks towards the door, and sud¬ denly stops) shall I never behold her more i not fora last adieu! no farewell kiss of those dear lips ! yes, I will see her once more ; once more enfold her in my arms, though I should die for it. Once more I'll quaff the sweet voluptuous poison. And then away, far as the winds of heaven, and demons of despair shall drive me. {exit scene-— a chamber in the castle. FRANCIS DE MOOR. Fran, (in a deep reverie) Begone, thou torturing image ! what a coward 1 am ! of what am I afraid? of whom ? this count, this stranger, seems a spy of hell, to dog me at the heels? surely I should know his counte- nance—there is something great, something familiar in those wild and sun-burnt features; something that makes me tremble ■ (walks about agitated, and rings) Who’s there ?-Francis be on thy guard, something lurks there for thy perdition ! enter daniel. Dan. What are your commands, sir ? Fran: (looking stedfastly at him for a considerable time) Nothing. Begone! bring me a goblet of wine— but q uick. { ex it Daniel Fran. Perhaps this rascal may confess, if threatened with the torture. I’ll penetrate him with a look so dreadful, that his conscience shall betray him. (stops Act nr\ ROBBERS li before the portrait of Charles, and examines it) That long scraggy neck! those dark, lowering brows! that bold eye that flashes fire! ( shuddering) All-blasting belli—tis he—it must be Charles himself! enter daniel, with a cup of wine. Put it down. Look at me—stedfastly! eye to eye—what, your knees totter! you tremble—confess, villain!—what have you done ? Dan Nothing—as I hope for mercy— Fran. Drink that wine off. What—do you hesitate? speak—q uick ! what have you put in that wine?— Dan. So help me God—Nothing!-- Fran. You have put poison in the wine. Are you not a? pale as ashes ? confess, wretch, confess—who gave it you? was it not the count—the count who gave it you ? Dan. The count? the count hasgiven me nothing. Fran (taking hold of him) I'll strangle thee, liar! old hoary traitor! nothing ? why then were you so of¬ ten together?—you and he, ancl Amelia? what were you whispering of?—have I not seen her bold, her shameless glances at him ? she who affected such a mod¬ est air—did I not observe her, when she dropt a tear into his wine—and how he swallowed it with suchavid- i'y?—1 perceived it—in the mirror 1 saw it—with these eyes I saw it. Dan God knows, I know not a single syllable of all that. Fran. Will you deny it? give me the lie to my face? what plots, .what machinations, have you devised ?— to smother me in my sleep? to cut my throat? to poi¬ son mein my drink—drug my meals? confess it, wretch ■—confess it, this instant;—l know it all.-- Dan As the living God shall save me—nothing have I said but the truth. Fran. Well, this once I forgive you. But I know he has given you money. Did he not squeeze your hand ? 72 THE [Schiller yes, harder than usual-—like an old acquaintance? did he not', Daniel ? Dan. Never, indeed, sir. Fran. For example; didn’t he say that he knew you well; that perhaps, you might know him; that one day you might discover—How ? didn’t he say something of that kind? Dan Not a word, sir. Fran. That lie would be revenged ? horribly reven¬ ged? Dan. Not a syllable. Iran. What, not a syllable? recollect yourself. Have you forgot that he said he knew your late master well, very particularly well; that he loved him much, loved him as a son loves a father ?— Dan , I do remember—l think 1 heard him say some¬ thing of that kind. Fran (alarmed ) Did he say it ? say those words ?— did he say he was my brother ?—— Dan. No, he did not say that. But when miss,Ame¬ lia was walking with him in the gallery, 1 was at the door—he stopp’d before my late master’s picture, as if he had been thunderstruck ; and miss Amelia pointed to the picture, and said, an excellent man. Yes, said he, ‘ most excellent,’ and he wiped his eyes. Fran. Go, quick! send Herman hither [ exit Daniel Tis clear as day 1 tis Charles 1 he will now come, and imperiously ask—where is my inheritance ? and is it for this that I have lost my sleep—moved heaven and earth for this ; stifled the cries of nature in my breast j, and now when the reward shoiild come—this vagabond, this outcast steps between, and with his horrid hand tears all this fine-spun web. bWtly, tis but a step, an easy one—a little murder! nolle but a driveller would leave his work imperfect—or idly wait till time should finish it Fran. Ha, welcor js, my prompt, my active instrument. Act III] ROBBERS 73 Her. ( abruptly ) What do you want with me,count? Fran That you should give the finishing stroke to your work—-put the seal to it— Her. Really? Fran. Give the picture,ihe last touch. Her. Poll. Fran. Shall I call the carriage? we’ll talk over it at our airing. Her Less ceremony, sir, if you please. All the bu¬ siness that you and 1 have to settle to day may be done within the four walls of this apartment. Mean time, a word or two with you by way of preface, which may perhaps save your lungs some exertion, < Fran. (reservedly ) Hmi and what may those words be ? - Her. {with a malignant tone of irony ) ‘ Thou shalt have Amelia, l say—and from my hand.’ Fran (with anxiety) Herman ! Her. (in the same tone of irony , and turning his hack upon him) ‘Amelia has lost every support, and is the play thing of my will. Then you may easily guess what follows; in short all goes to a wish ’ ( with an in¬ dignant laugh, and then haughtily to Francis) These were thy words. Now, count de Moor, what have you now to say ? Fran. ( evasively ) To you nothing——I had some¬ thing to say to Herman. Her. A truce with shuffling—why was I sent for hither? to be a second time your fool? again to hold the ladder for a thief to mount—to sell my soul, to catch a hangman’s fee? what else did you want with me? Fran Ila, by the way, (as if recollecting) we must not forget the main point Did not my valet de cham- bro mention it to you—l wanted to talk with you about the dowry - Her . Sir, this is bantering—or worse. Moor, take care of yourself; beware how you kindle my fury. We are alone; my name is at stake against yours. Trust not the devil though vou have raised him yourself. G THE [Schiller U Fran■ (affecting a haughty air) Is it thus, sir, you speak to your master? tremble, slave Her. (ironically) For fear of losing your favor? a mighty loss, to one who is at war with himself. Moor, 1 abhor you for a villain, dont make me deride you al¬ so for a fool. 1 can open tombs, and raise the dead! which of us two is now the slave? Fran. (smoothly ) Come, my good friend be politic, show yourself a man of sense; dont be false to your word- Her. To detest a wretch like you is the best policy: to keep faith with you would be an utter want of sense. Faith with whom? with the father of lies—the arch-im¬ postor ! oh, such faith makes me shudder!—treason is virtue here, and peifidy a saint-like quality. But stay a little—patience! vengeance is subtle. Fran. Oh, by-the-by—what a fool was I to forget. Didn’t you lose a purse lately In this room ? a hundred louis wasn’t it? hah, 1 had almost forgot that. Here, my good Herman, take what’s your own. (offers him a purse) Her. (throws it from him with contempt) Curse on your Judas bribe; the earnest of perdition! you once thought to make my poverty a pander to my consci¬ ence! but there you were foil’d, sir The former purse of gold serves to maintain a certain person—-to furnish sustenance for- Fran, (with a countenance of fear) Herman. Herman, dont make me think you a traitor. Were you to make any other use of that money than you ought to do— you were the vilest of traitors.—— Her ( triumphantly) Ay truly! say you so? then know, count de Moor, 1 will enhance your shame, dou¬ ble your mess of infamy—1 will prepare a banquet for you, where the whole world shall be the guests!—you understand me now, sir—my most revered, most grac i¬ ous master Fran (quitedisconcerted) Ila, devil? durst impostor! jet in ROBBERS 75 {striking hisforehead ) Beast, that l was, to st^e my fortune on a fool’s caprice ? twas brutish 1 - Her Whew ~o twas shrewd - twas cunning ' Fran (biting his lips ) Most true-- and ever will be true; there is no thread so feebly spun, as that which weaves the bands of guilt. Her. Ha, ha ! what now ? are devils turn’d moralists? F> an {starts off abruptly , and with a malignant smile) And certain folks will have no doubt, much hofior in their conduct.- — Her {clapping his hands) Bravo! inimitable!—you play your part to admiration. You draw the poor fool into the snare—then woe be on his head, if he attempts to escape. O cunning fiend ! and yet, {clapping him on the shoulder) sir count, you have not got 'your lesson yet quite perfect. By heavens, you must first know how far the losing gamester will venture. Throw a match into the powder-room, says the desperate pirate, and blow both friend and foe into the air. Fran, (takes down a pistol from the wall) Here’s trea¬ son- l must be resolute Her {draws a pistolfrom his pocket) Dont give your¬ self so much trouble—one’s prepared for all events with ^ Fran (lets fall his pistol, and throivs himself back in a chair in confusion) Keep my secret- Herman at least till- I recollect myself. Her Yes, till you have hired a dozen assassins to seal my mouth for ever. But harkee, (in his ear) the secret is contained in a certain paper—which my heirs will open. [exit Fran Is this a dream? where was my courage? my presence of mind, that used to be so prompt ?-- be¬ trayed by my own instrument! the props of my good luck begin to totter—the mound is broken ; and all will speedily give way. Now for a quick resolve—but how, what ?--if I durst but come behind and stab him.— Durst! a wounded man’s a child Ill do it. ( stalks backwards and forwards , and then stops as if hesitating THE [Schiller from fear) Who’s that behind ine? {rolling his eyes) what figures are these—what sounds: yet l think I have courage—courage 1 yes—but if my shadow should dis¬ cover me while l struck him—or a glass—or the whiz¬ zing of my arm. Ugh—how my hair bristles— (lets fall a poniard, from under his tlothes) No, I am no coward—tender hearted only : yes, that is it. These are virtue’s struggles—I honor this feeling. To kill my -brother with my own hand ! no, that were monstrous. No, no, no : let me cherish this vestige of humanitv —{ will not murder: nature thou hast conquered : there’s something here that feels like—tenderness: yes, he shall live - [exit scene, agarden, Amelia, alone, sitting in an arbor, where several covers ed walks centre. Amel. “ You are in tears, Amelia !*’.—these were his words—and spoken with that expression. Oh, it sum¬ moned up a thousand dear remembrances: scenes of past delight; as in my days of happiness, my golden spring of love, flark! tis the nightingale I o such was thy song, sweet bird, in those blest days, so bloom’d the flowers, as when I sat enraptur’d by his side. Sure, if the spirits of the dead hover around the living, this stranger is the angel of my Charles. Ha! false and faithless heart I and dost thou seek thus artfully to veil thy perfidy ? no, no: begone for ever from this breast, the weak, the impious thought. Here, in this heart—rny Charles lies buried, never shall human being fill his place. And yet this strange, this unknown-tis won- dertfil my thoughts should dwell thus strong, thus con¬ stantly upon him : as twere my Charles’s picture—his features seem to melt into tiie very image, of my only love ! You are in tears, Amelia i ’ those were his words. TIa ! let me fly the thought. To-morrow l am a nun: (rises) a nun ! poor heart! o, what a word was that Act IP] ROBBERS 77 how sweet to this ear was of late that word: but now, now—o heart, thou hast betrayed me. 1 believed thee i vanquish’d, and thought that fortitude which was, alas, I despair! {sits down in the arbor, and covers her face with her hands) % enter Herman from one of the cover'd walks. Her {to himself) I have plunged boldly in. Now let the tempest rage, even though the billows overwhelm me* {sees Amelia) Madam, lady Amelia! Amel A spy! what seek you here? Her. I bring you news—sweet—pleasant, horrible news. If you are disposed to pardon, you shall hear wondrous tidings. Amel. I have nothing to forgive, no ear for news. Her. Do you not lament a lover ? Amel. {measuring him with a long look) Child of ill- 1 , luck, what right have you to question ? Her. The right of hate—of love— Amel. Can there be love beneath a garb like that? Her Ay, even to make a man—a villain;—you had ^ an unde also who died lately ? Amel. {with tenderness) A father ! Her. The lover and the father are alive ! [exit with precipitation v Amel. My Charles alive ! {running out, half frantic 4 after Herman, she meets Charles de moor , who is entering by one of the walks ) Moor. Whither in such haste —thus wild, thus frail- l tic ? Atnel. Earth, swallow me ! that man ! Moor. 1 came to say adieu. But, heavens, to meet yon thus — thus agitated. ; Amel. Go count; farewell-yet stay—how happy * Germ Undsollter mir auch his an die gurgel schwellen. Though it should swell up to my throat. G 2 THE ISchilkr haji t been, had you not come at this moment! oh had you never come. Moor. You had been happy then? farewell for ever 1 (going) Amel. Stay, for heaven’s sake, stay; I meant not so— o God, why did I not mean so? tell me, count—what have I done that makes me seem thus guilty to myself ? Moor. Those words are death to me ! Amel My heart was so pure before my eyes beheld you. But now—oh that my eves were shut to r ever— they have coriupted, poisoned "all my heart. Moor. On me, me only be the curse: thine eyes— ' thy heart, are guiltless, pure as angels. Amel. There was his very look ; quite him! o count, I entreat—turn noton me those looks, they stir rebellion in my breast. Oh traitor fancy, that paint’st him to my mind in every glance—begone, sir; ortakea crocodile’s foul form, and you will be more welcome. Moor, (with a look of passionate affection ) Lady, j that is not true. Amel. (tenderly ) And if you should be faithless; should seek to ruin, to betray, this weak, this woman’s heart. But how can falsehood dwell in eyes that look like M his —that seem his own reflected ? and yet, o better it were so, and thou wert false, that I might hate thee! and yet more wretched still, should 1 not love thee ! (Moor presses her hand to his lips with ardor) thy kisses burn like tire. | Moor. Tis my soul that burns in them. Amel. Go, leave me; while it is not too late- There is fortitude in a man’s bosom. Show that thou hast that ^ strength of mind, and share it with me Moor. Can he show fortitude who sees thee tremble ? no. liered fix me fast ( embraces her, and lays his head on her bosom) Here will 1 die. Amel (in confusion) Away, leave me' what have you done? away with those lips, (she struggles with faint endeavor) An impious fire burns in my veins. (tenderly and in tears) And didst thou come from the ^ Act IV ] ROBBERS *29 uttermost verge of the earth to extinguish in this heart its holy flame—that love which had defied even death ? (presses him to her bosom) heaven forgive thee, count. Moor, (in Amelia’s arms) Oh, if to part the soul and body be thus sweet, tis heaven to die!* Amel. (zvilh tenderness) Here where thou art, has he stood a thousand tjmes—-and I, when thus l held him, forgot there was a heaven or earth. Here his delighted eye ranged over nature’s beauties and kindled into rap¬ ture. Here with enthusiasm he saw, he felt the all per¬ vading energy of the universal parent; and his noble countenance, illumined with the great idea, acquired new beauty. Here heard the nightingale his voice, more heavenly than her own. Here from this r3se-tree he plucked fresh roses—for me. Here, oh here, he held me to his heart—and press’d his burning lips to mine. ( they give nay to their emotions, and she meets his kisses with equal ardor) O Charles, now strike me dead ; my vows are broken ! Moor, (tearing himself from her in frenzy) Can this be hell ensnares me? (gazing on her) I am so happy ! Amel. (perceiving the ring on her finger) Art thou there, on that guilty hand? witness of my perjury— away! (gives it to Moor) Take it, too dear seducer j and with it what 1 hold most sacred—my all, my Charles! ( falls back on the seat) Moor, (tarnspate) O thou Most High ; was this thy mighty will? it is the ring I gave her—pledge of our mutual faith.-lie!! be the grave of love 1 she gives me back my ring. Amel. (terrified) Heavens ; what is the matter ? your eyes roll wildly—and your lips are deadly pale. Moor, (commanding himself) Nothing, tis nothing. (raising his eyes to heaven) 1 am still a man. (takesof his own ring, and puts it on Amelia’s finger) Take this, delightful fiend ; and with it what I hold most sacred— my all, my Emily ! * Germ. So ist sterben das meisterstuck dcs lebens. To die is the masterpiece of existence* 80 THE [Schiller Amel {starting up) Your Emily ! . Moor O she was so dear to my heart; so true, so faithful—even as angels true When we parted, we ex¬ changed our rings, and vowed eternal constancy. She heard that I was dead, believed, aiyd was constant to the dead. She heard that I was alive, and was faithless to the living 1 flew into her arms, was happy as the blest in paradise ; think what a thunderstroke, she gave me back my ring—she took her own—-— Amel. {looking on the ground with astonishment) Tis strange, most strange; most horrible! Moor. Ay, strange and horrible ;—oh, lady, much there is to know, much, much to learn, e’er this poor intellect can scan his nature, who smiles at hu¬ man oaths, and weeps at man’s fond projects ; oh but my Emily is a luckless maid, unfortunate Amel. Unfortunate; yes, since she rejected you Moor, Unfortunate, because she still loved me. She kiss’d the man she had betrayed Amel. {zvith melancholy tenderness) She is indeed un¬ fortunate O 1 could love her with a sister’s love. Cut there is a better world than this. Moor. Yes, where all eyes are opened; and where love looks back with horror. That world iscalledETER- N it y Yes, yes, my Emily was a luckless maid. Amel. Are all unfortunate and luckless whose name is Emily ? Moor Yes, all —yes, when she thought to press an angel to her heart, she grasped—a murderer I Amel O I must weep for her! Moor. (taking her hand, and showing her the ring ) Weep for thyself {with tenderness, and then, exitin' stantly ) Amel ( [knowing the ring) Charles, Charles; o heav¬ en and earth ! {faints — the scene closes) Act m ] ROBBERS SCENE — a foresi&y moonlight. In one part a ruined P tower. the band of robbers sleeping on the ground, speig- elberg and razman come forward in discourse'. Raz. The night is far advanced—and the captain not yet come. Speig. Harkee, Razman, a word in confidence.— Captain did yon say? who made him our captain? has he not usurped that title, which by right, was mine? what ! is it for this we have set our lives on the cast of a die? is it for this we have exposed ourselves to fortune’s spleen? have scorned disgrace and infamy? what? to be the dastard bondsmen of this Moor ? we slaves, who should be princes! by heavens, Razman, I ne’er could brook it. Raz. Nor 1 by Jupiter ! but where’s the remedy? Speig. The remedy ? can you ask ? you who have dispatched many afine fellow > Razman! if you are the man I always took you for—look’ee, they have observed his absence—nay, they almost give him up for lost. Razman, methinks I he ar his knell—what! does not your heart bound at the thought? the thought of liber¬ ty, my boy 1 do you want courage for the business? Raz. Ha, satan ! how thou temptest me! Speig. What? do you take, boy ? come then—follow me quick—I know the road. A brace of pistols seldom fail Come along. Szvit (gets up secretly") Ha ! villain—1 have not for¬ got the bohemian forest—when you scream’d like a piti¬ ful scoundrel, that'the enemy was upon us. Twas then I swore iLby my soul—have at your heart, assassin ! {they J% ht ) The Robbers, {starting up) Murder, murder ! Swit. zer—Speigelberg—tear them asunder. Szvit (stabs SpeigelbergJ There, lie and rot. Be quiet, my lads—dont be roused at the hunting of this hare* The scoundrel always had a spite at our cap- Germ. Lasst euch die hasenja&d nicht ausiveckcn . 82 THE [Schiller tain—and the coward has not a flea brte on his dainty skin—the rascal would stab a man behind his back— ■would skulk and murder. Have we toiled and fought thus long, to be sent out of the world that way. Have we passed our lives amid fire and smoke to die at last like rats, by poison? Grimm. Zounds, our captain will be horribly enra- ged. Swii That’s my concern. Schufterie play’d the same game, and he’s hang’d, as the captain prophesied. [a shot is heard Grimm, (starting) Hark! a pistol-shot! another’ holloa, the captain. Koz. Patience, we must hear a third (a third shot) [they sound their horns enter moor. Sivit. (running to meet tym) Welcome captain! I have been a little choleric in your absence (shows him the body) Be you judge between me and this man—he wanted to waylay you—to stab you in the back ■Moor. Avenging power, thy hand is here ! was it not he whose syren song seduced m ?— here consecrate the sword by which he fell, to the avenging God.— Switzer, twas natthy hand that did this deed Sivit. Zounds, but it was my hand. And may I be curs’d, if l think it the worst blow it has given (throws his sword upon the body, and retires in a passion) Moor. (very thoughtfully) 1 see it plain I under¬ stand it. The dry leaves fail around—the autumn of my days is come.-Take him from my sight, (the body is carried out) Grimm. Give us orders, captain ! what’s to be done now ? Moor. Soon, very soon will all be accomplished.— Since I left you, I’ve lost myself. Bid your trumpets speak 1 want their music. 1 must be suckled like a child, and rear’d again to deeds of horror. Sound your horns. Act W] ROBBERS s a Koz, Captain, this is the hour of midnight—sleep hangs heavy on our eye-lids—we have not closed them these three nights. y Moor . And can soft sleep rest on the murderer’s lids? why flies he then from me J but 1 have been of late a dastard—a mere changeling. Sound your trumpets, I command—I must have music to rouse my spirit from * its lethargy, (a warlike piece of music —Moor walks about very thoughtful , and then gives a signal for them to stop ) No more—begone! good night—i’ll talk to you to-morrow. (The robbers stretch themselves on the ground) Good night, captain, {they sleep ) Moor. Good night—forever ——A long, long night! —on which no morrow e’er shall dawn. Think you that I will tremble! never, never—Shadows of the dead, the murdered, rise!—no joint of me shall quake Your dy- k ing agonies, your black and strangled visages, your ga¬ ping wounds—these are but links of that eternal chain of destiny which wound itself around me from my birth —which hung perhaps upon the humors of my nurse— my father’s temperament, or my mother’s blood. Why did the great Artificer form, like Penlius, this monster whose burning entrails yearn for human flesh. ( draws a pistol ) This little tube unites eternity to time! this key will shut the prison-door of life, and open wide the regions of futurity. Tell me, oh ten! to what un. > known, what stranger-coast thou shall conduct me ! j the soul recoils, and shrinks with terror from that awful ‘ thought; while busy fancy fills the scene with horrid phantoms.——No, no! man must not hesisate Be what thou wilt, thou world without a name, so but this ■self remains;—this self within.. For all that is external, what has it of reality beyond thatfoffn and color which the mind itself bestows ?—1 am mvself my heaven or my hell, {looking toward the horizon) if he slv uld give me a new earth,some blasted region banished from his sight—.where 1 alone inhabited, companion of eter¬ nal night and silence, this mind, this all-creative brain, 34 THE [Schiller ■would people the hideous void with its own images— woukl fill the vast of space with such chimera-forms, that all eternity were scarce sufficient to unravel them. —But perhaps it is by ever-varying scenes of misery in this ill world, that, step by step, he leads me to an¬ nihilation. Oh that it were possible to stop the current of that after life, as easy as to break the thread of this! —he may’st reduce me into nothing—but of this lib¬ erty l cannot be deprived, {cocks the pistol, raises it, and suddenly stops) And shall I then rush to death, through slavish dread of living here in torment ? bend this man's soul beneath the scourge of misery ? no—I will bear it all, and brave the malice of my fate, {puts up the pistol) My pride shall conquer sufferance. Let the destiny of Moor be accomplished ! {the night becorhes dark, and a distant clock strikes twelve) enter Herman. Her. Hush, hush ! how the owlet shrieks! the village clock strikes twelve ;—^all fast asleep—all but remorse, and vengeance, {goes to the tower and knocks) Come up, thou man of sorrow ? tenant of the tower—thy meal is ready. Moor, {draws back shuddering) What can that mean } Voice from the tower. Who knocks there?—is it thou, Herman, my raven ? Her. Yes, tis thy raven Herman. Come tothegrate, and eat.—Thy comrades of the night make fearful music. Old man, dost thou relish thy meal ? Voice. Yes, hunger is keen. O thou who send’st the ravens, accept my thanks—‘for this t hv bread in the wilderness—how fares it with my good friend Herman t Her. Hush, hark. What noise is that? do you hear nothing ? Voice. No. Do you hear any thing ? Her. The wind whistles through the rents of the tow* er—a music of the night that makes the teeth chatter, and the nails turn blue. Hark, tis there again.. I hear Act ir\ ROBBERS $s a murmuring noise, like those who groan in sleep_ You have company, old man—hu, hu, hu. Voice D o you see any thing ? Her. Fare w el, farewei, your delivery is at hand • your avenger. (is going hastily out) Moor, (approaches shuddering) Stop. Her. Who is that? Moor. Stop; speak, who art thou ? what dost thou here? speak. Her. (comingforwards ) One of his spies_that’s cer¬ tain.-I've lost ail fear (draws his sword) Defend yourself, villain ; you have a man before you. Moor. I’ll have an answer (strikes the sword out of his hand) What boots this childish sword play ? didst thou not speak of vengeance ?—vengeance belongs ex¬ clusively to me—of all the men on earth. Who dares infringe my rights? Her. By heaven, tis none of woman born; for that arm withers like the stroke of death. Voice. Alas, Herman, is it you who are speaking ?— to whom do you speak ? Moor* Still those sounds ? what is transacting here ? (moves toward the tower) Some horrible my stery, for eer'ain, lurks in that tower. This sword shall bring it to light. Her. (comes forward trembling) Terrible stranger, art thou tire wandering spirit of this desert—or one of those dread ministers, who make their circuit in this low¬ er world, and take account of all the deeds of darkness ? oh, if thou art, be welcome to this tower of horrors ! Moor Traveller of the night, thou hast divined my function—the Exterminating Angel is my name—yet am 1 flesh and bones, as thou art. Is this some misera¬ ble wretch, cast out ot men, and buried in this dun¬ geon? I will loose his chains Once more speak, thou voice of terrors I (to the tower ) Her As soon could Satan force the gates of heaven, as thou that door. Retire, thou man of strength: the genius of the wicked foils the common intellect of man. H 8‘S THE [Schilict Moor. But not the craft of robbers {takes pass-keys from his pocket) For once I thank my God that I have learnt that craft. These keys would muck hell s fore¬ sight. ( opens the gate of the tower—old Moor comes from below, emaciated like a skeleton. Moor springs back with affright) Horrible spectre! my father! O Moor. 1 thank thee, o my God! the hour of my deliverance is come 1 , t , , Moor Shade of the aged Moor! who has disturbed thy ashes in the grave? bast thou taken with thee into the world of spirits some foul crime, that bars the gates of paradise on thy soul ? I will have prayers and masses said, to gain thy wandering spirit peace. Hast thou buried in the earth the widow's or the orphan s gu.d ; and now in expiation of that guilt, pour’st at the mid¬ night hour the shriek of misery ?—ITI dig that treasure up, though guarded by hell’s dragons -—Or comest thou to expound to me the dread enigmas of eternity ? speak, speak f I will not blanch, nor stop the affrighted ear! 0. Moor. I am no spirit; but alive, as thou art. O life indeed of misery ! Moor. What, wast thou not in thy grave? O Moor. I was indeed interred.* Three complete moons have l languished in this dark dungeon, where not a ray of light can penetrate where no sweet air or healthful breath can enter; where the hoarse ravens croak and the owls shriek. Moor. Heaven and earth 1 who has done this. Her (with savage joy) A son 1 O. Moor. Oh, do not curse him. Moor, (darting furiously upon Herman) berpent- tongued liar 1 a son ! speak that again—repeat that Germ. Das heist, ein todter hrnd leigt in meinen vater graft. That is, a dead dog lies in my father s tomb. An expression which probably means, that a dog had been substituted for him, and interred in the family vaifit. Act IF] ROBBERS s r •word, and I will plunge my dagger in thy impious throat A son 1 Her. And were all hell let loose, I still must say, his son. Moor. (petrified zvith horror) O everlasting chaos! O Moor If thou art a man and hast a human heart, o my unknown deliverer, hear the miseries of a father, punished in his own sons. For three long moons have 1 poured my complaints to these walls of rock, which echoed to my groans. If thou art a man, and hast a human heart, o listen to me. Moor. That prayer would move even wolves to pity. O Moor I lay upon a bed of sickness. Scarce had I begun to gain a little strength, when they brought me a man who gave me the dreadful intelligence that my first-born son had fallen in battle, and with his latest breath had told, that my inhuman malediction had driven him to despair and death Her. A false, most horrible impostor. That villain was myself—seduced by Francis, your son—with bribes and promises to disappoint all inquiries and researches after his elder brolhe:— corrupted by that unnatural son to blast the miserable remnant of your days O. Moor. And was it—o heavens! was it a concerted plan ? was I then deceived ? Moor. (removing to a little distance ) Dost thou hear that, Moor? how dreadfully the light begins to dawn ! 3 day of horrors ' Her Here crush the viper 1 was this vile accom¬ plice; I suppressed your Charles’s leters, changed those from you, and substituted others, conceived in terms of barbarous resentment. Thus have you been deceived— thus cruelly was he cut off from your inheritance—thus banished from your heart. Moor (with an expression of dreadful anguish) And hence became a robber and a murderer (strikes his breast and forehead) O fool, fool fool! the victim of jnfernal treachery—and now a murderer and assassin. {walks about in great agitation) THE [Schiller 0 Moor Francis, may all-( suppressing rage ) But ! will curse no more—and 1 saw nothing—nothing suspected. O blind indulgent dotard ! Moor {stops suddenly) And that poor father in a dungeon! ( suppressing Ids anguish) What cause have I for rage or lor complaint ? (with affected composure) Go on, sir. O. Moor . I fainted at the news. They must have thought me dead, for when I came to myself, I was on a bier, and shrouded as a corpse—[ beat upon the lid of the coffin—it was opened—twas in the dead of night—- my son Francis stood before me.-“ What,” said he, with a loud voice of horror, “ must you then live for ever?” and with these words he shut the coffin. The thunder of that voice bereaved me of my senses. When 1 again recovered them, I found the bier in motion. After some time it stopped—the coffin was again opened, and at the entry of this tower 1 found my son Francis, with that man who had brought me the bloody sword of my son Charles. I fell at Francis* feet, embraced his knees, and wept ; conjured him, supplicated The tears, the supplications of his father, never reach’d his iron heart-“ Throw down that carcase,” said he, with a voice of thunder, “ he has lived too long.”—. They threw me down into that dungeon, and my son Francis locked the iron door Moor. Impossible, impossible ;—your memory or your senses play you false. O. Moor it may be so. Hearken, but restrain your¬ self. Thus I lay for twenty hours, and none knew of my sufferings. No foot of man e’er treads this solitary waste ; for tis the common report that the ghosts of my forefathers haunt this dreadful tower, drag their chains among the ruins, and chant at the hour of midnight the song of death. At last l heard the creaking of the iron door—it was opened, and this man brought me bread and water. He told me that 1 was doomed to die of hunger ; and that he forfeited his own life, if it were known that he brought me the smallest particle of food. jkt in BOBBERS By his means 1 have thus long preserved a miserable be* ing; but by the chilling cold, the foul air, and the an¬ guish of my own mind, my strength was quite exhaust¬ ed, my body emaciated to a skeleton. A thousand times have 1 prayed to heaven to end my sufferings; but the measure of my punishment must not have been com¬ plete ; or perhaps there is yet in store for me some hap¬ piness—that the Almighty has deigned thus miraculous¬ ly to preserve me. But come what will, my sufferings are most just, most merited. O Charles, my Charles, before thy hairs were gray ! Moor It is enough, (to the band) Rise, you sense¬ less logs—you hearts of stone!—what, will none ot you awake? (Jires a pistol over them; they rise on their feet)' Robbers. Holloa, holloa, what’s the matter? Moor. Could you sleep out that tale ? a tale that might have roused even sleep eternal. Mark here, mark here 1 what are this world’s laws? mere knavery —a game with loaded dice. Discord is set at large, and ranges wild as hell. The bands of natuie are dissolved -—a son has slain his father! Robbers. What says the captain ? Moor . Slain, did 1 say 2 that word is tame—tis palli¬ ative. A son has rack’ll his father—killed him in tor¬ ment—broken him on the wheel-even that is varnish of his horrible crime The cannibal himself would shudder at it —God ! he has devoured him. See, see there! he faints! a son confined his father in that tower—pold, naked, hungry, and athirst. Look theie, look there—this is my father ! Robbers. ( coming round t[\c old man ) Your father ? Swit (approaches with respect, and throws himself at the old man's feet) Father of my captain, I kiss your feet—I draw this dagger, and here I devote it to thy service. Moor. Revenge! revenge! revenge—this violated, profaned, this hoary head '—here I rear h r ever the fra¬ ternal bond, ( rends Ids cout from top to bottom ) Here-* so THE [Stiller in the face ot heaven, 1 curse him ! curse every drop of blood within him——Hear me, o moon and stars, and thou black canopy ot night, that witnessest this hor¬ ror, hear my cries ! hear me, terrific judge, thrice terrible avenger, who reign’st above yon pallid orb_ and judgment doom’st, and dart’st thy fiery bolts through darkness, to the head of guiltbehold me on my knees—behold me raise this hand aloft, and hear my oath.-May nature curse me, expel me, like some horrible abortion, from out the circle of her works —if here, upon this stone, l do not shed that parricide’s blood, till the foul vapor from the fountain of his heart rise into air, and dim thp blessed sun ! (rises) Grimm. This is a stroke of hell! let them now call us villains. Now, by all the dragons of darkness, we never did any thing half so horrible 1 Moor . Yes, and by all the groans of those poor wretches whom your daggers have dispatched—by those who were devoured with fire, or crushed beneath .the tower at Leipzick—no murderous plan shall be devised, no scheme of rapine be resolved or meditated, till every man among us glut his steel, and dye his garments pur¬ ple in that monster's blood. Who could e’er have thought that we were destined to serve as instruments in The Almighty’s hand, and minister unto his justice? our fate’s mysterious clew is now unravelling.. This day the invisible arm of a superior power gives dignity to our vocation. Adore that power who honors you this day as agents in his hands, employs you as his angels to execute his stern decrees, and pour the phials of his wrath.-Be all uncovered ! fall on the earth and humbly kiss the dust, (they kneel and make a solemn prostration to the earth) Now rise all hallowed men ! Sioit. Now give your orders, captain; what shall we do ? Moor. Rise, Switzer, and touch these sacred locks. (brings him to his father) You remember, when you cleft the head of that bohemian trooper, who had raised ' ROBBERS Act IF] SI his sabre to cut me down, when I was tainting v.ith fa¬ tigue, and my knees were sinking under me--twas then I promised you a high reward, a royal recompense,— But to this hour 1 never have been able to discharge that debt Szvit. And may you never be 1 it is my pride to call you still my debtor. Moor No. This day I will discharge it. Switzer, thou art honored this day above all mortals. Be thou the avenger of my father' (Switzer rises) Stvit. Most honored captain ! this day thou hast made roe for t he first time truly proud. Give orders how, and when, and where my arm shall strike. Moor. I lie precious minutes are already number’d. Thou must be speedy. Choose out the worthiest of the band, and lead them straight to yonder-castle. Seize him, were he asleep. Drag him from his bed, though he lie couch’d in pleasure’s lap Grasp him at the ban¬ quet, while, like the swine, he gorges Tear him from theallar, though on his knees before the crucifix. But hear what I most solemnly command: bring him to me alive ! this hand shall hew that man in pieces, and feed the famish’d vultures with his limbs, who dares to wound his skin or rob him of a single hair I must have him whole. Bring him to me alive, bring him entire, and millions shall be your reward. I’ll plunder kings, I’ll set my life at nought, to earn for thee a glorious recom¬ pense. Thou hast my purpose—haste thee to accom¬ plish it. Suit. Enougli, captain—there’s my hand. You shall see two of us, or none-Follow me, comrades of ven¬ geance. [exit, followed, by a part of the band and Herman Moor. Let the rest disperse themselves in the forest. --:I remain here. END OF THE FOURTH ACT* THE [Schiller A C T V, scene, a gallery in Moor's castle . FRANCIS PF. moor in hisnight-gozvn, rushes in, followed, by daniel. Fran. Betrayed ! betrayed! the spirits of the dead rise from their graves—a countless hoSt raised from eter¬ nal sleep to haunt the murderer ——VY ho's that ? Dan ( anxiously) Heaven pity me! what, my lord? is it possible it could be you who shriek'd so horribly as to waken us all out of our sleep ? Fran. Your sleep ? who gave you leave to sleep? •what, sleep at this hour, when all should be awake'— awake? ay, armed and caparisoned. Quick, qujck, to arms, to aims. Load every musket—seest thou not how they force their way through every door, and dart $long yon vaulted passages ? Dan. Who, my lord ? Fran W ho r beast ! dost thou not see them r hea£ them ? are your senses gone? oh, the sight thrilled my ■very marrow !-demons and ghosts J——How woes the night ? Dan. The watch has just cried two. Fran. No more? will this eternal night last to the .day of judgment? heard you no noise without? no shouting? bo cries of victory? hark! horses at the .gallop! where is Char--—the count, l mean ? ' Dun. I cannot tell, sir. Iran. You cannot tell ? you are of the plot—I’ll tread your villain’s heart out. You cannot tell ?—the very fieggars have conspired against me. Heaven, earth, -and hell combined against me. Dan. My lord. Fran. Who said 1 trembled ? no—twas but a dream. . The dead are in their graves. Tremble r 3?^-, ftuite at ease. Act 1W\ ROBBERS S3 Dan You are not well, my lord You are quite pale —vour voice is changed—it falters -- Fran. Yes, i am feverish. I shall let blood tomor¬ row. Dan Indeed, sir, you are ill, very ill. Fran. Yes, that is all I am ill—and illness affects the brain, and gives wild dieams What matter what one dreams. Tis indigestion makes us dream. I had a merry dream just now. (faints') Dan. Good God, what's here -4 . George Conrad, Bastiah, Martini where are you alh give but a sign of life. ( shakes him) O lord, they’ll say I murdered him. Fran ( disturbed ) Begonel who shakes me there? horrible spectre! are the dead awake—alive'—— Dan Merciful heaven, he has lost his reason. Fran, {recovering himself gradually) Where am 1? is it you, Daniel? what did 1 say ; what signifies it' — dont mind it s twas all a lie, whatever it was Come, help me. It was, I think, a fit of giddiness for want of sleep Dan. I’ll call assistance, sir: send for physicians. Fran. Stop Sit down here:—you are a man of sense, Daniel. I’ll teltycmhowl—— Dan . No, no, sir—another time. I’ll see you put to bed ; you have great need of rest Fran. Nay, Daniel—I must tell you; tis so odd. You’ll laugh, I promise you. You must know I thought I had been feasting like a prince, and I laid me down quite happy on one of the grassy banks of the garden, when suddenly—suddenly ;—but you’ll laugh when I tell you- Dan. Proceed, my lord Fran All of a sudden, I was waked by a clapofthun- der. I got upon my feet, and staggering, looked a- round me—when lo, the whole horizon seemed one great sheet of fire—the mountains, towns and forests seemed to melt like wax in a furnace; and then a dread¬ ful tempest arose, which drove before it the heavens, the earth, and the ocean. 9i THE [Schiller Dan. Good God ! it is the description of the day of judgment. Fran Did you ever hearjiuch ridiculous stuff? then I saw a person come forward, who held in his right hand a brazen balance, which stretched from east to west. He cried with a loud voice, “ Approach, ye children of the dust: 1 weigh the thoughts of man.’’ . Dan Heaven have mercy on me. Fran All seemed struck with terror; and every coun¬ tenance was pale as ashes. Twas then I thought 1 heard my name in a dreadful voice that issued from the bow¬ els of a mountain—*-a voice that froze the marrow in my bones, and made my knees smite each other, and my teeth chatter as if they had been of iron. Dan O, max God forgive you. Fran • He did not forgive me An old man appear* ed, bent to the ground with sorrow,—a horrible sight; for he had gnawed away one half of his arm from hung¬ er. None could bear to look upon him 1 knew him ; he cut off one of his grey locks and threw it from him. Instantly a voice thundered from the smoke of the mountain: “ Mercy and forgiveness to all 1 he sinners of the eaith f thou only art rejected, (ja long pause ) Why dont you laugh ? Dan. Laugh ? at what makes my flesh creep? dreams Co ;e from God J Fran. Fie, fie, you must not say so --^Call me a fool, a child, an idiot—any thing But I beseech thee Jaugh at me. Dan. Dreams come from God. I will go pray for you. [exit Fran No——tis popular superstition—all chimeras! jf the past is past, who has decided that an eye above shall e’er look back upon it > does vengeance dwell a- bove the stars? no, no —yet there is something here that tells in dreadful whispers to my soul, there is—a Judge above thestars! should I this night appear before him No, tis all a jest—a miserable subterfuge for cow-* grd fear to grasp at-—no, no, no, all beyond this world Is Act r\ ROBBERS silence But it it shoufd be so—it that were True—and all were registered above-and this the night of reckon¬ ing-Why this quaking of the joints? this fearful shuddering' to die 1 that word congeals my blooc;-*—to give account! ay, and when that reckoning comes, to face the Judge {—should he do justice! enter a servant hastily. Serv. The lady Amelia has escaped* The count has suddenly gone off. [exit enter baniel, with a countenance of terror. Dan. My lord, there is a troop of horsemen riding up to the castle in full gallop, and crying, murder, mur¬ der! the village is all in alarm Fran Go ring the bells* and summon all to church .—to prayers 1 say I’ll set the prisoners free, make res¬ titution to the poor five and six fold. Go call my con¬ fessor, to give me absolution. What, not yet gone? {the tumult increases) Dun , God forgive me my sins Are you serious, sir J and do you really wish 1 should obey these orders ? you who have always ridiculed religion, and who so oft— 4 — Fran. No more. To die—to die is dreadful. It will be too late. ("Switzer’s cry “ Storm, storm! is heurd,') To prayers, to prayers. Dan. Tis what I always told you; but you mock’d at prayer. And now, behold, sir, when you are in trou¬ ble, when the Hood overwhelms you-*— Swit. {in the court of the castle ) Storm, storm—break down the gates. Yonder is alight—he must be there. i'ran. {on his knees) Hear my prayer, o God of heaven. It is the first. Hear, o, hear me. Swit. ( still in the court) Strike them down, my lads. Back, you damn’d dog— t am the devil, and am come for your master. Where’s Blackman, with his troop? surround the castle, Grimm-— run ! storm the ramparts. THE tSchiller 96 Gnmm. Here' hurl the firebrands—watch where he conies down :—we’ll smoke him out. Fran Oh God, I have been no common murderer; no miserable petty crimes committed. Dan. Mercy on us' even his prayers are sins, (they fling stones and firebrands; the windows broken in; the castle set on fire) Fran 1 cannot pray. Here, here, ( beating his breast) all is choaked up! no, I will pray no more.—- Dan. Holy virgin preserve us 1 the whole castle is on fire. Fran. Here, take this sword ; stab me behind ! thrust it into my heart—that these villains may not make their sport of me (the fire increases) Dan God forbid—I will send none to heaven be¬ fore his time, far less tx>——( runs off) Fran (looking amr him. A pause) To hell, he would have said. Yes, 1 feel he’s right.——Are these their shouts of triumph ? that hissing there, is it hell’s serpents ? hark, they approach.-—they are within the cas¬ tle ! why should 1 shudder at this sword’s point ? ha, the gate is down ! now tis impossible to escape attempts to ihroiv himself into theflames, but is prevented by the rob - hers, who rush in and bear him off) scene, a forest. A ruined tower, as in the end of the * fourth Act. the old count de moor seated upon a stone.— Charles de moor in conversation with him. Some of the band scattered through the forest. Moor. And was he dear to you, that other son ? O. Moor. Heaven knows how dear! o why did - my weak heart ever listen to those artful tales of basest calumny? I was so happy! above all fathers blest in the fair promise of my children’s youth—but, o accursed hour! the spirit of a fiend possessed the young- ROBBERS 97 iftcl F] est of ni} sons—l trusted to the set pent’s wiles, and lost —both my children ! (hides his face with his hands ) how deeply now.l feel the truth of those sad words, Amelia uttered “ In vain, on your death-bed, shall you stretch your feeble hands to embrace your son—in vain wkh to grasp the warm hand of your Charles ” ( Charlesj, turning away hi$ head, gives him his hand) Oh that this were my Charles’s hand ! but he is gone 1 he rests in the narrow house! he sleeps the sleep of death ! lie cannot hear the voice of my complaint—1 must die amidst strangers—no son have 1 to close my eyes. Moor. ( iti great agitation) It must be so, it must this moment., (to the Bobbers) Leave us alone. And yet *—can I bring back his son - 1 no, 1 can never bring back that son. 1 no, no, it must not be. No, never, never J O. Moor. What dost thou say f^what dost thou mut¬ ter to thyself? Moor. Thy son; yes, old ind.\\f (hesitating) thy son- is lost for ever 1 O. Moor. For ever ? Mdor Ask me no triofe for ever l 0. Moor. Why did you take me from yon hideous dungeon ? Moor. But stay—if I could how but get his blessing —steal it from hint like a thief, and so escape with that celestial treasure, (throws huhs'elf at his feet) l broke the iron bolts of thy dcngeoti. Venerable old man, 1 ask thy kiss for that O Moor, l ake this, and think it is a father’s kiss—and I will dream l hold my Charles to my breast. What* can you weep ? Moor (withgreat emotion) I thought it was afather”* kiss (throws himself on his neck. A confused noise is> heard, and a light is seen of tor cites approaching Moor rises hastily) Hark 1 tis vengeance comesyonder they come, (looks earnestly at the old nian, and then raises his eyes to iieaveti, with an expression of delibe¬ rate fury) Thou suffering lamb 1 entlame me with the tyger’s fury 1 the sacrifice’must now be offered; and 98 THE [Schiller such a victim, that the stars shall hide their 'heads in darkness, and universal nature be appalled ! {the torches are seen, the noise encreases, and. several pistol-shots are heard ) O. Moor. Alas, alas! what is that horrid noise ? who is coming? are these my son’s confederates, come to drag me from* the dungeon to the scatfold ? Moor. O judge of heaven and earth ; hear a murder¬ er’s prayer 1 give him ten thousand lives; may life return anew, and every dagger’s stroke refresh him for eternal' agonies! Q. Moor. What is’t you mutter ? tis horrible. Moor. I say my prayers! {wild music of the Rob¬ bers) O. Moor, O think of Francis in your prayers. Moor, {in a voic^ritoaked with rage) He is not for¬ gotten- Ijp O Moor■ That’snot the voice of one who prays o cease: such praters make me shudder! enter switzee with his party; francts de moor,, handcuffed,in the midst of them. Swit. Triumph. Captain. Here he is I have fulfilled my word. Grimm. We tore him out of the flames of his castle; —his vassals took to flight. Koz. The castle is in ashes—-and even the memory of his name annihilated, (a pause. Moor comes slowly forward ) Moor (with a stern voice to Francis) Dost thou know me r (Francis makes no answer, but fixes his eyes immoveably on tlte ground, while Charles leads him to¬ wards the old man) Dost thou know that man ? Fran . {starting back with horror ) Thunder of heav¬ en ; my father! O. Moor \turns away shuddering) Go ; may God ..forgive you, 1 have forgiven- Moor, {pith stern severity) And may my curse as- Jet F] BOBBERS 93 company that prayer, and clog it with a millstone’s weight, that it may never reach the mercy-seat of heav- en Know you that dungeon ? Fran, (to Herman) Monster; has your inveterate enmity to our blood, pursued ruy poor father even to this dungeon ? Her. Bravo* bravo; where a lie is wanted, the devil will never\iesert his own. Moor. Enough. Lead this old man into the forest. I need no father’s tears to prompt to what remains, (they dead, off the old count) Approach, ye felons, (they form a qemicirc'te round the two brothers, and look stern¬ ly on, resting upon their muskets) Now, noi a breath be heard As sure as 1 now hope for haven’s mercy—lire first who moves .his lips to utter sound, till I command, di es on the instant. Fran, (to Herman in a transpjf of rage ) Wretch; that l could spit my poisonous loam m torrents on that face- this;is gall, (gnawing his chains, and weeping from rage) Moor. 1 stand commissioned here as minister of heaven’s Almighty King, the judge of right and wrong ; and from your mouths I shall pronounce a doom, which the most’.pure and upright court,on earth would sanction and approve. The guilty are assembled here as judges; and 1, of ail most guilty, am their chief. He who, on scrutiny of his own conscience and strict review of all his past offences, does not appear pure us the in¬ nocent child, and spotless, when compared wi-th this enormous and. most horrible wretch, let him withdraw from this assenibly, and break his poniard as a token. (alt the Robbers throw down their poniards, unbroken ) Now, Moor, be proud indeed; for thou hast this day changed the scarlet sinners to the spotless angels. There’s Still a poniard wantiug. (draws his poniard, and a pause pnsues) His mother was mine too; (to Kolinski and Swizer) be you his judges, (in great emotion breaks his pomard and retires aside) Swit. (after a pause) standi not here like some poor 300 THE [Schiller dunce at school, bewildered and amazed, m\ faculties locked up? What, not a new invention to be found of torment! While life is lavish m variety of pleasures, is death so niggardly in choice of tortures? (to Rozinski impatiently ) speak thou, for 1 have lost all faculty. Koz Think on his gray hairs; cast your eves on that tower—let these suggest; should l, a scholar, thus in¬ struct his master? Swit . Accustomed as f am to scenes of horror, I’m poor in such invention. I thank you cqmrade : was not this dungeon the chief scene of his atropious crimes ? sit we not npw in judgment before this dungeon? down with him into the vault; there let him rot alive ! The Robbers. Down with him, down with.him ! (they go to lay hold of huiA fran (springiiymbito the arms of his brother ) Save nie from the cjaw^Pfnese murderers; save pie, bro¬ ther Moor, (with stern solemnity ) Thou hast made me fihief of these murderers. (Francis starts back with ter¬ ror ) Wilt thou entreat me now The Robbers (still mpre tun\ultuous) Down with him. d >wn with him ! Moor. Son of my father, thou hast robbed me of heav¬ en’s b!i,s ; be that sin blotted out Perdition awaits thee as a son—as a brother 1 forgive diee. (embraces him and goes out: the IT-libers thrust Francis down into the dun* geon with frantic shouts of delight) Moor. (returning, in a deep reverie ) It is accom¬ plished. O Go >r in the bed of love! hark! yon dreadful explo¬ sion. It has crush’d to death the mother and her infant. Mark the flames, which lick the cradles of the babes! ay, that’s the nuptial torch—hear you these shrieks? they are the bridal songs. Oh! pe has not forgotten- Hb knows to claim his debt. Therefore away from me all joys of love Here is my doom—and this my just award. Xis retribution. Amel. {recovers, from her reverie) Father of heav- yn ; t is true? he has said it! it is true. But what have Idcne? 1, an innocent maid,—I have loved this mak, ♦Germ. Dein vermeinter fiuch. $04- THE [Schiller Moor. ( strikes Ins head) Tis more than man can bear; l ha ve c heard the yell of death poured from a thousand mouths, and never shrunk: shall I now quake before a woman ? be myself a woman ? no, no! no wo^ man e’er shall move to weakness this man’s heart. I must have blood! this will wear off; I’ll driqk of blood, —and then PH brave my fate, (going off) Amel. ( rushes into his arms) Murderer 1 fiend! what? e’er thou art—angel to me I 1 will not let thee go ; Moor. Is this a dream ? a frenzy of the brain ? or new device of hell, to make its sport of me ? see how she clings -clings to the murderer’s neck. Amel. Ay—fast; forever. Moor. She loves me, loves me still—then I am spot¬ less as the light; she loves me. With all my crimes, the loves me i an angel weeps on a fiend’s neck—a fiend restored to grace. Here let the serpents of the furies die—they can no longer lash me. 1 am happy, (hi¬ ding his face on the bosom of Amelia) Grimm, (furiously) Hold traitor; quit her arms tins instant; or 1 will speak a word that shall appal your soul. Sivit (interposes his sword between Moor and A melia) Think on the forest of Bohemia; mark’st thou that? think on the forest of Bohemia, traitor! where are thy oaths ? are all our sufferings forgot ? our fortune, honor, life, despised for thee 5 did any one of us escape un¬ wounded ; did we not stand like rocks! and didst not thou them lift that hand to heaven, and swear—swear never to forsake us—never to desert those who had been thus true to thee ? foul, faithless, traitor !, to sell us for woman’s tears (The Robbers murmuring confusedly , tear open their clothes.) Grimm. Look here ; look at these scars ; we bought thee with our blood : ours thou art. Though the Arch¬ angel Michael should wrestle for thee with the prince of heil—thou art ours Come, come along 1 a victim for a victim. A woman for the band. Moor, (disengaging hmsef from Amelia’s arms') Act F] ROBBERS 105 Tis done; I would have fain gone back—But lie that rules in heaven has said, no Look not - thus wildly on me, Emily 1 he has no need of me. Has he not millions of his creatures? he can spare one. lam that one. Come, fellows, let us begone! Amel (holding him) Stop, stopl one single blow; * a mortal blow. Again abandoned ? o draw that sword in mercy. Moor Mercy is in the tyger’s heart. I cannot kill. Amel (embracing his knees ) O, for the sake of hea¬ ven ! for mercy ! 1 ask thee not for love. I know we ** are curst by fate. Death, death’s my only prayei ' see, my hand shakes. I cannot touch the sword, its gleam¬ ing terrifies me; o, to thee it were so easy ; inured to death—strike, strike, and I will bless thee. “ Moor (with sternness) Wouidst thou alone be happy ? i begone; Moor cannot slay a woman. Amel Inhuman; thou kill’st the happy only—the wretch who longs for death, thy barbarous pity spares. * (to the band) Have mercy on me; ministers of death ; opitv me! yes, those savage looks are comfort to the wretch ; they thirst for blood. Dispatch me quick; in mercy kill me : your leader is a coward—a mere brag- ’ ga rt. ( some of the Robbers present their pieces at her) Moor. (injury ) Away, ye demons 1 (places himself between them and Amelia) dare not a soul of you to vio¬ late this sanctuary ; she is mine 1 (encircling her waist | •with his arm) let heaven and hell combine thtir powers to force her from this hold ; love is above all oaths; (lifts her from the ground, and, looks undauntedly at the band) what nature has united, who shall dare to part 5 The Robbers (levelling their muskets, and taking aim) We shall dare Moor, (zvith a contemptuous smile) Impotent reptiles ! - (he places Amelia, zvho is almost insensible, on a stone ) ' look np, ray bride? no priest shall bless our union—no hallowed praver be said ; f know what's better (takes the handkerchief from Amelia’s neck, and exposes her i b.osom) Gaze on this beauteous sight. Are ye men? fei- THE [ Schiller 106 ons J have ye hearts of stone? look on me! i am young —1 have felt the power of love; I am beloved, betroth'd, 1 have reached the gate of paradise 1 (in a tone of tender Supplication) and shall my brothers force me thence ? (Robbers laugh) it is enough ; (with firmness) thus far has nature spoke; now the man's pari begins ! l am a murderer, like you—a robber, an incendiary—1 am •—(advancing to the band zvith inexpressible majes¬ ty) your captain:—and dare yon thus, ye traders I sword in hand, thus treat, thus parley with your cap¬ tain ? down with your arms, it is your master who com¬ mands: (they lay down their arms) there I what are you now, but children, and 1— am free : Moor must be free in order to be great! now, 1 would not exchange this triumph for an elysium of loye; (draws his sword) poor wretches, your grovelling souls reach not this height. W hate’er is great seems frenzy in your eyes, t he spir¬ it of despair outstrips your snail paced wisdom. On deeds like these we pause not till they are done. 1*11 think on this—hereafter! (stabs Amelia,) The Robbers, (clapping their hands) Bravo, most nobie captain, thy honor is discharg’d—-thou prince of Robbers. Moor. Now she is mine, she’s mine forever—or that hereafter is the dream of fools ! 1 have foil’d my destiny—- in spite of fate, 1 have brought home my bride, and with this sword have seal’d our wedding vows. Thou¬ sands of years shall pass, and countless seasons roll, e’er the bright sun shall witness such a deed— (to Amelia with tenderness) was it not sweet, my Emily, to die thu{ by thy bridegroom’s hand ? Amel. ( stretching out her hand to him) Oh, most sweet! (dies) Moor, (to the band) And ye ! whose hardened hearts could claim a sacrifice so great! did your poor felon-souls look for a deed like this? what was your sacrifice to me? a life stain’d deep with infamy, spotted with crimes—-blasted with sin and shame. I sacrificed to you a spotless angel! ( throws his sword iQ Jet r] BOBBERS 16? them with contempt ) now, felons, we are even 1 this bleeding corse cancels my bond for ever. From yours, I set you free. The Robbers, (crowding round him) We are your slaves till death! Moor No, no ; all is accomplished My genius tells me, here must be my bourn :—'thus far could nature go j no further.——Here take this bloody plume! ( throws his plume at their feet) he that will be your captain now, may take it up. Grimm 0 spiritless; where are your mighty plans ? air bubbles all—burst with a womans breath ! Moor . (with dignity) What Moor has done who dares to question? hear my last command:—a!= fend;—stand around, and listen to your dying cap¬ tain's words! (looking at them for a long time ) you have been devoted to me—faithful beyond example. Had virtue been the bond of your attachment, you had been heroes; your memories had been revered, your names pronounced with rapture by mankind. Go, and devote what yet remains of life unto your country’s ser¬ vice. This be my benediction; hence! farewell. Stop- Switzer and Kozinski. (the band go out sloWly and much affected, leaving Switzer and Kozinski with Moor) Give me thy hand, Kozinski; thine too Switzer. Young man; (to Kozinski) thot! art yet unspotted—amongst the guilty, only guiltless 1 (ioSwitzrr) these hands i have deep imbrued in blood; that be my offence not tliiite ! here with this grasp f take what is mine own. Now, S witzer, thou art pure ! (raises their hands to heaven with fer¬ vor) Father of heaven here I restore them ; they will be now more fervently thine own than those jybo never fell, (Switzer and Kozinski fall on each other's neck} Not now my friends! spare me in this decisive hour. An earldom becomes mine this day by heritage, a rich domain, on which no malediction rests. Share it between youbecome good men; good citizens! and if for ten whom 1 have destroyed, you make but one man blest, my soul may yet be saved!—go, quick ; THE ROBBERS imillef I OS ■while yet my fortitude remains! (Switzer and Kozinskj go out, hiding their faces ) Good citizens ? and am not I too worthy of that name ? what law so terrible as that l have obeyed ? what ven¬ geance or atonement like to mine?-—be my destiny ful¬ filled • — hard by l have observed a poor disbanded officer •who by his labor in the field, supports a numerous fam¬ ily To him who shall deliver up the robber Moor, a high reward is now proclaimed* He and his babes shall have it 1 END OF THE ROfiBERS. DISTRICT OF NEW-YORK, ss. B E IT REMEMBERED, That oil the eighteenth day of November, in the Thirty third year of the Independence of ^ § the United States of America, DAVID S J LONG WORTH, of the said District, hath deposited in this office the Title of a Book, the right whereof he claims as Proprietor, in the Words following, to wit— •* The Robbers, a Tragedy, in Five Acts. From the «< German of Frederick Schiller. A new edition, re- < vised and corrected from the various translations." In conformity to the Act of Congress of the United States, entitled “ An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the Authors nttd Proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentionedand also, to anr Act, entitled “ An Act, Supplementary to an Act enti¬ tled “ An Act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of Maps, Charts, and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned,” and extending the benefits thereof to (he arts of designing, engraving, and etch¬ ing historical and other prints.” EDWARD DUNSCOMB, Clerk of the District of New-York.