XIII.

But we hear the French Directors Have thought the point so knotty; That the DEY having shown He dislikes JEAN BON, They have sent him BERNADOTTÉ.

On recurring to the French papers to verify our Correspondent’s statement of this singular adventure of JEAN BON ST. ANDRÉ, we discovered, to our great mortification, that it happened at ALGIERS, and not at TUNIS. We should have corrected this mistake, but for two reasons—first, that ALGIERS would not stand in the verse; and, secondly, that we are informed by the young man who conducts the Geographical Department of the _Morning Chronicle_, that both the towns are in Africa, or Asia (he is not quite certain which), and, what is more to the purpose, that both are peopled by Moors. TUNIS, therefore, may stand.

[MARSHAL BERNADOTTÉ, the French _Prince of Monté Corvo_, died as CHARLES JOHN XIV., _King of Sweden_, 8th March, 1844, in his eighty-first year. He married, in 1798, EUGENIA-BERNARDINA-DÉSIRÉE DE CLARY, daughter of a Marseilles merchant, and sister of MADAME JOSEPH BUONAPARTE (Queen of Spain). “She, who was not a common-place person,” says MADAME DE RÉMUSAT, in her valuable _Memoirs_, “had before her marriage been very much in love with Napoleon, and appears to have always preserved the memory of that feeling! It has been supposed that her hardly extinguished passion caused her obstinate refusal to leave France.” She survived her husband many years, and died in Paris, in the Rue d’Anjou Saint Honoré. Her husband was succeeded on the throne of Sweden by their son, OSCAR I., who married JOSÉPHINE, _daughter of_ EUGÈNE BEAUHARNAIS, Duc de Leuchtenberg, and _granddaughter of the_ EMPRESS JOSEPHINE.

BERNADOTTÉ owed his elevation to the throne to the misgovernment of Gustavus IV., who had brought the nation to the verge of ruin, and who was deposed in 1809, when his uncle, the Duke of Sudermania, became king as Charles XIII.; and the next year, BERNADOTTÉ was elected _Crown Prince_, and successor to the throne.

In 1813, he rendered great assistance to the Allies, for, as Crown Prince, he joined the confederacy against France with 30,000 men; and, after defeating Marshal Ney, with great loss, on the 6th September, he, on the 18th October, with the co-operation of Blücher, again defeated him at the decisive Battle of Leipsic; and, on the 19th, the Emperor Alexander, the King of Prussia, and the Crown Prince, entered the great square of Leipsic, amidst the acclamations of the inhabitants. He was a decided democrat, and hated by Napoleon, but was the only sovereign of the revolutionary branch who was permitted to retain his dominions after the great reaction in 1814. The choice made of this great soldier of fortune excited the surprise of all Europe at the time, but the wisdom of it was soon demonstrated by his prudent conduct. He had distinguished himself from all Napoleon’s other marshals by his clemency in victory. For half a century before his accession, Sweden had not known the peace and prosperity in which he left the country on his death.

In T. RAIKES’S _Diary_ will be found some interesting anecdotes of BERNADOTTÉ’S gratitude for services rendered him while a young subaltern. But one is of a more startling nature, as it records his narrow escape from the death intended for him by the widow of the late king, who had purposely prepared a poisoned cup of coffee for him, which she herself presented to him at her own table. Having been suddenly warned, he succeeded in forcing it upon her. She resolutely accepted her fate, and died during the night.—ED.]

[Illustration]

No. XXVIII.

May 21, 1798.

We have received the following letter, with the poem that accompanies it, from a gentleman whose political opinions have hitherto differed from our own; but who appears to feel, as every man who loves his country must, that there can be but one sentiment entertained by Englishmen at the present moment.

Were we at liberty, we should be happy to do justice to the author, and credit to ourselves, by mentioning his name.

TO THE EDITOR OF THE “ANTI-JACOBIN”.

SIR,—However men may have differed on the political or constitutional questions which have of late been brought into discussion—whatever opinions they may have held on the system or conduct of administration—there can surely be now but one sentiment as to the instant necessity of firm and strenuous union for the preservation of our very existence as a people; and if degrees of obligation could be admitted, where the utmost is required from all, it should seem that in this cause the opposers of administration stand doubly pledged; for with what face of consistency can men pretend to stickle for points of constitutional liberty at home, who will not be found amongst the foremost at their posts to defend their country from the yoke of foreign slavery?

That there should be any set of men so infatuated as not to be convinced that the object of the enemy must be the utter destruction of these countries, after making the largest allowance for the effects of prejudice and passion, it is not easy to conceive. Such, however, we are told, there are. They believe, then, that after a long series of outrage, insult, and injury, in the height of their animosity and presumption, these moderate, mild, disinterested conquerors will invade us in arms, out of pure love and kindness, merely for our good, only to make us wiser, and better, and happier, and more prosperous than before!

Future events lie hid in the volume of Fate, but the intentions of men may be known by almost infallible indications. Passion and interest, the two mighty motives of human action, determine the Government of France to attempt the abolition of the British Empire! and if, abandoned by God and our right arm, we should flinch in the conflict, that destruction will be operative to the full of their gigantic and monstrous imaginations!—Harbours filled up with the ruins of their towns and arsenals, the Thames rendered a vast morass, by burying the Imperial City in her bosom—but I will not proceed in the horrible picture.

Are we then, it may be asked, to wage eternal war?—No; a glorious resistance leads to an honourable peace. The French people have been long weary of the war; their spirit has been forced by a system which must end in the failure of the engagement to give them the plunder of this country. They will awake from their dream, and raise a cry for peace, which their government will not dare to resist. The monarchs of Europe must now begin clearly to perceive that their fate hangs on the destiny of England; they will unite to compel a satisfactory peace on a broad foundation; and peace, when war has been tried to the utmost, will probably be permanent. A few years of wise economy and redoubled industry will place us again on the rising scale; and if the pressure of the times may have rendered it necessary sometimes to have cast a temporary veil over the statue of Liberty, she may again safely be shown in an unimpaired lustre.

Of the following verses I have nothing to say: if it should be decided that the greatness of the object cannot bear out the mediocrity of the execution, I will not appeal from the decision.

ODE TO MY COUNTRY. MDCCXCVIII.

S. 1.

Britons! hands and hearts prepare: The angry tempest threatens nigh, Deep-toned thunders roll in air, Lightnings thwart the livid sky; Throned upon the wingéd storm, Fell DESOLATION rears her ghastly form, Waves her black signal to her Hell-born brood, And lures them thus with promised blood:

A. 1.

“Drive, my sons, the storm amain! Lo, the hated, envied land, Where PIETY and ORDER reign, And Freedom dares maintain her stand. Have ye not sworn, by night and hell, These from the earth for ever to expel? Rush on, resistless, to your destined prey, Death and rapine point the way.”

E. 1.

Britons! stand firm! with stout and dauntless heart Meet unappall’d the threatening boaster’s rage; Yours is the great, the unconquerable part, For your loved hearths and altars to engage, And sacred LIBERTY, more dear than life— Yours be the triumph in the glorious strife. Shall theft and murder braver deeds excite Than honest scorn of shame and heavenly love of right?

S. 2.

Turn the bright historic page! Still in glory’s tented field, Albion’s arms, for many an age, Have taught proud Gallia’s bands to yield. Are not WE the sons of those Whose steel-clad sires pursued the insulting foes, E’en to the centre of their wide domain, And bowed them to a BRITON’S reign?[259]

A. 2.

Kings, in modest triumph led, Graced the SABLE VICTOR’S arms:[260] His conquering lance, the battle’s dread;— His courtesy the conquered charms. The lion-heart soft pity knows, To raise with soothing cares his prostrate foes; The vanquished head true valour ne’er oppress’d, Nor shunn’d to succour the distress’d.

E. 2.

Spirit of great ELIZABETH! inspire High thoughts, high deeds, worthy our ancient fame; Breathe through our ardent ranks the patriot fire, Kindled at Freedom’s ever-hallowed flame; Baffled and scorned, the Iberian tyrant found, Though half a world his iron sceptre bound, The gallant Amazon could sweep away, Armed with her people’s love, the “INVINCIBLE” array.[261]

S. 3.

The BOLD USURPER[262] firmly held The sword by splendid treasons gained; And Gallia’s fiery genius quelled, And Spain’s presumptuous claims restrained: When lust of sway, by flattery fed,[263] To venturous deeds the youthful monarch led, In the full flow of victory’s swelling tide Britain checked his power and pride.

A. 3.

To the great BATAVIAN’S name[264] Ceaseless hymns of triumph raise! Scourge of tyrants, let his fame Live in songs of grateful praise. Thy turrets, BLENHEIM,[265] glittering to the sun, Tell of bright fields from warlike Gallia won; Tell how the mighty monarch mourned in vain His impious wish the world to chain.

E. 3.

And ye famed heroes, late retired to heaven, Whose setting glories still the skies illume, Bend from the blissful seats to virtue given— Avert your long-defended country’s doom. Earth from her utmost bounds shall wondering tell How victory’s meed ye gained, or conquering fell; Britain’s dread thunders bore from pole to pole, Wherever man is found, or refluent oceans roll.

S. 4.

Names embalmed in honour’s shrine, Sacred to immortal praise, Patterns of glory, born to shine In breathing arts or pictured lays: See WOLFE, by yielding numbers pressed, Expiring smile, and sink on victory’s breast! See MINDEN’S plains and BISCAY’S billowy bay Deeds of deathless fame display.

A. 4.

O! tread with awe the sacred gloom, Patriot Virtue’s last retreat; Where Glory, on the trophied tomb, Joys their merit to repeat; There CHATHAM lies, whose master-hand Guided through seven bright years the mighty band, That round his urn, where grateful Memory weeps, Each in his hallowed marble sleeps.

E. 4.

Her brand accursed when civil discord hurled,[266] Britain alone the united world withstood, RODNEY his fortune-favoured sails unfurled, And led three nation’s chiefs to Thames’s flood. Firm on his rock the VETERAN HERO[267] stands; Beneath his feet unheeded thunders roar; Smiling in scorn, he sees the glittering bands Fly with repulse and shame old CALPE’S hopeless shore.

S. 5.

Heirs or partners of their toils, Matchless heroes still we own; Crowned with honourable spoils From the leagued nations won. On their high prows they proudly stand, The godlike guardians of their native land; Lords of the mighty deep triumphant ride, Wealth and victory at their side.

A. 5.

Loyal, bold, and generous bands, Strenuous in their country’s cause, Guard their cultivated lands, Their altars, liberties, and laws. On his firm, deep-founded throne, Great BRUNSWICK sits—a name to fear unknown, With brow erect commands the glorious strife, Unawed, and prodigal of life.

E. 5.

Sons of fair Freedom’s long-descended line, To Gallia’s yoke shall Britons bend the neck?— No; in her cause though fate and hell combine To bury all in universal wreck, Of this fair Isle to make one dreary waste, Her greatness in her ruins only traced,— Arts, commerce, arms, sunk in one common grave— The man who dares to die will never live a slave.

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No. XXIX.

May 28, 1798.

In a former number, we were enabled, by the communication of a classical correspondent, to compliment CITIZEN MUSKEIN with an Address to his Gun-boats, imitated from a favourite Ode of Horace. Another (or perhaps the same) hand has obligingly furnished us with a composition, which we have no doubt will be equally acceptable to the citizen to whom it is addressed.

ODE TO THE DIRECTOR MERLIN. HORACE, B. I., O. V.

Who now from Naples, Rome, or Berlin, Creeps to thy blood-stained den, O MERLIN, With diplomatic gold?—to whom Dost thou give audience _en costume_?

_King Citizen!_—How sure each state That bribes thy love shall feel thy hate; Shall see the democratic storm Her commerce, laws, and arts deform.

How credulous, to hope the bribe Could purchase peace from MERLIN’S tribe! Whom, faithless as the waves or wind, No oaths restrain, no treaties bind.

For us—beneath yon SACRED ROOF, The NAVAL FLAGS and arms of proof, By British valour nobly bought, Show how true safety must be sought!

[THIERS, in his _History of the French Revolution_, frequently asserts the incorruptibility (with the exception of BARRAS) of the French Directory. But ALISON, in his History, exposes the extraordinary conduct of M. DE TALLEYRAND, then Minister of Foreign Affairs, towards the Envoys from the United States of America, who complained that an immense number of American vessels had been seized by the French Government under a decree of Jan., 1798, which directed that all ships having for their cargoes, in whole or in part, any English merchandise, should be held lawful prize, whoever was the proprietor thereof, from the single circumstance of its coming from England or its foreign settlements. The Envoys were told that nothing could be done till their Government had advanced a sum equal to 1,280,000_l._ as a loan, and 50,000_l._ as a douceur to the Directors. These terms were, of course, indignantly rejected. The Hanse Towns, too, only obtained licenses to navigate the high seas by the secret payment of 150,000_l_. to the Republican rulers.—ED.]

[LYRICS OF HORACE. BOOK I., ODE V.

TRANSLATED BY ARCHDEACON WRANGHAM.

What slender youth, all essenced o’er, In sweet alcove or rosy bower, Now woos thee, Pyrrha, to be kind? For whom these tresses dost thou bind, Thus simply neat? O how shall he, Poor youth! bewail the boisterous sea, Rough with black tempests! How accuse Capricious Gods, and broken vows!

Fond dupe! he hopes—so sweet that kiss— Thou’lt still be witching, still be his! What treacherous gales beset his way, Ah! little knows he! Hapless they, Who ne’er thy faithless smiles have tried! —That I have ’scaped the whelming tide, A tablet and my dripping vest, Hung up in Neptune’s fane, attest.—ED.]

No. XXX.

June 4, 1798.

Our ingenious correspondent, MR. HIGGINS, has not been idle. The deserved popularity of the extracts which we have been enabled to give from his two didactic poems, the _Progress of Man_, and the _Loves of the Triangles_, has obtained for us the communications of several other works which he has in hand, all framed upon the same principle, and directed to the same end. The propagation of the New System of Philosophy forms, as he has himself candidly avowed to us, the main object of all his writings. A system, comprehending not politics only and religion, but morals and manners, and generally whatever goes to the composition or holding together of human society; in all of which a total change and revolution is absolutely necessary (as he contends) for the advancement of our common nature to its true dignity, and to the summit of that perfection which the combination of matter, called MAN, is by its innate energies capable of attaining.

Of this system, while the sublimer and more scientific branches are to be taught by the splendid and striking medium of didactic poetry, or _ratiocination in rhyme_, illustrated with such paintings and portraitures of essences and their attributes as may lay hold of the imagination while they perplex the judgment;—the more ordinary parts, such as relate to the conduct of common life and the regulation of social feelings, are naturally the subject of a less elevated style of writing; of a style which speaks to the eye as well as to the ear,—in short, of dramatic poetry and scenic representation.

“With this view,” says MR. HIGGINS (for we love to quote the very words of this extraordinary and indefatigable writer),—“with this view,” says he, in a letter dated from his study in St. Mary Axe, the window of which looks upon the parish pump,—“with this view I have turned my thoughts more particularly to the German stage, and have composed—in imitation of the most popular pieces of that country, which have already met with so general reception and admiration in this—a Play; which, if it has a proper run, will, I think, do much to unhinge the present notions of men with regard to the obligations of civil society, and to substitute, in lieu of a sober contentment, and regular discharge of the duties incident to each man’s particular situation, a wild desire of undefinable latitude and extravagance,—an aspiration after shapeless somethings that can neither be described nor understood,—a contemptuous disgust at all that _is_, and a persuasion that nothing is as it ought to be;—to operate, in short, a general discharge of every man (in his own estimation) from every tie which laws, divine or human, which local customs, immemorial habits, and multiplied examples, impose upon him; and to set them about doing what they like, where they like, when they like, and how they like,—without reference to any law but their own will, or to any consideration of how others may be affected by their conduct.

“When this is done, my dear sir,” continues Mr. H. (for he writes very confidentially)—“you see that a great step is gained towards the dissolution of the frame of every existing community. I say nothing of _Governments_, as _their_ fall is of course implicated in that of the social system;—and you have long known that I hold every Government (that acts by coercion and restriction—by laws made by the few to bind the many) as a _malum in se_,—an evil to be eradicated,—a nuisance to be abated,—by force, if force be practicable; if not, by the artillery of reason, by pamphlets, speeches, toasts at club-dinners, and though last, not least, by didactic poems.

“But where would be the advantage of the destruction of this or that Government, if the form of Society itself were to be suffered to continue such as that another must necessarily arise out of it and over it?—Society, my dear sir, in its present state, is a _hydra_. Cut off one head,—another presently sprouts out, and your labour is to begin again. At best you can only hope to find it a _polypus_;—where, by cutting off the _head_, you are sometimes fortunate enough to find a _tail_ (which answers all the same purposes) spring up in its place. This, we know, has been the case in France; the only country in which the great experiment of regeneration has been tried with anything like a fair chance of success.

“Destroy the frame of society,—decompose its parts,—and see the elements fighting one against another,—insulated and individual,—every man for himself (stripped of prejudice, of bigotry, and of feeling for others) against the remainder of his species;—and there is then some hope of a totally new _order of things_,—of a _Radical Reform_ in the present corrupt system of the world.

“The German Theatre appears to proceed on this judicious plan. And I have endeavoured to contribute my mite towards extending its effect and its popularity. There is one obvious advantage attending this mode of teaching;—that it can proportion the infractions of law, religion, or morality, which it recommends, to the capacity of a reader or spectator. If you tell a student, or an apprentice, or a merchant’s clerk, of the virtue of a Brutus, or of the splendour of a La Fayette, you may excite his _desire_ to be equally conspicuous; but how is he to set about it? Where is he to find the tyrant to murder? How is he to provide the monarch to be imprisoned, and the national guards to be reviewed on a white horse?—But paint the beauties of _forgery_ to him in glowing colours;—show him that the presumption of virtue is in favour of rapine and occasional murder on the highway—and he presently understands you. The highway is at hand—the till or the counter is within reach. These _haberdashers’ heroics_ come home to the business and the bosoms of men.—And you may readily make ten _footpads_, where you would not have materials nor opportunity for a single _tyrannicide_.

“The subject of the piece which I herewith transmit to you is taken from common or middling life; and its merit is that of teaching the most lofty truths in the most humble style, and deducing them from the most ordinary occurrences. Its moral is obvious and easy; and is one frequently inculcated by the German dramas which I have had the good fortune to see; being no other than ‘_the reciprocal duties of one or more husbands to one or more wives, and to the children who may happen to arise out of this complicated and endearing connection_’. The plot, indeed, is formed by the combination of the plots of _two_ of the most popular of these plays (in the same way as Terence was wont to combine two stories of Menander’s). The characters are such as the admirers of these plays will recognise for their familiar acquaintances. There are the usual ingredients of imprisonments, post-houses and horns, and appeals to angels and devils. I have omitted only the _swearing_, to which English ears are not yet sufficiently accustomed.

“I transmit at the same time a _Prologue_, which in some degree breaks the matter to the audience. About the song of Rogero, at the end of the first Act, I am less anxious than about any other part of the performance, as it is, in fact, literally translated from the composition of a young German friend of mine, an _Illuminé_, of whom I bought the original for three-and-sixpence. It will be a satisfaction to those of your readers who may not at first sight hit upon the tune, to learn that it is setting by a hand of the first eminence.—I send also a rough sketch of the plot, and a few occasional notes.—The _geography_ is by the young gentleman of the _Morning Chronicle_.”

THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.

Dramatis Personæ.

PRIOR of the ABBEY OF QUEDLINBURGH, very corpulent and cruel.

ROGERO, a prisoner in the Abbey, in love with MATILDA POTTINGEN.

CASIMERE, a Polish emigrant, in Dembrowsky’s legion, married to CECILIA, but having several children by MATILDA.

PUDDINGFIELD and BEEFINGTON, English noblemen, exiled by the tyranny of King John, previous to the signature of Magna Charta.

RODERIC, Count of SAXE WEIMAR, a bloody tyrant, with red hair, and an amorous complexion.

GASPAR, the minister of the Count—author of ROGERO’S confinement.

YOUNG POTTINGEN, brother to MATILDA.

MATILDA POTTINGEN, in love with ROGERO, and mother to CASIMERE’S children.

CECILIA MÜCKENFELD, wife to CASIMERE.

Landlady, Waiter, Grenadiers, Troubadours, &c., &c.

PANTALOWSKY and BRITCHINDA, children of MATILDA, by CASIMERE.

JOACHIM, JABEL, and AMARANTHA, children of MATILDA, by ROGERO.

CHILDREN OF CASIMERE AND CECILIA, with their respective Nurses.

SEVERAL CHILDREN—fathers and mothers unknown.

_The Scene lies in the town of Weimar, and the neighbourhood of the Abbey of Quedlinburgh._

_Time from the 12th to the present century._

PROLOGUE.[268]

IN CHARACTER.

Too long the triumphs of our early times, With civil discord and with regal crimes, Have stain’d these boards; while Shakespeare’s pen has shown Thoughts, manners, men, to modern days unknown. Too long have Rome and Athens been _the rage_;

[_Applause._

And classic Buskins soil’d a British stage.

To-night our bard, who scorns pedantic rules, His plot has borrow’d from the German schools; The German schools—where no dull maxims bind The bold expansion of the electric mind. Fix’d to no period, circled by no space, He leaps the flaming bounds of time and place. Round the dark confines of the forest raves, With _gentle_ Robbers[269] stocks his gloomy caves; Tells how Prime Ministers[270] are shocking things, And _reigning Dukes_ as bad as tyrant Kings; How to _two_ swains[271] _one_ nymph her vows may give, And how _two_ damsels[271] with _one_ lover live! Delicious scenes!—such scenes _our_ bard displays, Which, crown’d with German, sue for British, praise.

Slow are the steeds, that through Germania’s roads With hempen rein the slumbering post-boy goads; Slow is the slumbering post-boy, who proceeds Thro’ deep sands floundering on those tardy steeds; More slow, more tedious, from his husky throat, Twangs through the twisted horn the struggling note.

These truths confess’d—Oh! yet, ye travell’d few, Germania’s _plays_ with eyes unjaundiced view! View and approve!—though in each passage fine The faint translation[272] mock the genuine line; Though the nice ear the erring sight belie, For _U twice dotted_ is pronounced like _I_;[272] [_Applause._ Yet oft the scene shall nature’s fire impart, Warm _from_ the breast, and glowing _to_ the heart!

Ye travell’d few, attend!—On _you_ our bard Builds his fond hope! Do you his genius guard!

[_Applause._

Nor let succeeding generations say A British audience _damn’d_ a German play!

[_Loud and continued Applauses._

_Flash of lightning.—The ghost of_ PROLOGUE’S GRANDMOTHER _by the Father’s side, appears to soft music, in a white tiffany riding-hood._ PROLOGUE _kneels to receive her blessing, which she gives in a solemn and affecting manner, the audience clapping and crying all the while.—Flash of lightning._—PROLOGUE _and his_ GRANDMOTHER _sink through the trap-doors._

THE ROVERS; OR, THE DOUBLE ARRANGEMENT.

## ACT I. SCENE I.

_Scene represents a room at an inn, at Weimar—On one side of the stage the bar-room, with jellies, lemons in nets, syllabubs_, _and part of a cold roast fowl, &c.—On the opposite side, a window looking into the street, through which persons (inhabitants of Weimar) are seen passing to and fro in apparent agitation_—MATILDA _appears in a great coat and riding-habit, seated at the corner of the dinner-table, which is covered with a clean huckaback cloth; plates and napkins, with buck’s-horn-handled knives and forks, are laid as if for four persons._

MAT. Is it impossible for me to have dinner sooner?

LAND. Madam, the Brunswick post-waggon is not yet come in, and the ordinary is never before two o’clock.

MAT. [_With a look expressive of disappointment, but immediately recomposing herself._] Well, then, I must have patience. [_Exit Landlady._] Oh Casimere!—How often have the thoughts of thee served to amuse these moments of expectation!—What a difference, alas!—Dinner—it is taken away as soon as over, and we regret it not!—It returns again with the return of appetite.—The beef of to-morrow will succeed to the mutton of to-day, as the mutton of to-day succeeded to the veal of yesterday. But when once the heart has been occupied by a beloved object, in vain would we attempt to supply the chasm by another. How easily are our desires transferred from dish to dish!—Love only, dear, delusive, delightful love, restrains our wandering appetites, and confines them to a particular gratification!...

_Post-horn blows; re-enter_ LANDLADY.

LAND. Madam, the post-waggon is just come in with only a single gentlewoman.

MAT. Then show her up—and let us have dinner instantly; [_Landlady going_] and remember—[_after a moment’s recollection, and with great earnestness_]—remember the toasted cheese.

[_Exit Landlady._

CECILIA _enters, in a brown cloth riding-dress, as if just alighted from the post-waggon._

MAT. Madam, you seem to have had an unpleasant journey, if I may judge from the dust on your riding-habit.

CEC. The way was dusty, madam, but the weather was delightful. It recalled to me those blissful moments when the rays of desire first vibrated through my soul.

MAT. [_Aside._] Thank Heaven! I have at last found a heart which is in unison with my own. [_To Cecilia_]—Yes, I understand you—the first pulsation of sentiment—the silver tones upon the yet unsounded harp....

CEC. The dawn of life—when this blossom [_putting her hand upon her heart_] first expanded its petals to the penetrating dart of love!

MAT. Yes—the time—the golden time, when the first beams of the morning meet and embrace one another!—The blooming blue upon the yet unplucked plum!...

CEC. Your countenance grows animated, my dear madam.

MAT. And yours too is glowing with illumination.

CEC. I had long been looking out for a congenial spirit!—my heart was withered—but the beams of yours have rekindled it.

MAT. A sudden thought strikes me—Let us swear an eternal friendship.

CEC. Let us agree to live together!

MAT. Willingly.

[_With rapidity and earnestness._

CEC. Let us embrace.

[_They embrace._

MAT. Yes; I too have loved!—you, too, like me, have been forsaken.

[_Doubtingly, and as if with a desire to be informed._

CEC. Too true!

BOTH. Ah these men! these men!

LANDLADY _enters, and places a leg of mutton on the table, with sour krout and prune sauce; then a small dish of black puddings_—CECILIA _and_ MATILDA _appear to take no notice of her._

MAT. Oh, Casimere!

CEC. [_Aside._] Casimere! that name!—Oh, my heart, how it is distracted with anxiety.

MAT. Heavens! Madam, you turn pale.

CEC. Nothing—a slight megrim—with your leave, I will retire—

MAT. I will attend you.

[_Exeunt_ MATILDA _and_ CECILIA; _Manent_ LANDLADY _and_ WAITER, _with the dinner on the table._

LAND. Have you carried the dinner to the prisoner in the vaults of the abbey?

WAITER. Yes—Pease soup, as usual—with the scrag end of a neck of mutton. The emissary of the Count was here again this morning, and offered me a large sum of money if I would consent to poison him.

LAND. Which you refused?

[_With hesitation and anxiety._

WAITER. Can you doubt it?

[_With indignation._

LAND. [_Recovering herself, and drawing up with an expression of dignity._] The conscience of a poor man is as valuable to him as that of a prince....

WAITER. It ought to be still more so, in proportion as it is generally more pure.

LAND. Thou say’st truly, Job.

WAITER. [_With enthusiasm._] He who can spurn at wealth when proffered as the price of crime, is greater than a prince.

_Post-horn blows.—Enter_ CASIMERE _(in a travelling dress, a light blue great coat with large metal buttons, his hair in a long queue, but twisted at the end; a large Kevenhuller hat; a cane in his hand)._

CAS. Here, Waiter, pull off my boots, and bring me a pair of slippers. [_Exit Waiter._] And hark’ye, my lad, a basin of water [_rubbing his hands_] and a bit of soap. I have not washed since I began my journey.

WAITER. [_Answering from behind the door._] Yes, Sir.

CAS. Well, Landlady, what company are we to have?

LAND. Only two gentlewomen, Sir.—They are just stept into the next room—they will be back again in a minute.

CAS. Where do they come from?

[_All this while the_ WAITER _re-enters with the basin and water;_ CASIMERE _pulls off his boots, takes a napkin from the table, and washes his face and hands._

LAND. There is one of them, I think, comes from Nuremburgh.

CAS. [_Aside._] From Nuremburgh! [_with eagerness_] her name!

LAND. Matilda.

CAS. [_Aside._] How does this idiot woman torment me!—What else?

LAND. I can’t recollect.

CAS. Oh, agony!

[_In a paroxysm of agitation._

WAITER. See here, her name upon the travelling trunk—Matilda Pottingen.

CAS. Ecstasy! ecstasy!

[_Embracing the Waiter._

LAND. You seem to be acquainted with the lady—shall I call her?

CAS. Instantly—instantly—tell her her loved, her long-lost—tell her——

LAND. Shall I tell her dinner is ready?

CAS. Do so—and in the meanwhile I will look after my portmanteau.

[_Exeunt severally._

_Scene changes to a subterranean vault in the Abbey of Quedlinburgh, with coffins, ’scutcheons, death’s heads and crossbones—toads and other loathsome reptiles are seen traversing the obscurer parts of the stage._—ROGERO _appears, in chains, in a suit of rusty armour, with his beard grown, and a cap of a grotesque form upon his head—beside him a crock, or pitcher, supposed to contain his daily allowance of sustenance.—A long silence, during which the wind is heard to whistle through the caverns._—ROGERO _rises, and comes slowly forward, with his arms folded._

ROG. Eleven years! it is now eleven years since I was first immured in this living sepulchre—the cruelty of a Minister—the perfidy of a Monk—yes, Matilda! for thy sake—alive amidst the dead—chained—coffined—confined—cut off from the converse of my fellow-men. Soft!—what have we here! [_stumbles over a bundle of sticks._] This cavern is so dark that I can scarcely distinguish the objects under my feet. Oh—the register of my captivity. Let me see; how stands the account? [_Takes up the sticks, and turns them over with a melancholy air; then stands silent for a few minutes, as if absorbed in calculation._]—Eleven years and fifteen days!—Hah! the twenty-eighth of August! How does the recollection of it vibrate on my heart! It was on this day that I took my last leave of my Matilda. It was a summer evening; her melting hand seemed to dissolve in mine, as I prest it to my bosom. Some demon whispered me that I should never see her more. I stood gazing on the hated vehicle which was conveying her away for ever. The tears were petrified under my eyelids. My heart was crystallized with agony. Anon—I looked along the road. The diligence seemed to diminish every instant; I felt my heart beat against its prison, as if anxious to leap out and overtake it. My soul whirled round as I watched the rotation of the hinder wheels. A long trail of glory followed after her, and mingled with the dust; it was the emanation of Divinity, luminous with love and beauty, like the splendour of the setting sun; but it told me that the sun of my joys was sunk for ever. Yes, here in the depths of an eternal dungeon, in the nursing cradle of hell, the suburbs of perdition, in a nest of demons, where despair in vain sits brooding over the putrid eggs of hope; where agony woos the embrace of death; where patience, beside the bottomless pool of despondency, sits angling for impossibilities. Yet, even _here_, to behold her, to embrace her! Yes, Matilda, whether in this dark abode, amidst toads and spiders, or in a royal palace, amidst the more loathsome reptiles of a court, would be indifferent to me; angels would shower down their hymns of gratulation upon our heads, while fiends would envy the eternity of suffering love.... Soft, what air was that? it seemed a sound of more than human warblings. Again! [_listens attentively for some minutes._] Only the wind; it is well, however; it reminds me of that melancholy air, which has so often solaced the hours of my captivity. Let me see whether the damps of this dungeon have not yet injured my guitar. [_Takes his guitar, tunes it, and begins the following air, with a full accompaniment of violins from the orchestra._

[_Air, Lanterna Magica._]

SONG.

BY ROGERO.