Chapter 10

_A Room in the Castle._

BARON _sitting upon a sopha_.—FREDERICK _standing near him, with one hand pressed between his—the_ Baron _rises_.

BARON. Been in battle too!—I am glad to hear it. You have known hard services, but now they are over, and joy and happiness will succeed.—The reproach of your birth shall be removed, for I will acknowledge you my son, and heir to my estate.

FREDERICK. And my mother——

BARON. She shall live in peace and affluence. Do you think I would leave your mother unprovided, unprotected? No! About a mile from this castle I have an estate called Weldendorf—there she shall live, and call her own whatever it produces. There she shall reign, and be sole mistress of the little paradise. There her past sufferings shall be changed to peace and tranquility. On a summer’s morning, we, my son, will ride to visit her; pass a day, a week with her; and in this social intercourse time will glide pleasantly.

FREDERICK. And, pray, my Lord—under what name is my mother to live then?

BARON. [_confused_]. How?

FREDERICK. In what capacity?—As your domestic—or as——

BARON. That we will settle afterwards.

FREDERICK. Will you allow me, Sir, to leave the room a little while, that you may have leisure to consider _now_?

BARON. I do not know how to explain myself in respect to your mother more than I have done already.

FREDERICK. My fate, whatever it may be, shall never part me from her. This is my firm resolution, upon which I call Heaven to witness! My Lord, it must be Frederick of Wildenhaim, and Agatha of Wildenhaim—or Agatha Friburg, and Frederick Friburg. [_Exit_.

BARON. Young man! Frederick!—[_calling after him_.] Hasty indeed! would make conditions with his father. No, no, that must not be. I just now thought how well I had arranged my plans—had relieved my heart of every burden, when, a second time, he throws a mountain upon it. Stop, friend conscience, why do you take his part?—For twenty years thus you have used me, and been my torture.

_Enter Mr_. ANHALT.

Ah! Anhalt, I am glad you are come. My conscience and myself are at variance.

MR. ANHALT. Your conscience is in the right.

BARON. You don’t know yet what the quarrel is.

MR. ANHALT. Conscience is always right—because it never speaks unless it _is_ so.

BARON. Ay, a man of your order can more easily attend to its whispers, than an old warrior. The sound of cannon has made him hard of hearing.—I have found my son again, Mr. Anhalt, a fine, brave young man—I mean to make him my heir—Am I in the right?

MR. ANHALT. Perfectly.

BARON. And his mother shall live in happiness—My estate, Weldendorf, shall be hers—I’ll give it to her, and she shall make it her residence. Don’t I do right?

MR. ANHALT. No.

BARON. [_surprized_]. No? And what else should I do?

MR. ANHALT. [_forcibly_]. Marry her.

BARON. [_starting_]. I marry her!

MR. ANHALT. Baron Wildenhaim is a man who will not act inconsistently.—As this is my opinion, I expect your reasons, if you do not.

BARON. Would you have me marry a beggar?

MR. ANHALT. [_after a pause_]. Is that your only objection?

BARON. [_confused_]. I have more—many more.

MR. ANHALT. May I beg to know them likewise?

BARON. My birth!

MR. ANHALT. Go on.

BARON. My relations would despise me.

MR. ANHALT. Go on.

BARON. [_in anger_]. ’Sdeath! are not these reasons enough?—I know no other.

MR. ANHALT. Now, then, it is my turn to state mine for the advice I have given you. But first, I must presume to ask a few questions.—Did Agatha, through artful insinuation, gain your affection? or did she give you cause to suppose her inconstant?

BARON. Neither—but for me, she was always virtuous and good.

MR. ANHALT. Did it cost you trouble and earnest entreaty to make her otherwise?

BARON. [_angrily_]. Yes.

MR. ANHALT. You pledged your honour?

BARON. [_confused_]. Yes.

MR. ANHALT. Called God to witness?

BARON. [_more confused_]. Yes.

MR. ANHALT. The witness you called at that time was the Being who sees you now. What you gave in pledge was your honour, which you must redeem. Therefore thank Heaven that it is in your _power_ to redeem it. By marrying Agatha the ransom’s made: and she brings a dower greater than any princess can bestow—peace to your conscience. If you then esteem the value of this portion, you will not hesitate a moment to exclaim,—Friends, wish me joy, I will marry Agatha.

[_Baron, in great agitation, walks backwards and forwards, then takes_ Anhalt _by the hand_.]

BARON. “Friend, wish me joy—I will _marry_ Agatha.”

MR. ANHALT. I do wish you joy.

BARON. Where is she?

MR. ANHALT. In the castle—in my apartments here—I conducted her through the garden, to avoid curiosity.

BARON. Well, then, this is the wedding-day. This very evening you shall give us your blessing.

MR. ANHALT. Not so soon, not so private. The whole village was witness of Agatha’s shame—the whole village must be witness of Agatha’s re-established honour. Do you consent to this?

BARON. I do.

MR. ANHALT. Now the quarrel is decided. Now is your conscience quiet?

BARON. As quiet as an infant’s. I only wish the first interview was over.

MR. ANHALT. Compose yourself. Agatha’s heart is to be your judge.

_Enter_ AMELIA.

BARON. Amelia, you have a brother.

AMELIA. I have just heard so, my Lord; and rejoice to find the news confirmed by you.

BARON. I know, my dear Amelia, I can repay you for the loss of Count Cassel; but what return can I make to you for the loss of half your fortune?

AMELIA. My brother’s love will be ample recompense.

BARON. I will reward you better. Mr. Anhalt, the battle I have just fought, I owe to myself: the victory I gained, I owe to you. A man of your principles, at once a teacher and an example of virtue, exalts his rank in life to a level with the noblest family—and I shall be proud to receive you as my son.

MR. ANHALT. [_falling on his knees, and taking the_ Baron’s _hand_]. My Lord, you overwhelm me with confusion, as well as with joy.

BARON. My obligations to you are infinite—Amelia shall pay the debt. [_Gives her to him_.]

AMELIA. Oh, my dear father! [_embracing the_ Baron] what blessings have you bestowed on me in one day. [_to_ Anhalt.] I will be your scholar still, and use more diligence than ever to please my _master_.

MR. ANHALT. His present happiness admits of no addition.

BARON. Nor does mine—And yet there is another task to perform that will require more fortitude, more courage, than this has done! A trial that!—[_bursts into tears_]—I cannot prevent them—Let me—let me—A few minutes will bring me to myself—Where is Agatha?

MR. ANHALT. I will go, and fetch her. [_Exit Anhalt at an upper entrance_.]

BARON. Stop! Let me first recover a little. [_Walks up and down, sighing bitterly—looks at the door through which_ Anhalt _left the room_.] That door she will come from—That was once the dressing-room of my mother—From that door I have seen her come many times—have been delighted with her lovely smiles—How shall I now behold her altered looks! Frederick must be my mediator.—Where is he? Where is my son?—Now I am ready—my heart is prepared to receive her—Haste! haste! Bring her in.

[_He looks stedfastly at the door_—Anhalt _leads on_ Agatha—_The_ Baron _runs and clasps her in his arms—Supported by him, she sinks on a chair which_ Amelia _places in the middle of the stage—The_ Baron _kneels by her side, holding her hand_.]

BARON. Agatha, Agatha, do you know this voice?

AGATHA. Wildenhaim.

BARON. Can you forgive me?

AGATHA. I forgive you. [_embracing him_].

FREDERICK. [_as he enters_]. I hear the voice of my mother!—Ha! mother! father!

[Frederick _throws himself on his knees by the other side of his mother—She clasps him in her arms_.—Amelia _is placed on the side of her father attentively viewing_ Agatha—Anhalt _stands on the side of_ Frederick _with his hands gratefully raised to Heaven_.]——_The curtain slowly drops_.

END.

EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY THOMAS PALMER, ESQ. OF THE TEMPLE.

SPOKEN BY MR. MUNDEN.

Our drama now ended, I’ll take up your time Just a moment or two in defence of my _rhime_— * “Tho’ I hope that among you are _some_ who _admir’d_ “What I’ve hitherto said, dare I hope none are tir’d? “But whether ye have, or have not heard enough, “Or whether nice critics will think it all stuff; “To myself _rhime_ has ever appear’d, I must own, “In its nature a sort of _philosopher’s stone_; “And if Chymists wou’d use it, they’d not make a pother, “And puzzle their brains to find out any other.” Indeed ’tis most strange and surprising to me That all folks in _rhiming_ their int’rest can’t see; For I’m sure if its use were quite common with men, The world would roll on just as pleasant again. “’Tis said, that while ORPHEUS was striking his lyre, “Trees and brutes danc’d along to the sound of the wire; “That AMPHION to walls soon converted the glebes, “And they rose, as he sung, to a city call’d Thebes; “I suppose _they_ were _Butlers_ (like me) of that time, “And the tale shows our sires knew the wonders of _rhime_.” From time immemorial, your lovers, we find, When their mistresses’ hearts have been proud and unkind, Have resorted to _rhime_; and indeed it appears That a _rhime_ would do more than a bucket of tears. Of love, from experience, I speak—odds my life! I shall never forget how I courted my wife: She had offers in plenty; but always stood neuter, Till I, with my pen, started forth as a suitor; Yet I made no mean present of _ribband_ or _bonnet_, _My_ present was caught from the stars—’twas a _sonnet_. “And now you know this, sure ’tis needless to say, “That prose was neglected, and _rhime_ won the day— “But its potent effects you as well may discover “In the _husband_ and _wife_, as in _mistress_ and _lover_; “There are some of ye here, who, like me, I conjecture. “Have been lull’d into sleep by a good _curtain lecture_. “But that’s a mere trifle; you’ll ne’er come to blows, “If you’ll only avoid that dull enemy, _prose_. “Adopt, then, my plan, and the very next time, “That in words you fall out, let them fall into _rhime_; “Thus your sharpest disputes will conclude very soon, “And from jangling to jingling you’ll chime into _tune_. “If my wife were to call me a _drunken old sot_, “I shou’d merely just ask her, what Butler is not? “And bid her take care that she don’t go to pot. “So our squabbles continue a very short season, “If she yields to my _rhime_—I allow she has reason.” Independent of this I conceive _rhime_ has weight In the higher employments of church and of state, And would in my mind such advantages draw, ’Tis a pity that _rhime_ is not sanctioned by law; “For ’twould _really_ be serving us all, to impose “A capital fine on a man who spoke prose.” Mark the pleader who clacks, in his client’s behalf, His technical stuff for three hours and a half; Or the fellow who tells you a long stupid story, And over and over the same lays before ye; Or the member who raves till the whole house are dosing What d’ye say of such men? Why you say they are prosing. So, of course, then, if _prose_ is so tedious a _crime_, It of consequence follows, there’s _virtue_ in _rhime_. The best piece of prose that I’ve heard a long while, Is what gallant Nelson has sent from THE NILE. And had he but told us the story in _rhime_, What a thing ’twou’d be; but, perhaps, he’d no time. So, I’ll do it myself—Oh! ’tis glorious news! Nine _sail_ of the line! Just a ship for each Muse. As I live, there’s an end of the French and their navy— Sir John Warren has sent the Brest fleet to Old Davy. ’Tis in the Gazette, and that, every one knows, Is sure to be truth, tho’ ’tis written in prose.

* The lines between inverted commas are not spoken.