PREFACE.

THE following Drama is taken entirely from the "German's Tale, Kruitzner," published many years ago in Lee's Canterbury Tales; written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this story and another, both of which are considered superior to the remainder of the collection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of this story. Some of the characters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one character (Ida of Stralen heim) added by myself; but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. When I was young, (about fourteen, I think,) I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon me; and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same department. But I have generally found that those who had read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power of mind and conception which it developes. I should also add conception, rather than execution; for the story might, perhaps, have been developed with greater advantage. Among those whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story, I could mention some very high names; but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use, for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may see to what extent I have borrowed from it: and am not unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure in perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its contents.

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as

|1815, (the first I ever attempted, except one at thir teen years old, called "Ulric and Ilvina," which I had sense enough to burn,) and had nearly completed an act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere among my papers in England; but as it has not been found, I have re written the first, and added the subsequent acts. The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the stage. February, 1822.

DRAMATIS PERSONE.

Men.-WERNER.

ULRIC.
STRALENHEIM.
IDENSTEIN.

GABOR.
FRITZ.
HENRICK.
ERIC.

ARNHEIM.
MEISTER.
RODOLPH.

LUDWIG.

Women.-JOSEPHINE.

IDA STRALENHEIM.

Scene-Partly on the Frontier of Silesia, and partly in Siegendorf Castle, near Prague.

Time-The Close of the Thirty Years' War.

Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried,
And no one walks a chamber like to ours
With steps like thine when his heart is at rest.
Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy,
And stepping with the bee from flower to flower;
But here!

Wer. 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen. Jos. Ah, no!

Wer. (smiling.) Why! wouldst thou have it so? Jos.

Have it a healthful current.

I would

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine?

Wer. (approaching her slowly.) But for thee I had been-no matter what,

But much of good and evil; what I am,
Thou knowest; what I might or should have been,
Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor
Shall aught divide us.

[WERNER walks on abruptly, and then ap-
proaches JOSEPHINE.

The storm of the night,

Perhaps, affects me; I'm a thing of feelings,

And have of late been sickly, as, alas!

Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love!

To see thee happy

Wer.

Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings (though

These were enough to gnaw into our souls)
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now.
When, but for this untoward sickness, which
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,
And leaves us-no! this is beyond me!-but
For this I had been happy-thou been happy-
The splendor of my rank sustain'd-my name,
My father's name-been still upheld; and, more
Than those-

Jos. (abruptly.) My son-our son-our Ulric
Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms
And all a mother's hunger satisfied.

Twelve years! he was but eight then :-beautiful
He was, and beautiful he must be now.
My Ulric! my adored!

Wer.
I have been full oft
The chase of Fortune: now she hath o'ertaken
My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,—
Sick, poor, and lonely.

Jos.

Lonely! my dear husband? Wer. Or worse-involving all I love, in this Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, And all been over in a nameless grave.

Jos. And I had not outlived thee; but pray take Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who

strive

With fortune win or weary her at last,
So that they find the goal or cease to feel
Further. Take comfort,-we shall find our boy
Wer. We were in sight of him, of every thing
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow
And to be baffled thus !
Jos.
We are not baffled.
Wer. Are we not pennyless?
Jos.
We ne'er were wealthy.
Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank, and

power;

Let me be wretched with the rest!

But think

Jos. How many in this hour of tempest shiver Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain, Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth, Which hath no chamber for them save beneath Her surface.

Wer. And that's not the worst: who cares
For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom
Thou namest-ay, the wind howls round them, and
The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
A hunter, and a traveller, and am

Abeggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.
Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all?
Wer. Yes. And from these alone.
Jos. And that is something.

Wer. True-to a peasant.

In my o'er-fervent youth; but for the abuse
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death
Left the path open, yet not without snares.
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me.
Become the master of my rights, and lord
Of that which lifts him up to princes in
Dominion and domain.

'Tis hopeless. my father's,

Jos.
Who knows? our son
May have return'd back to his grandsire, and
Even now uphold thy rights for thee?
Wer.
Since his strange disappearance from
Entailing, as it were, my sins upon
Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course.
I parted with him to his grandsire, on
The promise that his anger would stop short
Of the third generation; but Heaven seems
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies.

Jos. I must hope better still,—at least we have yet

You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see That I would be alone; but to your business! What brings you here?

Iden.

Why, what should bring me here? Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess That which will send you hence.

Iden. What ho, there! bustle! Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad [Gives directions to different servants who enter

How should we?

Iden. The river is o'erflow'd.
Jos.
Alas! we have known
That to our sorrow for these five days; since
It keeps us here.

Ilen.
But what you don't know is,
That a great personage, who fain would cross,
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes,
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses,
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet.

Jos. Poor creatures! are you sure?
Iden.
Yes, of the monkey,
And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet
We know not if his excellency's dead
Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown,
As it is fit that men in office should be;
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants;
And now a Saxon, and Hungarian traveller,
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from
The whirling river, have sent on to crave
A lodging, or a grave, according as

It may turn out with the live or dead body.
Jos. And where will you receive him? here, I hope,
If we can be of service-say the word.

Iden. Here? no; but in the prince's own apart-] ment,

As fits a noble guest:-'tis damp, no doubt,
Not having been inhaited these twelve years;
But then he comes from a much damper place,
So scarcely will catch cold in't, if he be
Still liable to cold-and if not, why
He'll be worse lodged to-morrow: ne'ertheless,
I have ordered fire and all appliances
To be got ready for the worst-that is,
In case he should survive.

Gab.

Faith!
I cannot tell: but I should think the pillow
Would please him better than the table after
His soaking in your river: but for fear
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean
To sup myself, and have a friend without
Who will do honor to your good cheer with
A traveller's appetite.
Iden.

But are you sure
His excellency-But his name: what is it?
Gab. I do not know.
Iden.

And yet you saved his life.
Gab. I help'd my friend to do so.
Iden.

Well, that's strange

To save a man's life whom you do not know.
Gab. Not so; for there are some I know so well,
I scarce should give myself the trouble.
Iden.

Good friend, and who may you be?

Pray,

By my family

It matters little. Iden. (aside.) I think that all the world are grown

anonymous,

Since no one cares to tell what he's call'd! Pray, has his excellency a large suite ? Gab.

Iden. How many? Gab.

Sufficient.

I did not count them. We came up by mere accident, and just In time to drag him through his carriage window. Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man; No doubt you'll have a swinging sum as recompense. Gab. Perhaps.

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on? Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale: In the mean time, my best reward would be A glass of your Hockheimer-a green glass, Wreath'd with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices, O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage; For which I promise you, in case you e'er Run hazard of being drown'd, (although I own It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you,) I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend, And think, for every bumper I shall quaff, A wave the less may roll above your head.

Iden. (aside.) I don't much like this fellow-close and dry

He seems, two things which suit me not; however, Wine he shall have; if that unlocks him not,

I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity.

[Exit IDENSTEIN.

Gab. (to WERNER.) This master of the ceremonies

is

The intendant of the palace, I presume:

'Tis a fine building, but decay'd.