Enter Mr. ANHALT.

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

ANHALT. Your conscience is in the right.

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

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?

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?

ANHALT. No.

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

ANHALT [forcibly]. Marry her.

BARON [starting]. I marry her!

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?

ANHALT [after a pause]. Is that your only objection?

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

ANHALT. May I beg to know them likewise?

BARON. My birth!

ANHALT. Go on.

BARON. My relations would despise me.

ANHALT. Go on.

BARON [in anger]. 'Sdeath! are not these reasons enough?—I know no other.

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.

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

BARON [angrily]. Yes.

ANHALT. You pledged your honour?

BARON [confused]. Yes.

ANHALT. Called God to witness?

BARON [more confused]. Yes.

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."

ANHALT. I do wish you joy.

BARON. Where is she?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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 it's 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 made I 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.