MRS MILLER. God in his mercy protect us!

MILLER. We shall want his protection. You may well say that. What other object can such a scapegrace have? The girl is handsome—well made—can show a pretty foot. How the upper story is furnished matters little. That's blinked in you women if nature has not played the niggard in other respects. Let this harum-scarum but turn over this chapter—ho! ho! his eyes will glisten like Rodney's when he got scent of a French frigate; then up with all sail and at her, and I don't blame him for it— flesh is flesh. I know that very well.

MRS MILLER. You should only read the beautiful billy-doux which the baron writes to your daughter. Gracious me! Why it's as clear as the sun at noonday that he loves her purely for her virtuous soul.

MILLER. That's the right strain! We beat the sack, but mean the ass's back. He who wishes to pay his respects to the flesh needs only a kind heart for a go-between. What did I myself? When we've once so far cleared the ground that the affections cry ready! slap! the bodies follow their example, the appetites are obedient, and the silver moon kindly plays the pimp.

MRS MILLER. And then only think of the beautiful books that the major has sent us. Your daughter always prays out of them.

MILLER (whistles). Prays! You've hit the mark. The plain, simple food of nature is much too raw and indigestible for this maccaroni gentleman's stomach. It must be cooked for him artificially in the infernal pestilential pitcher of your novel-writers. Into the fire with the rubbish! I shall have the girl taking up with—God knows what all—about heavenly fooleries that will get into her blood, like Spanish flies, and scatter to the winds the handful of Christianity that cost her father so much trouble to keep together. Into the fire with them I say! The girl will take the devil's own nonsense into her head; amidst the dreams of her fool's paradise she'll not know her own home, but forget and feel ashamed of her father, the music-master; and, lastly, I shall lose a worthy, honest son-in-law who might have nestled himself so snugly into my connections. No! damn it! (Jumps up in a passion.) I'll break the neck of it at once, and the major—yes, yes, the major! shall be shown where the carpenter made the door. (Going.)

MRS MILLER. Be civil, Miller! How many a bright shilling have his presents——

MILLER (comes back, and goes up to her). The blood money of my daughter? To Beelzebub with thee, thou infamous bawd! Sooner will I vagabondize with my violin and fiddle for a bit of bread—sooner will I break to pieces my instrument and carry dung on the sounding-board than taste a mouthful earned by my only child at the price of her soul and future happiness. Give up your cursed coffee and snuff-taking, and there will be no need to carry your daughter's face to market. I have always had my bellyful and a good shirt to my back before this confounded scamp put his nose into my crib.

MRS MILLER. Now don't be so ready to pitch the house out of window. How you flare up all of a sudden. I only meant to say that we shouldn't offend the major, because he is the son of the president.

MILLER. There lies the root of the mischief. For that reason—for that very reason the thing must be put a stop to this very day! The president, if he is a just and upright father, will give me his thanks. You must brush up my red plush, and I will go straight to his excellency. I shall say to him,—"Your excellency's son has an eye to my daughter; my daughter is not good enough to be your excellency's son's wife, but too good to be your excellency's son's strumpet, and there's an end of the matter. My name is Miller."



SCENE II.

Enter SECRETARY WORM.

MRS MILLER. Ah! Good morning, Mr. Seckertary! Have we indeed the pleasure of seeing you again?

WORM. All on my side—on my side, cousin Miller! Where a high-born cavalier's visits are received mine can be of no account whatever.

MRS MILLER. How can you think so, Mr. Seckertary? His lordship the baron, Major Ferdinand, certainly does us the honor to look in now and then; but, for all that, we don't undervalue others.

MILLER (vexed). A chair, wife, for the gentleman! Be seated, kinsman.

WORM (lays aside hat and stick, and seats himself). Well, well—and how then is my future—or past—bride? I hope she'll not be—may I not have the honor of seeing—Miss Louisa?

MRS MILLER. Thanks for inquiries, Mr. Seckertary, but my daughter is not at all proud.

MILLER (angry, jogs her with his elbow). Woman!

MRS MILLER. Sorry she can't have that honor, Mr. Seckertary. My daughter is now at mass.

WORM. I am glad to hear it,—glad to hear it. I shall have in her a pious, Christian wife!

MRS MILLER (smiling in a stupidly affected manner). Yes—but, Mr. Seckertary——

MILLER (greatly incensed, pulls her ears). Woman!

MRS MILLER. If our family can serve you in any other way—with the greatest pleasure, Mr. Seckertary——

WORM (frowning angrily). In any other way? Much obliged! much obliged!—hm! hm! hm!

MRS MILLER. But, as you yourself must see, Mr. Seckertary——

MILLER (in a rage, shaking his fist at her). Woman!

MRS MILLER. Good is good, and better is better, and one does not like to stand between fortune and one's only child (with vulgar pride). You understand me, Mr. Seckertary?

WORM. Understand. Not exac—-. Oh, yes. But what do you really mean?

MRS MILLER. Why—why—I only think—I mean—(coughs). Since then Providence has determined to make a great lady of my daughter——

WORM (jumping from his chair). What's that you say? what?

MILLER. Keep your seat, keep your seat, Mr. Secretary! The woman's an out-and-out fool! Where's the great lady to come from? How you show your donkey's ears by talking such stuff.

MRS MILLER. Scold as long as you will. I know what I know, and what the major said he said.

MILLER (snatches up his fiddle in anger). Will you hold your tongue? Shall I throw my fiddle at your head? What can you know? What can he have said? Take no notice of her clack, kinsman! Away with you to your kitchen! You'll not think me first cousin of a fool, and that I'm looking out so high for the girl? You'll not think that of me, Mr. Secretary?

WORM. Nor have I deserved it of you, Mr. Miller! You have always shown yourself a man of your word, and my contract to your daughter was as good as signed. I hold an office that will maintain a thrifty manager; the president befriends me; the door to advancement is open to me whenever I may choose to take advantage of it. You see that my intentions towards Miss Louisa are serious; if you have been won over by a fop of rank——

MRS MILLER. Mr. Seckertary! more respect, I beg——

MILLER. Hold your tongue, I say. Never mind her, kinsman. Things remain as they were. The answer I gave you last harvest, I repeat to-day. I'll not force my daughter. If you suit her, well and good; then it's for her to see that she can be happy with you. If she shakes her head—still better—be it so, I should say—then you must be content to pocket the refusal, and part in good fellowship over a bottle with her father. 'Tis the girl who is to live with you—not I. Why should I, out of sheer caprice, fasten a husband upon the girl for whom she has no inclination? That the evil one may haunt me down like a wild beast in my old age—that in every drop I drink—in every bit of bread I bite, I might swallow the bitter reproach: Thou art the villain who destroyed his child's happiness!

MRS MILLER. The short and the long of it is—I refuse my consent downright; my daughter's intended for a lofty station, and I'll go to law if my husband is going to be talked over.

MILLER. Shall I break every bone in your body, you millclack?

WORM (to MILLER). Paternal advice goes a great way with the daughter, and I hope you know me, Mr. Miller?

MILLER. Plague take you! 'Tis the girl must know you. What an old crabstick like me can see in you is just the very last thing that a dainty young girl wants. I'll tell you to a hair if you're the man for an orchestra—but a woman's heart is far too deep for a music-master. And then, to be frank with you—you know that I'm a blunt, straightforward fellow—you'll not give thank'ye for my advice. I'll persuade my daughter to no one—but from you Mr. Sec—I would dissuade her! A lover who calls upon the father for help—with permission—is not worth a pinch of snuff. If he has anything in him, he'll be ashamed to take that old-fashioned way of making his deserts known to his sweetheart. If he hasn't the courage, why he's a milksop, and no Louisas were born for the like of him. No! he must carry on his commerce with the daughter behind the father's back. He must manage so to win her heart, that she would rather wish both father and mother at Old Harry than give him up—or that she come herself, fall at her father's feet, and implore either for death on the rack, or the only one of her heart. That's the fellow for me! that I call love! and he who can't bring matters to that pitch with a petticoat may—stick the goose feather in his cap.

WORM (seizes hat and stick and hurries out of the room). Much obliged, Mr. Miller!

MILLER (going after him slowly). For what? for what? You haven't taken anything, Mr. Secretary! (Comes back.) He won't hear, and off he's gone. The very sight of that quill-driver is like poison and brimstone to me. An ugly, contraband knave, smuggled into the world by some lewd prank of the devil—with his malicious little pig's eyes, foxy hair, and nut-cracker chin, just as if Nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside. No! rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may—God forgive me!

MRS MILLER. The wretch!—but you'll be made to keep a clean tongue in your head!

MILLER. Ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron—you, too, must put my bristles up. You're never more stupid than when you have the most occasion to show a little sense. What's the meaning of all that trash about your daughter being a great lady? If it's to be cried out about the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. He is one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people's houses, dispute upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with it straight to the prince, mistress, and minister, and then there's the devil to pay.



SCENE III.

Enter LOUISA with a book in her hand.

LOUISA. Good morning, dear father!

MILLER (affectionately). Bless thee, my Louisa! I rejoice to see thy thoughts are turned so diligently to thy Creator. Continue so, and his arm will support thee.

LOUISA. Oh! I am a great sinner, father! Was he not here, mother?

MRS MILLER. Who, my child?

LOUISA. Ah! I forgot that there are others in the world besides him—my head wanders so. Was he not here? Ferdinand?

MILLER (with melancholy, serious voice). I thought my Louisa had forgotten that name in her devotions?

LOUISA (after looking at him steadfastly for some time). I understand you, father. I feel the knife which stabs my conscience; but it comes too late. I can no longer pray, father. Heaven and Ferdinand divide my bleeding soul, and I fear—I fear—(after a pause). Yet no, no, good father. The painter is best praised when we forget him in the contemplation of his picture. When in the contemplation of his masterpiece, my delight makes me forget the Creator,—is not that, father, the true praise of God?

MILLER (throws himself in displeasure on a chair). There we have it! Those are the fruits of your ungodly reading.

LOUISA (uneasy, goes to the window). Where can he be now? Ah! the high-born ladies who see him—listen to him——I am a poor forgotten maiden. (Startles at that word, and rushes to her father.) But no, no! forgive me. I do not repine at my lot. I ask but little—to think on him—that can harm no one. Ah! that I might breathe out this little spark of life in one soft fondling zephyr to cool his check! That this fragile floweret, youth, were a violet, on which he might tread, and I die modestly beneath his feet! I ask no more, father! Can the proud, majestic day-star punish the gnat for basking in its rays?

MILLER (deeply affected, leans on the arm of his chair, and covers his face). My child, my child, with joy would I sacrifice the remnant of my days hadst thou never seen the major.

LOUISA (terrified.) How; how? What did you say? No, no! that could not be your meaning, good father. You know not that Ferdinand is mine! You know not that God created him for me, and for my delight alone! (After a pause of recollection.) The first moment that I beheld him—and the blood rushed into my glowing cheeks—every pulse beat with joy; every throb told me, every breath whispered, "'Tis he!" And my heart, recognizing the long-desired one, repeated "'Tis he!" And the whole world was as one melodious echo of my delight! Then—oh! then was the first dawning of my soul! A thousand new sentiments arose in my bosom, as flowers arise from the earth when spring approaches. I forgot there was a world, yet never had I felt that world so dear to me! I forgot there was a God, yet never had I so loved him!

MILLER (runs to her and clasps her to his bosom). Louisa! my beloved, my admirable child! Do what thou wilt. Take all—all—my life—the baron— God is my witness—him I can never give thee! [Exit.

LOUISA. Nor would I have him now, father! Time on earth is but a stinted dewdrop in the ocean of eternity. 'Twill swiftly glide in one delicious dream of Ferdinand. I renounce him for this life! But then, mother—then when the bounds of separation are removed—when the hated distinctions of rank no longer part us—when men will be only men—I shall bring nothing with me save my innocence! Yet often has my father told me that at the Almighty's coming riches and titles will be worthless; and that hearts alone will be beyond all price. Oh! then shall I be rich! There, tears will be reckoned for triumphs, and purity of soul be preferred to an illustrious ancestry. Then, then, mother, shall I be noble! In what will he then be superior to the girl of his heart?

MRS. MILLER (starts from her seat). Louisa! the baron! He is jumping over the fence! Where shall I hide myself?

LOUISA (begins to tremble). Oh! do not leave me, mother!

MRS MILLER. Mercy! What a figure I am. I am quite ashamed! I cannot let his lordship see me in this state!

[Exit.



SCENE IV.

LOUISA—FERDINAND. (He flies towards her—she falls back into her chair, pale and trembling. He remains standing before her—they look at each other for some moments in silence. A pause.)

FERDINAND. So pale, Louisa?

LOUISA (rising, and embracing him). It is nothing—nothing now that you are here—it is over.

FERDINAND (takes her hand and raises it to his lips). And does my Louisa still love me? My heart is yesterday's; is thine the same? I flew hither to see if thou wert happy, that I might return and be so too. But I find thee whelmed in sorrow!

LOUISA. Not so, my beloved, not so!

FERDINAND. Confess, Louisa! you are not happy. I see through your soul as clearly as through the transparent lustre of this brilliant. No spot can harbor here unmarked by me—no thought can cloud your brow that does not reach your lover's heart. Whence comes this grief? Tell me, I beseech you! Ah! could I feel assured this mirror still remained unsullied, there'd seem to me no cloud in all the universe! Tell me, dear Louisa, what afflicts you?

LOUISA (looking at him with anxiety for a few moments). Ferdinand! couldst thou but know how such discourse exalts the tradesman's daughter——

FERDINAND (surprised). What say'st thou? Tell me, girl! how camest thou by that thought? Thou art my Louisa! who told thee thou couldst be aught else? See, false one, see, for what coldness I must chide thee! Were indeed thy whole soul absorbed by love for me, never hadst thou found time to draw comparisons! When I am with thee, my prudence is lost in one look from thine eyes: when I am absent in a dream of thee! But thou —thou canst harbor prudence in the sane breast with love! Fie on thee! Every moment bestowed on this sorrow was a robbery from affection and from me!

LOUISA (pressing his hand and shaking her head with a melancholy air). Ferdinand, you would lull my apprehensions to sleep; you would divert my eyes from the precipice into which I am falling. I can see the future! The voice of honor—your prospects, your father's anger—my nothingness. (Shuddering and suddenly drops his hands.) Ferdinand! a sword hangs over us! They would separate us!

FERDINAND (jumps up). Separate us! Whence these apprehensions, Louisa? Who can rend the bonds that bind two hearts, or separate the tones of one accord? True, I am a nobleman—but show me that my patent of nobility is older than the eternal laws of the universe—or my escutcheon more valid than the handwriting of heaven in my Louisa's eyes? "This woman is for this man?" I am son of the prime minister. For that very reason, what but love can soften the curses which my father's extortions from the country will entail upon me?

LOUISA. Oh! how I fear that father!

FERDINAND. I fear nothing—nothing but that your affection should know bounds. Let obstacles rise between us, huge as mountains, I will look upon them as a ladder by which to fly into the arms of my Louisa! The tempest of opposing fate shall but fan the flame of my affection dangers will only serve to make Louisa yet more charming. Then speak no more of terrors, my love! I myself—I will watch over thee carefully as the enchanter's dragon watches over buried gold. Trust thyself to me! thou shalt need no other angel. I will throw myself between thee and fate— for thee receive each wound. For thee will I catch each drop distilled from the cup of joy, and bring thee in the bowl of love. (Embracing affectionately.) This arm shall support my Louisa through life. Fairer than it dismissed thee, shall heaven receive thee back, and confess with delight that love alone can give perfection to the soul.

LOUISA (disengaging herself from him, greatly agitated). No more! I beseech thee, Ferdinand! no more! Couldst thou know. Oh! leave me, leave me! Little dost thou feel how these hopes rend my heart in pieces like fiends! (Going.)

FERDINAND (detaining her). Stay, Louisa! stay! Why this agitation? Why those anxious looks?

LOUISA. I had forgotten these dreams, and was happy. Now—now—from this day is the tranquillity of my heart no more. Wild impetuous wishes will torment my bosom! Go! God forgive thee! Thou hast hurled a firebrand into my young peaceful heart which nothing can extinguish! (She breaks from him, and rushes from the apartment, followed by FERDINAND.)



SCENE V.—A Chamber in the PRESIDENT.'S House.

The PRESIDENT, with the grand order of the cross about his neck, and a star at his breast—SECRETARY WORM.

PRESIDENT. A serious attachment, say you? No, no, Worm; that I never can believe.

WORM. If your excellency pleases, I will bring proofs of my assertions.

PRESIDENT. That he has a fancy for the wench—flatters her—and, if you will, pretends to love her—all this is very possible—nay—excusable —but—and the daughter of a musician, you say?

WORM. Of Miller, the music-master.

PRESIDENT. Handsome? But that, of course.

WORM (with warmth). A most captivating and lovely blondine, who, without saying too much, might figure advantageously beside the greatest beauties of the court.

PRESIDENT (laughs). It's very plain, Worm, that you have an eye upon the jade yourself—I see that. But listen, Worm. That my son has a passion for the fair sex gives me hope that he will find favor with the ladies. He may make his way at court. The girl is handsome, you say; I am glad to think my son has taste. Can he deceive the silly wench by holding out honorable intentions—still better; it will show that he is shrewd enough to play the hypocrite when it serves his purpose. He may become prime minister—if he accomplishes his purpose! Admirable! that will prove to me that fortune favors him. Should the farce end with a chubby grandchild—incomparable! I will drink an extra bottle of Malaga to the prospects of my pedigree, and cheerfully pay the wench's lying-in expenses.

WORM. All I wish is that your excellency may not have to drink that bottle to drown your sorrow.

PRESIDENT (sternly). Worm! remember that what I once believe, I believe obstinately—that I am furious when angered. I am willing to pass over as a joke this attempt to stir my blood. That you are desirous of getting rid of your rival, I can very well comprehend, and that, because you might have some difficulty in supplanting the son, you endeavor to make a cat's-paw of the father, I can also understand—I am even delighted to find that you are master of such excellent qualifications in the way of roguery. Only, friend Worm, pray don't make me, too, the butt of your knavery. Understand me, have a care that your cunning trench not upon my plans!

WORM. Pardon me, your excellency! If even—as you suspect—jealousy is concerned, it is only with the eye, and not with the tongue.

PRESIDENT. It would be better to dispense with it altogether. What can it matter to you, simpleton, whether you get your coin fresh from the mint, or it comes through a banker? Console yourself with the example of our nobility. Whether known to the bridegroom or not, I can assure you that, amongst us of rank, scarcely a marriage takes place but what at least half a dozen of the guests—or the footmen—can state the geometrical area of the bridegroom's paradise.

WORM (bowing). My lord! Upon this head I confess myself a plebeian.

PRESIDENT. And, besides, you may soon have the satisfaction of turning the laugh most handsomely against your rival. At this very moment it is under consideration in the cabinet, that, upon the arrival of the new duchess, Lady Milford shall apparently be discarded, and, to complete the deception, form an alliance. You know, Worm, how greatly my influence depends upon this lady—how my mightiest prospects hang upon the passions of the prince. The duke is now seeking a partner for Lady Milford. Some one else may step in—conclude the bargain for her ladyship, win the confidence of the prince, and make himself indispensable, to my cost. Now, to retain the prince in the meshes of my family, I have resolved that my Ferdinand shall marry Lady Milford. Is that clear to you?

WORM. Quite dazzling! Your excellency has at least convinced me that, compared with the president, the father is but a novice. Should the major prove as obedient a son as you show yourself a tender father, your demand may chance to be returned with a protest.

PRESIDENT. Fortunately I have never yet had to fear opposition to my will when once I have pronounced, "It shall be so!" But now, Worm, that brings us back to our former subject! I will propose Lady Milford to my son this very day. The face which he puts upon it shall either confirm your suspicions or entirely confute them.

WORM. Pardon me, my lord! The sullen face which he most assuredly will put upon it may be placed equally to the account of the bride you offer to him as of her from whom you wish to separate him. I would beg of you a more positive test! Propose to him some perfectly unexceptionable woman. Then, if he consents, let Secretary Worm break stones on the highway for the next three years.

PRESIDENT (biting his lips). The devil!

WORM. Such is the case, you may rest assured! The mother—stupidity itself—has, in her simplicity, betrayed all to me.

PRESIDENT (pacing the room, and trying to repress his rage). Good! this very morning, then!

WORM. Yet, let me entreat your excellency not to forget that the major— is my master's son——

PRESIDENT. No harm shall come to him, Worm.

WORM. And that my service in ridding you of an unwelcome daughter-in-law——

PRESIDENT. Should be rewarded by me helping you to a wife? That too, Worm!

WORM (bowing with delight). Eternally your lordship's slave. (Going.)

PRESIDENT (threatening him). As to what I have confided to you, Worm! If you dare but to whisper a syllable——

WORM (laughs). Then your excellency will no doubt expose my forgeries!

[Exit.

PRESIDENT. Yes, yes, you are safe enough! I hold you in the fetters of your own knavery, like a trout on the hook!

Enter SERVANT.

SERVANT. Marshal Kalb——

PRESIDENT. The very man I wished to see. Introduce him.

[Exit SERVANT.



SCENE VI.

MARSHAL KALB, in a rich but tasteless court-dress, with Chamberlain's keys, two watches, sword, three-cornered hat, and hair dressed a la Herisson. He bustles up to the PRESIDENT, and diffuses a strong scent of musk through the whole theatre—PRESIDENT.

MARSHAL. Ah! good morning, my dear baron! Quite delighted to see you again—pray forgive my not having paid my respects to you at an earlier hour—the most pressing business—the duke's bill of fare—invitation cards—arrangements for the sledge party to-day—ah!—besides it was necessary for me to be at the levee, to inform his highness of the state of the weather.

PRESIDENT. True, marshal! Such weighty concerns were not to be neglected!

MARSHAL. Then a rascally tailor, too, kept me waiting for him!

PRESIDENT. And yet ready to the moment?

MARSHAL. Nor is that all! One misfortune follows at the heels of the other to-day! Only hear me!

PRESIDENT (absent). Can it be possible?

MARSHAL. Just listen! Scarce had I quitted my carriage, when the horses became restive, and began to plunge and rear—only imagine!—splashed my breeches all over with mud! What was to be done? Fancy, my dear baron, just fancy yourself for a moment in my predicament! There I stood! the hour was late! a day's journey to return—yet to appear before his highness in this—good heavens! What did I bethink me of? I pretended to faint! They bundle me into my carriage! I drive home like mad— change my dress—hasten back—and only think!—in spite of all this I was the first person in the antechamber! What say you to that?

PRESIDENT. A most admirable impromptu of mortal wit—but tell me, Kalb, did you speak to the duke?

MARSHAL (importantly). Full twenty minutes and a half.

PRESIDENT. Indeed? Then doubtless you have important news to impart to me?

MARSHAL (seriously, after a pause of reflection). His highness wears a Merde d'Oye beaver to-day.

PRESIDENT. God bless me!—and yet, marshal, I have even greater news to tell you. Lady Milford will soon become my daughter-in-law. That, I think will be new to you?

MARSHAL. Is it possible! And is it already agreed upon?

PRESIDENT. It is settled, marshal—and you would oblige me by forthwith waiting upon her ladyship, and preparing her to receive Ferdinand's visit. You have full liberty, also, to circulate the news of my son's approaching nuptials.

MARSHAL. My dear friend! With consummate pleasure! What can I desire more? I fly to the baroness this moment. Adieu! (Embracing him.) In less than three-quarters of an hour it shall be known throughout the town. [Skips off.

PRESIDENT (smiling contemptuously). How can people say that such creatures are of no use in the world? Now, then, Master Ferdinand must either consent or give the whole town the lie. (Rings—WORM enters.) Send my son hither. (WORM retires; the PRESIDENT walks up and down, full of thought.)



SCENE VII.

PRESIDENT—FERDINAND.

FERDINAND. In obedience to your commands, sir——

PRESIDENT. Ay, if I desire the presence of my son, I must command it— Ferdinand, I have observed you for some time past, and find no longer that open vivacity of youth which once so delighted me. An unusual sorrow broods upon your features; you shun your father; you shun society. For shame, Ferdinand! At your age a thousand irregularities are easier forgiven than one instant of idle melancholy. Leave this to me, my son! Leave the care of your future happiness to my direction, and study only to co-operate with my designs—come, Ferdinand, embrace me!

FERDINAND. You are most gracious to-day, father!

PRESIDENT. "To-day," you rogue? and your "to-day" with such a vinegar look? (Seriously.) Ferdinand! For whose sake have I trod that dangerous path which leads to the affections of the prince? For whose sake have I forever destroyed my peace with Heaven and my conscience? Hear me, Ferdinand—I am speaking to my son. For whom have I paved the way by the removal of my predecessor? a deed which the more deeply gores my inward feelings the more carefully I conceal the dagger from the world! Tell me, Ferdinand, for whose sake have I done all this?

FERDINAND (recoiling with horror). Surely not for mine, father, not for mine? Surely not on me can fall the bloody reflection of this murder? By my Almighty Maker, it were better never to have been born than to be the pretext for such a crime!

PRESIDENT. What sayest thou? How? But I will attribute these strange notions to thy romantic brain, Ferdinand; let me not lose my temper— ungrateful boy! Thus dost thou repay me for my sleepless nights? Thus for my restless anxiety to promote thy good? Thus for the never-dying scorpion of my conscience? Upon me must fall the burden of responsibility; upon me the curse, the thunderbolt of the Judge. Thou receivest thy fortune from another's hand—the crime is not attached to the inheritance.

FERDINAND (extending his right hand towards heaven). Here I solemnly abjure an inheritance which must ever remind me of a parent's guilt!

PRESIDENT. Hear me, sirrah! and do not incense me! Were you left to your own direction you would crawl through life in the dust.

FERDINAND. Oh! better, father, far, far better, than to crawl about a throne!

PRESIDENT (repressing his anger). So! Then compulsion must make you sensible of your good fortune! To that point, which, with the utmost striving a thousand others fail to reach, you have been exalted in your very sleep. At twelve you received a commission; at twenty a command. I have succeeded in obtaining for you the duke's patronage. He bids you lay aside your uniform, and share with me his favor and his confidence. He spoke of titles—embassies—of honors bestowed but upon few. A glorious prospect spreads itself before you! The direct path to the place next the throne lies open to you! Nay, to the throne itself, if the actual power of ruling is equivalent to the mere symbol. Does not that idea awaken your ambition?

FERDINAND. No! My ideas of greatness and happiness differ widely from yours. Your happiness is but seldom known, except by the misery of others. Envy, terror, hatred are the melancholy mirrors in which the smiles of princes are reflected. Tears, curses, and the wailings of despair, the horrid banquet that feasts your supposed elect of fortune; intoxicated with these they rush headlong into eternity, staggering to the throne of judgment. My ideas of happiness teach me to look for its fountain in myself! All my wishes lie centered in my heart!

PRESIDENT. Masterly! Inimitable! Admirable! The first schooling I have received these thirty years! Pity that the brain at fifty should be so dull at learning! But—that such talent may not rust, I will place one by your side on whom you can practise your harlequinade follies at pleasure. You will resolve—resolve this very day—to take a wife.

FERDINAND (starting back amazed). Father!

PRESIDENT. Answer me not. I have made proposals, in your name, to Lady Milford. You will instantly determine upon going to her, and declaring yourself her bridegroom.

FERDINAND. Lady Milford! father?

PRESIDENT. I presume she is not unknown to you!

FERDINAND (passionately). To what brothel is she unknown through the dukedom? But pardon me, dearest father! It is ridiculous to imagine that your proposal can be serious. Would you call yourself father of that infamous son who married a licensed prostitute?

PRESIDENT. Nay, more. I would ask her hand myself, if she would take a man of fifty. Would not you call yourself that infamous father's son?

FERDINAND. No! as God lives! that would I not!

PRESIDENT. An audacity, by my honor! which I pardon for its excessive singularity.

FERDINAND. I entreat you, father, release me from a demand which would render it insupportable to call myself your son.

PRESIDENT. Are you distracted, boy? What reasonable man would not thirst after a distinction which makes him, as one of a trio, the equal and co-partner of his sovereign?

FERDINAND. You are quite an enigma to me, father! "A distinction," do you call it? A distinction to share that with a prince, wherein he places himself on a level with the meanest of his subjects? (The PRESIDENT bursts into a loud laugh.) You may scoff—I must submit to it in a father. With what countenance should I support the gaze of the meanest laborer, who at least receives an undivided person as the portion of his bride? With what countenance should I present myself before the world? before the prince? nay, before the harlot herself, who seeks to wash out in my shame the brandmarks of her honor?

PRESIDENT. Where in the world couldst thou collect such notions, boy?

FERDINAND. I implore you, father, by heaven and earth! By thus sacrificing your only son you can never become so happy as you will make him miserable! If my life can be a step to your advancement, dispose of it. My life you gave me; and I will never hesitate a moment to sacrifice it wholly to your welfare. But my honor, father! If you deprive me of this, the giving me life was a mere trick of wanton cruelty, and I must equally curse the parent and the pander.

PRESIDENT (tapping him on the shoulder in a friendly manner). That's as it should be, my dear boy! Now I see that you are a brave and noble fellow, and worthy of the first woman in the dukedom. You shall have her. This very day you shall be affianced to the Countess of Ostheim.

FERDINAND (in new disorder). Is this, then, destined to be the hour of my destruction?

PRESIDENT (regarding him with an eye of suspicion). In this union, I imagine, you can have no objection on the score of honor?

FERDINAND. None, father, none whatever. Frederica of Ostheim would make any other the happiest of men. (Aside, in the greatest agitation.) His kindness rends in pieces that remnant of my heart which his cruelty left unwounded.

PRESIDENT (his eye still fixed upon him). I expect your gratitude, Ferdinand!

FERDINAND (rushes towards him and kisses his hands). Father, your goodness awakens every spark of sentiment in my bosom. Father! receive my warmest thanks for your kind intentions. Your choice is unexceptionable! But I cannot—I dare not—pity me, father, I never can love the countess.

PRESIDENT (draws back). Ha! ha! now I've caught you, young gentleman! The cunning fox has tumbled into the trap. Oh, you artful hypocrite! It was not then honor which made you refuse Lady Milford? It was not the woman, but the nuptials which alarmed you! (FERDINAND stands petrified for a moment; then recovers himself and prepares to quit the chamber hastily.) Whither now? Stay, sir. Is this the respect due to your father? (FERDINAND returns slowly.) Her ladyship expects you. The duke has my promise! Both court and city believe all is settled. If thou makest me appear a liar, boy! If, before the duke—the lady—the court and city—thou shouldst make me appear a liar!—tremble, boy!—or when I have gained information of certain circumstances—how now? Why does the color so suddenly forsake your cheeks?

FERDINAND (pale and trembling). How? What? Nothing—it is nothing, my father!

PRESIDENT (casting upon him a dreadful look). Should there be cause. If I should discover the source whence this obstinacy proceeds! Boy! boy! the very suspicion drives me distracted! Leave me this moment. 'Tis now the hour of parade. As soon as the word is given, go thou to her ladyship. At my nod a dukedom trembles; we shall see whether a disobedient son dare dispute my will! (Going, returns.) Remember, sir! fail not to wait on Lady Milford, or dread my anger!

[Exit.

FERDINAND (awakens, as if from a dream). Is he gone? Was that a father's voice? Yes, I will go—I will see her—I will say such things to her—hold such a mirror before her eyes. Then, base woman, shouldst thou still demand my hand—in the presence of the assembled nobles, the military, and the people—gird thyself with all the pride of thy native Britain—I, a German youth, will spurn thee!

[Exit.



ACT II.

SCENE I.—A room in LADY MILFORD'S house. On the right of the stage stands a sofa, on the left a pianoforte.

LADY MILFORD, in a loose but elegant negligee, is running her hand over the keys of the pianoforte as SOPHY advances from the window.

SOPHY. The parade is over, and the officers are separating, but I see no signs of the major.

LADY MILFORD (rises and walks up and down the room in visible agitation). I know not what ails me to-day, Sophy! I never felt so before—you say you do not see him! It is evident enough that he is by no means impatient for this meeting—my heart feels oppressed as if by some heavy crime. Go! Sophy, order the most spirited horse in the stable to be saddled for me—I must away into the open air where I may look on the blue sky and hear the busy hum of man. I must dispel this gloominess by change and motion.

SOPHY. If you feel out of spirits, my lady, why not invite company! Let the prince give an entertainment here, or have the ombre table brought to you. If the prince and all his court were at my beck and call I would let no whim or fancy trouble me!

LADY MILFORD (throwing herself on the couch). Pray, spare me. I would gladly give a jewel in exchange for every hour's respite from the infliction of such company! I always have my rooms tapestried with these creatures! Narrow-minded, miserable beings, who are quite shocked if by chance a candid and heartfelt word should escape one's lips! and stand aghast as though they saw an apparition; slaves, moved by a single puppet-wire, which I can govern as easily as the threads of my embroidery! What can I have in common with such insipid wretches, whose souls, like their watches, are regulated by machinery? What pleasure can I have in the society of people whose answers to my questions I know beforehand? How can I hold communion with men who dare not venture on an opinion of their own lest it should differ from mine! Away with them—I care not to ride a horse that has not spirit enough to champ the bit! (Goes to the window.)

SOPHY. But surely, my lady, you except the prince, the handsomest, the wittiest, and the most gallant man in all his duchy.

LADY MILFORD (returning). Yes, in his duchy, that was well said—and it is only a royal duchy, Sophy, that could in the least excuse my weakness. You say the world envies me! Poor thing! It should rather pity me! Believe me, of all who drink of the streams of royal bounty there is none more miserable than the sovereign's favorite, for he who is great and mighty in the eyes of others comes to her but as the humble suppliant! It is true that by the talisman of his greatness he can realize every wish of my heart as readily as the magician calls forth the fairy palace from the depths of the earth! He can place the luxuries of both Indies upon my table, turn the barren wilderness to a paradise, can bid the broad rivers of his land play in triumphal arches over my path, or expend all the hard-earned gains of his subjects in a single feu-de-joie to my honor. But can he school his heart to respond to one great or ardent emotion? Can he extort one noble thought from his weak and indigent brain? Alas! my heart is thirsting amid all this ocean of splendor; what avail, then, a thousand virtuous sentiments when I am only permitted to indulge in the pleasures of the senses.

SOFHY (regarding her with surprise). Dear lady, you amaze me! how long is it since I entered your service?

LADY MILFORD. Do you ask because this is the first day on which you have learnt to know me? I have sold my honor to the prince, it is true, but my heart is still my own—a heart, dear Sophy, which even yet may be worth the acceptance of an honorable man—a heart over which the pestilential blast of courtly corruption has passed as the breath which for a moment dims the mirror's lustre. Believe me my spirit would long since have revolted against this miserable thraldom could my ambition have submitted to see another advanced to my place.

SOPHY. And could a heart like yours so readily surrender itself to mere ambition?

LADY MILFORD (with energy). Has it not already been avenged? nay, is it not even at this very moment making me pay a heavy atonement (with emphasis laying her hand on SOPHY'S shoulder)? Believe me, Sophy, woman has but to choose between ruling and serving, but the utmost joy of power is a worthless possession if the mightier joy of being slave to the man we love be denied us.

SOPHY. A truth, dear lady, which I could least of all have expected to hear from your lips!

LADY MILFORD. And wherefore, Sophy? Does not woman show, by her childish mode of swaying the sceptre of power, that she is only fit to go in leading-strings! Have not my fickle humors—my eager pursuit of wild dissipation—betrayed to you that I sought in these to stifle the still wilder throbbings of my heart?

SOPHY (starting back with surprise). This from you, my lady?

LADY MILFORD (continuing with increasing energy). Appease these throbbings. Give me the man in whom my thoughts are centered—the man I adore, without whom life were worse than death. Let me but hear from his lips that the tears of love with which my eyes are bedewed outvie the gems that sparkle in my hair, and I will throw at the feet of the prince his heart and his dukedom, and flee to the uttermost parts of the earth with the man of my love!

SOPHY (looking at her in alarm). Heavens! my lady! control your emotion——

LADY MILFORD (in surprise). You change color! To what have I given utterance? Yet, since I have said thus much, let me say still more—let my confidence be a pledge of your fidelity,—I will tell you all.

SOPHY (looking anxiously around). I fear my lady—I dread it—I have heard enough!

LADY MILFORD. This alliance with the major—you, like the rest of the world, believe to be the result of a court intrigue—Sophy, blush not—be not ashamed of me—it is the work of—my love!

SOPHY. Heavens! As I suspected!

LADY MILFORD. Yes, Sophy, they are all deceived. The weak prince—the diplomatic baron—the silly marshal—each and all of these are firmly convinced that this marriage is a most infallible means of preserving me to the prince, and of uniting us still more firmly! But this will prove the very means of separating us forever, and bursting asunder these execrable bonds. The cheater cheated—outwitted by a weak woman. Ye yourselves are leading me to the man of my heart—this was all I sought. Let him but once be mine—be but mine—then, oh, then, a long farewell to all this despicable pomp!



SCENE II.—An old valet of the DUKE'S, with a casket of jewels. The former.

VALET. His serene highness begs your ladyship's acceptance of these jewels as a nuptial present. They have just arrived from Venice.

LADY MILFORD (opens the casket and starts back in astonishment). What did these jewels cost the duke?

VALET. Nothing!

LADY MILFORD. Nothing! Are you beside yourself? (retreating a step or two.) Old man! you fix on me a look as though you would pierce me through. Did you say these precious jewels cost nothing?

VALET. Yesterday seven thousand children of the land left their homes to go to America—they pay for all.

LADY MILFORD (sets the casket suddenly down, and paces up and down the room; after a pause, to the VALET). What distresses you, old man? you are weeping!

VALET (wiping his eyes, and trembling violently). Yes, for these jewels. My two sons are among the number.

LADY MILFORD. But they went not by compulsion?

VALET (laughing bitterly). Oh! dear no! they were all volunteers! There were certainly some few forward lads who pushed to the front of the ranks and inquired of the colonel at what price the prince sold his subjects per yoke, upon which our gracious ruler ordered the regiments to be marched to the parade, and the malcontents to be shot. We heard the report of the muskets, and saw brains and blood spurting about us, while the whole band shouted—"Hurrah for America!"

LADY MILFORD. And I heard nothing of all this! saw nothing!

VALET. No, most gracious lady, because you rode off to the bear-hunt with his highness just at the moment the drum was beating for the march. 'Tis a pity your ladyship missed the pleasure of the sight—here, crying children might be seen following their wretched father—there, a mother distracted with grief was rushing forward to throw her tender infant among the bristling bayonets—here, a bride and bridegroom were separated with the sabre's stroke—and there, graybeards were seen to stand in despair, and fling their very crutches after their sons in the New World —and, in the midst of all this, the drums were beating loudly, that the prayers and lamentations might not reach the Almighty ear.

LADY MILFORD (rising in violent emotion). Away with these jewels—their rays pierce my bosom like the flames of hell. Moderate your grief, old man. Your children shall be restored to you. You shall again clasp them to your bosom.

VALET (with warmth). Yes, heaven knows! We shall meet again! As they passed the city gates they turned round and cried aloud: "God bless our wives and children—long life to our gracious sovereign. At the day of judgment we shall all meet again!"

LADY MILFORD (walks up and down the room in great agitation). Horrible! most horrible!—and they would persuade me that I had dried up all the tears in the land. Now, indeed, my eyes are fearfully opened! Go—tell the prince that I will thank him in person! (As the valet is going she drops the purse into his hat.) And take this as a recompense for the truth you have revealed to me.

VALET (throws the purse with contempt on the table). Keep it, with your other treasures. [Exit.

LADY MILFORD (looking after him in astonishment). Sophy, follow him, and inquire his name. His sons shall be restored to him. (SOPHY goes. LADY MILFORD becomes absorbed in thought. Pause. Then to SOPHY as she returns.) Was there not a report that some town on the frontier had been destroyed by fire, and four hundred families reduced to beggary? (She rings.)

SOPHY. What has made your ladyship just think of that? Yes—such was certainly the fact, and most of these poor creatures are either compelled to serve their creditors as bondsmen, or are dragging out their miserable days in the depths of the royal silver mines.

Enter a SERVANT. What are your ladyship's commands?

LADY MILFORD (giving him the case of jewels). Carry this to my treasurer without delay. Let the jewels be sold and the money distributed among the four hundred families who were ruined by the fire.

SOPHY. Consider, my lady, the risk you run of displeasing his highness.

LADY MILFORD (with dignity). Should I encircle my brows with the curses of his subjects? (Makes a sign to the servant, who goes away with the jewel case.) Wouldst thou have me dragged to the earth by the dreadful weight of the tears of misery? Nay! Sophy, it is better far to wear false jewels on the brow, and to have the consciousness of a good deed within the breast!

SOPHY. But diamonds of such value! Why not rather give some that are less precious? Truly, my lady, it is an unpardonable act.

LADY MILFORD. Foolish girl! For this deed more brilliants and pearls will flow for me in one moment than kings ever wore in their richest diadems! Ay, and infinitely more beautiful!

SERVANT enters. Major von Walter!

SOPHY (running hastily to the help of LADY MILFORD, who seems fainting). Heavens, my lady, you change color!

LADY MILFORD. The first man who ever made me tremble. (To the SERVANT.) I am not well—but stay—what said the major?—how? O Sophy! I look sadly ill, do I not?

SOPHY. I entreat you, my lady, compose yourself.

SERVANT. Is it your ladyship's wish that I should deny you to the major?

LADY MILFORD (hesitating). Tell him—I shall be happy to see him. (Exit SERVANT.) What shall I say to him, Sophy? how shall I receive him? I will be silent—alas! I fear he will despise my weakness. He will—ah, me! what sad forebodings oppress my heart! You are going Sophy! stay, yet—no, no—he comes—yes, stay, stay with me——

SOPHY. Collect yourself, my lady, the major——



SCENE III.—FERDINAND VON WALTER. The former.

FERDINAND (with a slight bow). I hope I do not interrupt your ladyship?

LADY MILFORD (with visible emotion). Not at all, baron—not in the least.

FERDINAND. I wait on your ladyship, at the command of my father.

LADY MILFORD. Therein I am his debtor.

FERDINAND. And I am charged to announce to you that our marriage is determined on. Thus far I fulfil the commission of my father.

LADY MILFORD (changing color and trembling). And not of your own heart?

FERDINAND. Ministers and panders have no concern with hearts.

LADY MILFORD (almost speechless with emotion). And you yourself—have you nothing to add?

FERDINAND (looking at SOPHY). Much! my lady, much!

LADY MILFORD (motions to SOPHY to withdraw). May I beg you to take a seat by my side?

FERDINAND. I will be brief, lady.

LADY MILFORD. Well!

FERDINAND. I am a man of honor!

LADY MILFORD. Whose worth I know how to appreciate.

FERDINAND. I am of noble birth!

LADY MILFORD. Noble as any in the land!

FERDINAND. A soldier!

LADY MILFORD (in a soft, affectionate manner). Thus far you have only enumerated advantages which you share in common with many others. Why are you so silent regarding those noble qualities which are peculiarly your own?

FERDINAND (coldly). Here they would be out of place.

LADY MILFORD (with increasing agitation). In what light am I to understand this prelude?

FERDINAND (slowly, and with emphasis). As the protest of the voice of honor—should you think proper to enforce the possession of my hand!

LADY MILFORD (starting with indignation). Major von Walter! What language is this?

FERDINAND (calmly). The language of my heart—of my unspotted name—and of this true sword.

LADY MILFORD. Your sword was given to you by the prince.

FERDINAND. 'Twas the state which gave it, by the hands of the prince. God bestowed on me an honest heart. My nobility is derived from a line of ancestry extending through centuries.

LADY MILFORD. But the authority of the prince——

FERDINAND (with warmth). Can he subvert the laws of humanity, or stamp glory on our actions as easily as he stamps value on the coin of his realm? He himself is not raised above the laws of honor, although he may stifle its whispers with gold—and shroud his infamy in robes of ermine! But enough of this, lady!—it is too late now to talk of blasted prospects—or of the desecration of ancestry—or of that nice sense of honor—girded on with my sword—or of the world's opinion. All these I am ready to trample under foot as soon as you have proved to me that the reward is not inferior to the sacrifice.

LADY MILFORD (in extreme distress turning away). Major! I have not deserved this!

FERDINAND (taking her hand). Pardon me, lady—we are without witnesses. The circumstance which brings us together to-day—and only to-day— justifies me, nay, compels me, to reveal to you my most secret feelings. I cannot comprehend, lady, how a being gifted with so much beauty and spirit—qualities which a man cannot fail to admire—could throw herself away on a prince incapable of valuing aught beyond her mere person—and yet not feel some visitings of shame, when she steps forth to offer her heart to a man of honor!

LADY MILFORD (looking at him with an air of pride). Say on, sir, without reserve.

FERDINAND. You call yourself an Englishwoman—pardon me, lady, I can hardly believe you. The free-born daughter of the freest people under heaven—a people too proud to imitate even foreign virtues—would surely never have sold herself to foreign vices! It is not possible, lady, that you should be a native of Britain, unless indeed your heart be as much below as the sons of Britannia vaunt theirs to be above all others!

LADY MILFORD. Have you done, sir?

FERDINAND. Womanly vanity—passions—temperament—a natural appetite for pleasure—all these might, perhaps, be pleaded in extenuation—for virtue often survives honor—and many who once trod the paths of infamy have subsequently reconciled themselves to society by the performance of noble deeds, and have thus thrown a halo of glory round their evil doings—but if this were so, whence comes the monstrous extortion that now oppresses the people with a weight never before known? This I would ask in the name of my fatherland—and now, lady, I have done!

LADY MILFORD (with gentleness and dignity). This is the first time, Baron von Walter, that words such as these have been addressed to me—and you are the only man to whom I would in return have vouchsafed an answer. Your rejection of my hand commands my esteem. Your invectives against my heart have my full forgiveness, for I will not believe you sincere, since he who dares hold such language to a woman, that could ruin him in an instant—must either believe that she possesses a great and noble heart— or must be the most desperate of madmen. That you ascribe the misery of this land to me may He forgive, before whose throne you, and I, and the prince shall one day meet! But, as in my person you have insulted the daughter of Britain, so in vindication of my country's honor you must hear my exculpation.

FERDINAND (leaning on his sword). Lady, I listen with interest.

LADY MILFORD. Hear, then, that which I have never yet breathed to mortal, and which none but yourself will ever learn from my lips. I am not the low adventurer you suppose me, sir! Nay! did I listen to the voice of pride, I might even boast myself to be of royal birth; I am descended from the unhappy Thomas Norfolk, who paid the penalty of his adherence to the cause of Mary, Queen of Scots, by a bloody death on the scaffold. My father, who, as royal chamberlain, had once enjoyed his sovereign's confidence, was accused of maintaining treasonable relations with France, and was condemned and executed by a decree of the Parliament of Great Britain. Our estates were confiscated, and our family banished from their native soil. My mother died on the day of my father's execution, and I—then a girl of fourteen—fled to Germany with one faithful attendant. A casket of jewels, and this crucifix, placed in my bosom by my dying mother, were all my fortune!

[FERDINAND, absorbed in thought, surveys LADY MILFORD with looks of compassion and sympathy.

LADY MILFORD (continuing with increased emotion). Without a name— without protection or property—a foreigner and an orphan, I reached Hamburg. I had learnt nothing but a little French, and to run my fingers over the embroidery frame, or the keys of my harpsichord. But, though I was ignorant of all useful arts, I had learnt full well to feast off gold and silver, to sleep beneath silken hangings, to bid attendant pages obey my voice, and to listen to the honeyed words of flattery and adulation. Six years passed away in sorrow and in sadness—the remnant of my scanty means was fast melting away—my old and faithful nurse was no more—and— and then it was that fate brought your sovereign to Hamburg. I was walking beside the shores of the Elbe, wondering, as I gazed on its waters, whether they or my sorrows were the deeper, when the duke crossed my path. He followed me, traced me to my humble abode, and, casting himself at my feet, vowed that he loved me. (She pauses, and, after struggling with her emotion, continues in a voice choked by tears.) All the images of my happy childhood were revived in hues of delusive brightness—while the future lowered before me black as the grave. My heart panted for communion with another—and I sank into the arms opened to receive me! (Turning away.) And now you condemn me!

FERDINAND (greatly agitated, follows her and leads her back). Lady! heavens! what do I hear! What have I done? The guilt of my conduct is unveiled in all its deformity! It is impossible you should forgive me.

LADY MILFORD (endeavoring to overcome her emotion). Hear me on! The prince, it is true, overcame my unprotected youth, but the blood of the Howards still glowed within my veins, and never ceased to reproach me; that I, the descendant of royal ancestors, should stoop to be a prince's paramour! Pride and destiny still contended in my bosom, when the duke brought me hither, where scenes the most revolting burst upon my sight! The voluptuousness of the great is an insatiable hyena—the craving of whose appetite demands perpetual victims. Fearfully had it laid this country waste separating bridegroom and bride—and tearing asunder even the holy bonds of marriage. Here it had destroyed the tranquil happiness of a whole family—there the blighting pest had seized on a young and inexperienced heart, and expiring victims called down bitter imprecations on the heads of the undoers. It was then that I stepped forth between the lamb and the tiger, and, in a moment of dalliance, extorted from the duke his royal promise that this revolting licentiousness should cease.

FERDINAND (pacing the room in violent agitation). No more, lady! No more!

LADY MILFORD. This gloomy period was succeeded by one still more gloomy. The court swarmed with French and Italian adventurers—the royal sceptre became the plaything of Parisian harlots, and the people writhed and bled beneath their capricious rule. Each had her day. I saw them sink before me, one by one, for I was the most skilful coquette of all! It was then that I seized and wielded the tyrant's sceptre whilst he slumbered voluptuously in my embrace—then, Walter, thy country, for the first time, felt the hand of humanity, and reposed in confidence on my bosom. (A pause, during which she gazes upon him with tenderness.) Oh! 'that the man, by whom, of all others, I least wish to be misunderstood, should compel me to turn braggart and parade my unobtrusive virtues to the glare of admiration! Walter, I have burst open the doors of prisons—I have cancelled death-warrants and shortened many a frightful eternity upon the galleys. Into wounds beyond my power to heal I have at least poured soothing balsam. I have hurled mighty villains to the earth, and oft with the tears of a harlot saved the cause of innocence from impending ruin. Ah! young man, how sweet were then my feelings! How proudly did these actions teach my heart to support the reproaches of my noble blood! And now comes the man who alone can repay me for all that I have suffered—the man, whom perhaps my relenting destiny created as a compensation for former sorrows—the man, whom with ardent affection, I already clasped in my dreams.

FERDINAND (interrupting her). Hold, lady, hold! You exceed the bounds of our conference! You undertook to clear yourself from reproach, and you make me a criminal! Spare me, I beseech you! Spare a heart already overwhelmed by confusion and remorse!

LADY MILFORD (grasping his hand). You must hear me, Walter! hear me now or never. Long enough has the heroine sustained me; now you must feel the whole weight of these tears! Mark me, Walter! Should an unfortunate—impetuously, irresistibly attracted towards you—clasp you to her bosom full of unutterable, inextinguishable love—should this unfortunate—bowed down with the consciousness of shame—disgusted with vicious pleasures—heroically exalted by the inspiration of virtue—throw herself—thus into your arms (embracing him in an eager and supplicating manner); should she do this, and you still pronounce the freezing word "Honor!" Should she pray that through you she might be saved—that through you she might be restored to her hopes of heaven! (Turning away her head, and speaking in a hollow, faltering voice.) Or should she, her prayer refused, listen to the voice of despair, and to escape from your image plunge herself into yet more fearful depths of infamy and vice——

FERDINAND (breaking from her in great emotion). No, by heaven! This is more than I can endure! Lady, I am compelled—Heaven and earth compels me—to make the honest avowal of my sentiments and situation.

LADY MILFORD (hastening from him). Oh! not now! By all that is holy I entreat you—spare me in this dreadful moment when my lacerated heart bleeds from a thousand wounds. Be your decision life or death—I dare not—I will not hear it!

FERDINAND. I entreat you, lady! I insist! What I have to say will mitigate my offence, and warmly plead your forgiveness for the past. I have been deceived in you, lady. I expected—nay, I wished to find you deserving my contempt. I came determined to insult you, and to make myself the object of your hate. Happy would it have been for us both had my purpose succeeded! (He pauses; then proceeds in a gentle and faltering voice.) Lady, I love!—I love a maid of humble birth—Louisa Miller is her name, the daughter of a music-master. (LADY MILFORD turns away pale and greatly agitated.) I know into what an abyss I plunge myself; but, though prudence bids me conceal my passion, honor overpowers its precepts. I am the criminal—I first destroyed the golden calm of Louisa's innocence—I lulled her heart with aspiring hopes, and surrendered it, like a betrayer, a prey to the wildest of passions. You will bid me remember my rank—my birth—my father—schemes of aggrandisement. But in vain—I love! My hopes become more fervent as the breach widens between nature and the mere conventions of society— between my resolution and worldly prejudices! We shall see whether love or interest is victorious. (LADY MILFORD during this has retired to the extreme end of the apartment, and covers her face with both hands. FERDINAND approaches her.) Have you aught to answer, lady?

LADY MILFORD (in a tone of intense suffering). Nothing! Nothing! but that you destroy yourself and me—and, with us yet a third.

FERDINAND. A third?

LADY MILFORD. Never can you marry Louisa; never can you be happy with me. We shall all be the victims of your father's rashness. I can never hope to possess the heart of a husband who has been forced to give me his hand.

FERDINAND. Forced, lady? Forced? And yet given? Will you enforce a hand without a heart? Will you tear from a maiden a man who is the whole world to her? Will you tear a maiden from a man who has centered all his hopes of happiness on her alone? Will you do this, lady? you who but a moment before were the lofty, noble-minded daughter of Britain?

LADY MILFORD. I will because I must! (earnestly and firmly). My passions, Walter, overcome my tenderness for you. My honor has no alternative. Our union is the talk of the whole city. Every eye, every shaft of ridicule is bent against me. 'Twere a stain which time could never efface should a subject of the prince reject my hand! Appease your father if you have the power! Defend yourself as you best may! my resolution is taken. The mine is fired and I abide the issue.

[Exit. FERDINAND remains in speechless astonishment for some moments; then rushes wildly out.



SCENE IV.—Miller's House.

MILLER meeting LOUISA and MRS. MILLER.

MILLER. Ay! ay! I told you how it would be!

LOUISA (hastening to him with anxiety). What, father? What?

MILLER (running up and down the room). My cloak, there. Quick, quick! I must be beforehand with him. My cloak, I say! Yes, yes! this was just what I expected!

LOUISA. For God's sake, father! tell me?

MRS. MILLER. What is the matter, Miller? What alarms you?

MILLER (throwing down his wig). Let that go to the friezer. What is the matter, indeed? And my beard, too, is nearly half an inch long. What's the matter? What do you think, you old carrion. The devil has broke loose, and you may look out for squalls.

MRS. MILLER. There, now, that's just the way! When anything goes wrong it is always my fault.

MILLER. Your fault? Yes, you brimstone fagot! and whose else should it be? This very morning when you were holding forth about that confounded major, did I not say then what would be the consequence? That knave, Worm, has blabbed.

MRS. MILLER. Gracious heavens! But how do you know?

MILLER. How do I know? Look yonder! a messenger of the minister is already at the door inquiring for the fiddler.

LOUISA (turning pale, and sitting down). Oh! God! I am in agony!

MILLER. And you, too, with that languishing air? (laughs bitterly). But, right! Right! There is an old saying that where the devil keeps a breeding-cage he is sure to hatch a handsome daughter.

MRS. MILLER. But how do you know that Louisa is in question? You may have been recommended to the duke; he may want you in his orchestra.

MILLER (jumping up, and seizing his fiddlestick). May the sulphurous rain of hell consume thee! Orchestra, indeed! Ay, where you, you old procuress, shall howl the treble whilst my smarting back groans the base (Throwing himself upon a chair.) Oh! God in heaven!

LOUISA (sinks on the sofa, pale as death). Father! Mother! Oh! my heart sinks within me.

MILLER (starting up with anger). But let me only lay hands on that infernal quill-driver! I'll make him skip—be it in this world or the next; if I don't pound him to a jelly, body and soul; if I don't write all the Ten Commandments, the seven Penitential Psalms, the five books of Moses, and the whole of the Prophets upon his rascally hide so distinctly that the blue hieroglyphics shall be legible at the day of judgment—if I don't, may I——

MRS. MILLER. Yes, yes, curse and swear your hardest! That's the way to frighten the devil! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, gracious heavens! What shall we do? Who can advise us? Speak, Miller, speak; this silence distracts me! (She runs screaming up and down the room.)

MILLER. I will instantly to the minister! I will open my mouth boldly, and tell him all from beginning to end. You knew it before me, and ought to have given me a hint of what was going on! The girl might yet have been advised. It might still have been time to save her! But, no! There was something for your meddling and making, and you must needs add fuel to the fire. Now you have made your bed you may lie on it. As you have brewed so you may drink; I shall take my daughter under my arm and be off with her over the borders.



SCENE V.

MILLER, MRS. MILLER, LOUISA, FERDINND.

(All speaking together).

FERDINAND (rushes in, terrified, and out of breath). Has my father been here?

LOUISA (starts back in horror). His father? Gracious heaven!

MRS. MILLER (wringing her hands). The minister here? Then it's all over with us!

MILLER (laughs bitterly). Thank God! Thank God! Now comes our benefit!

FERDINAND (rushing towards LOUISA, and clasping her in his arms). Mine thou art, though heaven and hell were placed between us!

LOUISA. I am doomed! Speak, Ferdinand! Did you not utter that dreaded name? Your father?

FERDINAND. Be not alarmed! the danger has passed! I have thee again! again thou hast me! Let me regain my breath on thy dear bosom. It was a dreadful hour!

LOUISA. What was a dreadful hour? Answer me, Ferdinand! I die with apprehension!

FERDINAND (drawing back, gazing upon her earnestly, then in a solemn tone). An hour, Louisa, when another's form stepped between my heart and thee—an hour in which my love grew pale before my conscience—when Louisa ceased to be all in all to Ferdinand!

[LOUISA sinks back upon her chair, and conceals her face.

(FERDINAND stands before her in speechless agitation, then turns away from her suddenly and exclaims). Never, never! Baroness, 'tis impossible! you ask too much! Never can I sacrifice this innocence at your shrine. No, by the eternal God! I cannot recall my oath, which speaks to me from thy soul—thrilling eyes louder than the thunders of heaven! Behold, lady! Inhuman father, look on this! Would you have me destroy this angel? Shall my perfidy kindle a hell in this heavenly bosom? (turning towards her with firmness). No! I will bear her to thy throne, Almighty Judge! Thy voice shall declare if my affection be a crime. (He grasps her hand, and raises her from the sofa.) Courage, my beloved!—thou hast conquered—and I come forth a victor from the terrible conflict!

LOUISA. No, no, Ferdinand, conceal nothing from me! Declare boldly the dreadful decree! You named your father! You spoke of the baroness! The shivering of death seizes my heart! 'Tis said she is about to be married!

FERDINAND (quite overcome, throws himself at her feet). Yes, and to me, dear unfortunate. Such is my father's will!

LOUISA (after a deep pause, in a tremulous voice, but with assumed resignation). Well! Why am I thus affrighted? Has not my dear father often told me that you never could be mine? But I was obstinate, and believed him not. (A second pause; she falls weeping into her father's arms.) Father, thy daughter is thine own again! Father, forgive me! 'Twas not your child's fault that the dream was so heavenly—the waking so terrible!

MILLER. Louisa! Louisa! O merciful heaven! she has lost her senses! My daughter! My poor child! Curses upon thy seducer! Curses upon the pandering mother who threw thee in his way!

MRS. MILLER (weeping on LOUISA'S neck). Daughter, do I deserve this curse? God forgive you, major! What has this poor lamb done that you bring this misery upon her?

FERDINAND (with resolution). I will unravel the meshes of these intrigues. I will burst asunder these iron chains of prejudice. As a free-born man will I make my choice, and crush these insect souls with the colossal force of my love! [Going.

LOUISA (rises trembling from the sofa, and attempts to follow him). Stay, oh, stay! Whither are you going? Father! Mother! He deserts us in this fearful hour!

MRS. MILLER (hastens towards him, and detains him). The president is coming hither? He will ill-use my child! He will ill-use us all,—and yet, major, you are going to leave us.

MILLER (laughs hysterically). Leave us. Of course he is! What should hinder him? The girl has given him all she had. (Grasping FERDINAND with one hand, and LOUISA with the other.) Listen to me, young gentleman. The only way out of my house is over my daughter's body. If you possess one single spark of honor await your father's coming; tell him, deceiver, how you stole her young and inexperienced heart; or, by the God who made me! (thrusting LOUISA towards him with violence and passion) you shall crush before my eyes this trembling worm whom love for you has brought to shame and infamy!

FERDINAND (returns, and walks to and fro in deep thought). 'Tis true, the President's power is great—parental authority is a mighty word—even crimes claim respect when concealed within its folds. He may push that authority far—very far! But love goes beyond it. Hear me, Louisa; give me thy hand! (clasping it firmly). As surely as I hope for Heaven's mercy in my dying hour, I swear that the moment which separates these hands shall also rend asunder the thread that binds me to existence!

LOUISA. You terrify me! Turn from me! Your lips tremble! Your eyes roll fearfully!

FERDINAND. Nay, Louisa! fear nothing! It is not madness which prompts my oath! 'tis the choicest gift of Heaven, decision, sent to my aid at that critical moment, when an oppressed bosom can only find relief in some desperate remedy. I love thee, Louisa! Thou shalt be mine! 'Tis resolved! And now for my father!

[He rushes out, and is met by the PRESIDENT.



SCENE VI.

MILLER, MRS. MILLER, LOUISA, FERDINAND, PRESIDENT, with SERVANTS.

PRESIDENT (as he enters). So! here he is! (All start in terror.)

FERDINAND (retiring a few paces). In the house of innocence!

PRESIDENT. Where a son learns obedience to his father!

FERDINAND. Permit me to——

PRESIDENT (interrupting him, turns to MILLER). The father, I presume?

MILLER. I am Miller, the musician.

PRESIDENT (to MRS. MILLER). And you, the mother?

MRS. MILLER. Yes, alas! her unfortunate mother!

FERDINAND (to MILLER.) Father, take Louisa to her chamber—she is fainting.

PRESIDENT. An unnecessary precaution! I will soon arouse her. (To LOUISA.) How long have you been acquainted with the President's son?

LOUISA (with timidity). Of the President's son I have never thought. Ferdinand von Walter has paid his addresses to me since November last.

FERDINAND. And he adores her!

PRESIDENT (to LOUISA). Has he given you any assurance of his love?

FERDINAND. But a few minutes since, the most solemn, and God was my witness.

PRESIDENT (to his son angrily). Silence! You shall have opportunity enough of confessing your folly. (To LOUISA.) I await your answer.

LOUISA. He swore eternal love to me.

FERDINAND. And I will keep my oath.

PRESIDENT (to FERDINAND). Must I command your silence? (To LOUISA). Did you accept his rash vows?

LOUISA (with tenderness). I did, and gave him mine in exchange.

FERDINAND (resolutely). The bond is irrevocable——

PRESIDENT (to FERDINAND). If you dare to interrupt me again I'll teach you better manners. (To LOUISA, sneeringly.) And he paid handsomely every time, no doubt?

LOUISA. I do not understand your question.

PRESIDENT (with an insulting laugh). Oh, indeed! Well, I only meant to hint that—as everything has its price—I hope you have been more provident than to bestow your favors gratis—or perhaps you were satisfied with merely participating in the pleasure? Eh? how was it?

FERDINAND (infuriated). Hell and confusion! What does this mean?

LOUISA (to FERDINAND, with dignity and emotion). Baron von Walter, now you are free!

FERDINAND. Father! virtue though clothed in a beggar's garb commands respect!

PRESIDENT (laughing aloud). A most excellent joke! The father is commanded to honor his son's strumpet!

LOUISA. Oh! Heaven and earth! (Sinks down in a swoon.)

FERDINAND (drawing his sword). Father, you gave me life, and, till now, I acknowledged your claim on it. That debt is cancelled. (Replaces his sword in the scabbard, and points to LOUISA.) There lies the bond of filial duty torn to atoms!

MILLER (who has stood apart trembling, now comes forward, by turns gnashing his teeth in rage, and shrinking back in terror). Your excellency, the child is the father's second self. No offence, I hope! Who strikes the child hits the father—blow for blow—that's our rule here. No offence, I hope!

MRS. MILLER. God have mercy on us! Now the old man has begun—we shall all catch it with a vengeance!

PRESIDENT (who has not understood what MILLER said). What? is the old pander stirred up? We shall have something to settle together presently, Mr. Pander!

MILLER. You mistake me, my lord. My name is Miller, at your service for an adagio—but, as to ladybirds, I cannot serve you. As long as there is such an assortment at court, we poor citizens can't afford to lay in stock! No offence, I hope!

MRS. MILLER. For Heaven's sake, man, hold your tongue! would you ruin both wife and child?

FERDINAND (to his father). You play but a sorry part here, my lord, and might well have dispensed with these witnesses.

MILLER (coming nearer, with increasing confidence). To be plain and above board—No offence, I hope—your excellency may have it all your own way in the Cabinet—but this is my house. I'm your most obedient, very humble servant when I wait upon you with a petition, but the rude, unmannerly intruder I have the right to bundle out—no offence, I hope!

PRESIDENT (pale with anger, and approaching MILLER). What? What's that you dare to utter?

MILLER (retreating a few steps). Only a little bit of my mind sir—no offence, I hope!

PRESIDENT (furiously). Insolent villain! Your impertinence shall procure you a lodging in prison. (To his servants). Call in the officers of justice! Away! (Some of the attendants go out. The PRESIDENT paces the stage with a furious air.) The father shall to prison; the mother and her strumpet daughter to the pillory! Justice shall lend her sword to my rage! For this insult will I have ample amends. Shall such contemptible creatures thwart my plans, and set father and son against each other with impunity? Tremble, miscreants! I will glut my hate in your destruction—the whole brood of you—father, mother, and daughter shall be sacrificed to my vengeance!

FERDINAND (to MILLER, in a collected and firm manner). Oh! not so! Fear not, friends! I am your protector. (Turning to the PRESIDENT, with deference). Be not so rash, father! For your own sake let me beg of you no violence. There is a corner of my heart where the name of father has never yet been heard. Oh! press not into that!

PRESIDENT. Silence, unworthy boy! Rouse not my anger to greater fury!

MILLER (recovering from a stupor). Wife, look you to your daughter! I fly to the duke. His highness' tailor—God be praised for reminding me of it at this moment—learns the flute of me—I cannot fail of success. (Is hastening off.)

PRESIDENT. To the duke, will you? Have you forgotten that I am the threshold over which you must pass, or failing, perish? To the duke, you fool? Try to reach him with your lamentations, when, reduced to a living skeleton, you lie buried in a dungeon five fathoms deep, where light and sound never enter; where darkness goggles at hell with gloating eyes! There gnash thy teeth in anguish; there rattle thy chains in despair, and groan, "Woe is me! This is beyond human endurance!"



SCENE VII.

Officers of Justice—the former.

FERDINAND (flies to LOUISA, who, overcome with fear, faints in his arms.) Louisa!—Help, for God's sake! Terror overpowers her!

[MILLER, catching up his cane and putting on his hat, prepares for defense. MRS. MILLER throws herself on her knees before the PRESIDENT.

PRESIDENT (to the officers, showing his star). Arrest these offenders in the duke's name. Boy, let go that strumpet! Fainting or not—when once her neck is fitted with the iron collar the mob will pelt her till she revives.

MRS. MILLER. Mercy, your excellency! Mercy! mercy!

MILLER (snatching her from the ground with violence). Kneel to God, you howling fool, and not to villains—since I must to prison any way!

PRESIDENT (biting his lips.) You may be out in your reckoning, scoundrel! There are still gallows to spare! (To the officers.) Must I repeat my orders?

[They approach LOUISA—FERDINAND places himself before her.

FERDINAND (fiercely). Touch her who dare! (He draws his sword and flourishes it.) Let no one presume to lay a finger on her, whose life is not well insured. (To the PRESIDENT.) As you value your own safety, father, urge me no further!

PRESIDENT (to the officers in a threatening voice). At your peril, cowards! (They again attempt to seize LOUISA.)

FERDINAND. Hell and furies! Back, I say! (Driving them away.) Once more, father, I warn you—have some thought for your own safety! Drive me not to extremity!

PRESIDENT (enraged to the officers). Scoundrels! Is this your obedience? (The officers renew their efforts.)

FERDINAND. Well, if it must be so (attacking and wounding several of them), Justice forgive me!

PRESIDENT (exasperated to the utmost). Let me see whether I, too, must feel your weapon! (He seizes LOUISA and delivers her to an officer.)

FERDINAND (laughing bitterly). Father! father! Your conduct is a galling satire upon Providence, who has so ill understood her people as to make bad statesmen of excellent executioners!

PRESIDENT (to the officers). Away with her!

FERDINAND. Father, if I cannot prevent it, she must stand in the pillory—but by her side will also stand the son of the president. Do you still insist?

PRESIDENT. The more entertaining will be the exhibition. Away with her!

FERDINAND. I will pledge the honor of an officer's sword for her. Do you still insist?

PRESIDENT. Your sword is already familiar with disgrace. Away! away! You know my will.

FERDINAND (wrests LOUISA from the officer and holds her with one arm, with the other points his sword at her bosom.) Father, rather than tamely see my wife branded with infamy I will plunge this sword into her bosom. Do you still insist?

PRESIDENT. Do it, if the point be sharp enough!

FERDINAND (releases LOUISA, and looks wildly towards heaven). Be thou witness, Almighty God, that I have left no human means untried to save her! Forgive me now if I have recourse to hellish means. While you are leading her to the pillory (speaking loudly in the PRESIDENT'S ear), I will publish throughout the town a pleasant history of how a president's chair may be gained! [Exit.

PRESIDENT (as if thunder-struck). How? What said he? Ferdinand! Release her instantly! (Rushes after his son.)



ACT III.

SCENE I.

Room at the President's. Enter PRESIDENT and WORM.

PRESIDENT. That was an infernal piece of business!

WORM. Just what I feared, your excellency. Opposition may inflame the enthusiast, but never converts him.

PRESIDENT. I had placed my whole reliance upon the success of this attempt. I made no doubt but if the girl were once publicly disgraced, he would be obliged as an officer and a gentleman to resign her.

WORM. An admirable idea!—had you but succeeded in disgracing her.

PRESIDENT. And yet—when I reflect on the matter coolly—I ought not to have suffered myself to be overawed. It was a threat which he never could have meant seriously.

WORM. Be not too certain of that! There is no folly too gross for excited passion! You say that the baron has always looked upon government with an eye of disapprobation. I can readily believe it. The principles which he brought with him from college are ill-suited to our atmosphere. What have the fantastic visions of personal nobility and greatness of soul to do in court, where 'tis the perfection of wisdom to be great and little by turns, as occasion demands? The baron is too young and too fiery to take pleasure in the slow and crooked paths of intrigue. That alone can give impulse to his ambition which seems glorious and romantic!

PRESIDENT (impatiently). But how will these sagacious remarks advance our affairs?

WORM. They will point out to your excellency where the wound lies, and so, perhaps, help you to find a remedy. Such a character—pardon the observation—ought never to have been made a confidant, or should never have been roused to enmity. He detests the means by which you have risen to power! Perhaps it is only the son that has hitherto sealed the lips of the betrayer! Give him but a fair opportunity for throwing off the bonds imposed upon him by nature! only convince him, by unrelenting opposition to his passion, that you are no longer an affectionate father, and that moment the duties of a patriot will rush upon him with irresistible force! Nay, the high-wrought idea of offering so unparalleled a sacrifice at the shrine of justice might of itself alone have charms sufficient to reconcile him to the ruin of a parent!

PRESIDENT. Worm! Worm! To what a horrible abyss do you lead me!

WORM. Never fear, my lord, I will lead you back in safety! May I speak without restraint?

PRESIDENT (throwing himself into a seat). Freely, as felon with felon.

WORM. Forgive me, then. It seems to me that you have to ascribe all your influence as president to the courtly art of intrigue; why not resort to the same means for attaining your ends as a father? I well remember with what seeming frankness you invited your predecessor to a game at piquet, and caroused half the night with him over bumpers of Burgundy; and yet it was the same night on which the great mine you had planned to annihilate him was to explode. Why did you make a public exhibition of enmity to the major? You should by no means have let it appear that you knew anything of his love affair. You should have made the girl the object of your attacks and have preserved the affection of your son; like the prudent general who does not engage the prime of the enemy's force but creates disaffection among the ranks?

PRESIDENT. How could this have been effected?

WORM. In the simplest manner—even now the game is not entirely lost! Forget for a time that you are a father. Do not contend against a passion which opposition only renders more formidable. Leave me to hatch, from the heat of their own passions, the basilisk which shall destroy them.

PRESIDENT. I am all attention.

WORM. Either my knowledge of human character is very small, or the major is as impetuous in jealousy as in love. Make him suspect the girl's constancy,—whether probable or not does not signify. One grain of leaven will be enough to ferment the whole mass.

PRESIDENT. But where shall we find that grain?

WORM. Now, then, I come to the point. But first explain to me how much depends upon the major's compliance. How far is it of consequence that the romance with the music-master's daughter should be brought to a conclusion and the marriage with Lady Milford effected?

PRESIDENT. How can you ask me, Worm? If the match with Lady Milford is broken off I stand a fair chance of losing my whole influence; on the other hand, if I force the major's consent, of losing my head.

WORM (with animation). Now have the kindness to listen to me. The major must be entangled in a web. Your whole power must be employed against his mistress. We must make her write a love-letter, address it to a third party, and contrive to drop it cleverly in the way of the major.

PRESIDENT. Absurd proposal! As if she would consent to sign her own death-warrant.

WORM. She must do so if you will but let me follow my own plan. I know her gentle heart thoroughly; she has but two vulnerable sides by which her conscience can be attacked; they are her father and the major. The latter is entirely out of the question; we must, therefore, make the most of the musician.

PRESIDENT. In what way?

WORM. From the description your excellency gave me of what passed in his house nothing can be easier than to terrify the father with the threat of a criminal process. The person of his favorite, and of the keeper of the seals, is in some degree the representative of the duke himself, and he who offends the former is guilty of treason towards the latter. At any rate I will engage with these pretences to conjure up such a phantom as shall scare the poor devil out of his seven senses.

PRESIDENT. But recollect, Worm, the affair must not be carried so far as to become serious.

WORM. Nor shall it. It shall be carried no further than is necessary to frighten the family into our toils. The musician, therefore, must be quietly arrested. To make the necessity yet more urgent, we may also take possession of the mother;—and then we begin to talk of criminal process, of the scaffold, and of imprisonment for life, and make the daughter's letter the sole condition of the parent's release.

PRESIDENT. Excellent! Excellent! Now I begin to understand you!

WORM. Louisa loves her father—I might say even to adoration! The danger which threatens his life, or at least his freedom—the reproaches of her conscience for being the cause of his misfortunes—the impossibility of ever becoming the major's wife—the confusion of her brain, which I take upon myself to produce—all these considerations make our plan certain of success. She must be caught in the snare.

PRESIDENT. But my son—will he not instantly get scent of it? Will it not make him yet more desperate?

WORM. Leave that to me, your excellency! The old folks shall not be set at liberty till they and their daughter have taken the most solemn oath to keep the whole transaction secret, and never to confess the deception.

PRESIDENT. An oath! Ridiculous! What restraint can an oath be?

WORM. None upon us, my lord, but the most binding upon people of their stamp. Observe, how dexterously by this measure we shall both reach the goal of our desires. The girl loses at once the affection of her lover, and her good name; the parents will lower their tone, and, thoroughly humbled by misfortune, will esteem it an act of mercy, if, by giving her my hand, I re-establish their daughter's reputation.

PRESIDENT (shaking his head and smiling). Artful villain! I confess myself outdone—no devil could spin a finer snare! The scholar excels his master. The next question is, to whom must the letter be addressed— with whom to accuse her of having an intrigue?

WORM. It must necessarily be some one who has all to gain or all to lose by your son's decision in this affair.

PRESIDENT (after a moment's reflection). I can think of no one but the marshal.

WORM (shrugs his shoulders). The marshal! He would certainly not be my choice were I Louisa Miller.

PRESIDENT. And why not? What a strange notion! A man who dresses in the height of fashion—who carries with him an atmosphere of eau de mille fleurs and musk—who can garnish every silly speech with a handful of ducats—could all this possibly fail to overcome the delicacy of a tradesman's daughter? No, no, my good friend, jealousy is not quite so hard of belief. I shall send for the marshal immediately. (Rings.)

WORM. While your excellency takes care of him, and of the fiddler's arrest, I will go and indite the aforesaid letter.

PRESIDENT (seats himself at his writing-table). Do so; and, as soon as it is ready, bring it hither for my perusal.

[Exit WORM.

[The PRESIDENT, having written, rises and hands the paper to a servant who enters.

See this arrest executed without a moment's delay, and let Marshal von Kalb be informed that I wish to see him immediately.

SERVANT. The marshal's carriage has just stopped at your lordship's door.

PRESIDENT. So much the better—as for the arrest, let it be managed with such precaution that no disturbance arise.

SERVANT. I will take care, my lord.

PRESIDENT. You understand me? The business must be kept quite secret.

SERVANT. Your excellency shall be obeyed.

[Exit SERVANT.



SCENE II.

The PRESIDENT—MARSHALL KALB.

MARSHAL (hastily). I have just looked in, en passant, my dear friend! How are you? How do you get on? We are to have the grand opera Dido to-night! Such a conflagration!—a whole town will be in flames!—you will come to the blaze of course—eh?

PRESIDENT. I have conflagration enough in my own house, one that threatens the destruction of all I possess. Be seated, my dear marshal. You arrive very opportunely to give me your advice and assistance in a certain business which will either advance our fortunes or utterly ruin us both!

MARSHAL. Don't alarm me so, my dear friend!

PRESIDENT. As I said before, it must exalt or ruin us entirely! You know my project respecting the major and Lady Milford—you are not ignorant how necessary this union is to secure both our fortunes! Marshal, our plans threaten to come to naught. My son refuses to marry her!

MARSHAL. Refuses! Refuses to marry her? But, my goodness! I have published the news through the whole town. The union is the general topic of conversation.

PRESIDENT. Then you will be talked of by all the town as a spreader of false reports,—in short, Ferdinand loves another.

MARSHAL. Pooh! you are joking! As if that were an obstacle?

PRESIDENT. With such an enthusiast a most insurmountable one!

MARSHAL. Can he be mad enough to spurn his good-fortune? Eh?

PRESIDENT. Ask him yourself and you'll hear what he will answer.