Skip to main content

Full text of "The natural son; a play, in five acts"

See other formats 


2387 
A3K5p 


University  of  Ca 
Southern  Regi 
Library  FaciJ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 
ENDOWMENT  FUND 


"THE 

NATURAL    SON; 

A  FLAY, 
*l  IN    FIVE   ACTS, 

BY 

AUGUSTUS  VON  KOTZEBUE, 

Poet  Laureat  and  Director  of  the  Imperial  Theatre  at  Vienna, 

BEING    THE    ORIGINAL    OF 

LOVERS'  VOWS, 

KOW  PERFORMING,    WITH  UNIVERSAL  APPLAUSE,    AT   THE 

THEATRE  ROYAL,  COVENT  GARDEN. 

■  i 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN 

By  ANNE  PLUMPTRE, 

JAUTHOR  OF  THE  RECTOR'S  SON,    ANTOINETTE,   &C.) 
Who  has  prefixed 

A     PREFACE, 

Explaining  the  Alterations  in  the  Representation ;  and 

A  LIFE  OF  KOTZEBUE. 

FOURTH    EDITION.      REVISED. 


• 


LONDON: 

PRINTED  FOR   R.  PHILLIPS  : 

SOLD  BY  H.   D.  SYMONDS,  PATER-NO  STER-ROW;   CARPENTER 
AND   CO.    OLD  .'BOND   STREET;     R.   H.WESTLV,    STRAND*} 
AND    BY    ALL    OTHER    BOOKSELLERS 

1798. 


.        PT 

Tranflator's     Preface.  ^3K^f 


lHE  flattering  Reception  which  the  Natural 
Son,  under  the  adopted  Title  of  LOVERS' 
VOWS,  has  experienced  from  an  Englifh  Audience, 
in  an  abridged  and  altered  State,  affords  Reafon 
to  believe  that  a  complete  Tranflation  of  fo  ad- 
mirable a  Drama  will  obtain  at  leaft  an  equal 
Degree  of  Public  Approbation.  This  Drama, 
iince  its  firft  Appearance  in  Germany,  has  uni- 
formly ranked  among  the  moft  favourite  Pro? 
du&ions  of  the  Pen  of  its  illuftrious  Author ;  its 
Celebrity  had  long  attracted  the  Notice  of  the 
Tranflator,  and  a  Perufal  of  it  fatisfied  her,  that 
it  was  one  of  thofe  brilliant  Dramatic  Meteors, 
whofe  Luftre  ought  to  be  extended  from  the 
Qerman  to  the  Englilh  Horizon. 


Her 


ii  translator's  preface. 

Her  original  Defign  was  to  adapt  it  to  the 
London  Stage,  and  with  this  View  (he  actually 
proceeded  in  the  Tranflation  j  when,  however, 
fhe  had  made  confiderable  Progrefs,  fhe  learnt 
that  her  Defign  had  been  already  anticipated, 
and  that  a  Tranflation,  by  a  foreign  Gentleman, 
had  been  placed  in  the  Hands  of  Mrs.  Inchbald, 
by  the  Manager  of  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  for 
the  Purpofe  of  being  adapted  to  Reprefentation — 
Satisfied,  therefore,  that  the  Work  was  in  much 
more  able  Hands,  fhe  totally  relinquifhed  her 
Defign. 

On  the  firft  Night  of  the  Reprefentation  of 
Lovers'  Vows,  fhe  attended  the  Theatre,  and 
confefTes  that  fhe  was  much  furprized  at  the  Ex- 
tent of  the  Alterations  and  Omiffions  which  had 
been  made.  She  readily  admits  that  thefe  Al- 
terations may  have  been  neceflary  to  accommo- 
date the  Play  to  the  Tafte  of  an  Englifh  Audience. 
Still,  however,  as  fhe  is  of  opinion  that  the 
Piece  has  been  diverted  of  fome  of  its  principal 
Beauties,  and  that  it  does  not  reflect  the  Mind, 
the   Principles,  and  the  Genius   of  Kotzebue — 

fhe 


TRANSLATOR  S    PREFACE.  Ill 

me  feels  herfelf  irrefiftibly  prompted  to  prefent 
her  favourite  Author  to  the  Public,  in  the 
Form  he  has  chofen  for  himfelf,  anxious  that* 
as  a  Dramatic  Writer,  he  Ihould  be  brought  to 
a  fair  Trial  at  the  Bar  of  Criticifm.  She  wilhes 
him  to  be  exhibited  in  his  own  native  Garb,  not, 
as  he  emphatically  expreffes  himfelf  in  his  Pre- 
face, "  in  the  borrowed  Plumage  of  others," 
and  that  the  Public  may  be  enabled,  at  the  fame 
Time,  to  eftimate  the  Merits  of  the  Author, 
and  appreciate  the  Value  of  the  Alterations. 

It  will  at  once  be  candid   and  ufeful  to  enu- 
merate  the    chief  Points   of   Variation  between 
\  .  .  .  . 

the   Play,    as   reprefented,    and    in    its  original 

Form. — 

JThe  moft  effential  Deviation  refpects  the  im- 
portant comic  Character  of  the  Count  von  der 
Mulde,  which  fcarcely  pofTefTes  a  fingle  Feature 
of  the  Original.  As  it  (lands  here,  the  Reader 
will  obferve,  that  it  is  a  highly -wrought  and 
exquifitely  finiflied  Portrait  of  a  German  Cox- 
comb.      Whether    this    Character  might   have 

A  2  been 


iv  translator's  preface. 

been  reliflied  by  an  Englifh  Audience,  the 
Tranflator  will  not  pretend  to  decide  ;  her  own 
Judgment,  however,  leads  hef  to  think  that  it 
would  have  had  much  more  Effect  in  its  original, 
than  in  its  altered  State.  Diverted  of  all  its 
marked  Features  as  a  German  Coxcomb,  par- 
ticularly of  the  French  Phrafes  fo  appropriate 
to  that  Character,  yet  not  wholly  transformed 
into  an  Englifh  Petit  Maitre,  we  fcarcely  un- 
derftand  among  what  Defeription  of  Perfons  he 
is  intended  to  be  clafTed.  The  Baron,  indeed, 
calls  him  a  complete  Monkey,  but  the  fmart 
Repartees  put  into  his  Mouth,  feem  wholly 
inconfiftent  with  the  Buffoonery  befpoken  by 
that  Appellation ;  he  is,  indeed,  rather  a  witty 
Libertine  than  a  Monkey.  This  very  Appella- 
tion, however,  is  a  Deviation  from  the  Original 
where  he  is  called  a  Coxcomb  j  but  perhaps  this 
arofe  from  a  Miftake  of  the  Tranflator's,  be- 
tween Laffeii  (a  Coxcomb)  and  Affen  (an  Ape). 
Befides  this,  from  being  one  of  the  moil  promi- 
nent Perfonages  in  the  Play,  and  defigned  as  a 
forcible  Contraft  to  the  plain  and  grave,  but 
tlevated  Character  of  Frederick,  he  is  now  de- 
2  graded 


TRANSlATOR's    PREFACE.  V 

graded  into  a  fubordinate  State,  which  leaves  the 
Performance  without  a  due  Share  of  Comic  In- 
tereft,  and  the  happy  Effect  of  the  Contrail  is 
loft.  The  lafl  Scene  between  him  and  the  Baron 
bears  too  much  Refemblance  to  that  where 
Frederick  difcovers  himfelf  to  the  Baron  as  his 
Son,  and  confequently  has  a  Tendency  to  weaken 
the  Effect  of  the  latter  Scene,  which  ought  to 
have  been  preferved  as  the  mod  impreffive  in 
the  whole  Play, 

The  Amelia  in  Lovers'  Vows,  fo  far  from 
being  the  artlefs,  innocent  Child  of  Nature* 
drawn  by  Kotzebue,  appears  a  forward  Country- 
Hoyden,  who  deviates,  in  many  Instances,  from 
the  eftablifhed  Ufages  of  Society,  and  the  De- 
corums of  her  Sex,  in  a  Manner  wholly  unwar- 
ranted by  the  Original.  The  moil  amiable 
Traits  in  her  Character  are  difiorted  and  dif- 
guifed,  by  a  Pertnefs  which  greatly  detracts 
from  the  Efteem  which  her  benevolent  Conduct 
would  infpire.  Perhaps  the  latter  may  be  better 
fuited  to  Reprefentation  before  an  Englifh  Au- 
dience, but  in  the  Clofet,  the  Amelia  of  Kot- 
zebue 


VI  TRANSLATOR'  S    PREFACE. 

zebue  will  naturally  excite   the  flronger  Degree 
of  Intereft. 

To  the  Alterations  in  the  Character  of  the 
Butler,  the  Tranflator  can  give  her  unqualified 
Approbation.  He  appears  as  decidedly  a  Gainer 
by  the  Garb  in  which  Mrs.  Inchbald  h^s  equipped 
him,  as  the  Count  and  Amelia  are  Lofers:  This 
Improvement,  in  fome  Degree,  atones  for  the 
Lofs  of  humourous  Effect  in  the  Character  of 
the  Count ;  the  doggrel  Verfes  are  mod  happily- 
introduced,  and  are  afi  admirable  Satire  upon  the 
namby-pamby  Effufions  with  which  the  Public 
is  fo  profufely  prefented.  The  Tranflator  is  feri- 
fible  that  thofe  here  given  from  the  original  Play, 
will,  in  Comparifon,  appear  infipid  and  defective 
in  broad  Humour. 

Some  interefcing  Scenes  and  exquilite  Touches 
of  Nature  are  omitted.  This  the  Tranflator  has 
Reafon  to  iufpect  arofe  from  the  Imperfection  of 
the  Tranflation  put  into  Mrs.  Inchbald's  Hands. 

In  the  Fifth  Scene  of  the  Firft  Act,  the  Be-. 
nevoience  of  the  Country  Girl  is  not  fufficiently 
difplayed,  through  the  Omiflion  of  the  Paflage 

in 


TRANSLATOR  S    PREFACE.  VU 

in  which  fhe  gives   fom.e   Milk  to  the  fainting 
Wilhelmina. 

The  Sixth  and  Seventh  Scenes  of  the  Firfl  Act, 
and  the  Fifth  Scene  of  the  Fourth  Act,  are 
wholly  fuppreffed. 

The  Fourth  Scene  in  the  Fourth  Act  opens 
very  abruptly,  in  Confequence  of  the  Freedom 
with  which  the  Pruning-knife  has  been  wielded, 
by  lopping  off  the  firft  Half.  The  Reft  of  the 
Omiffions  confift  of  occasional  Curtailments  in  the 
Speeches  and  Dialogues. 

The  Tranflation  here  given  is  from  the  genuine 
Leipfick  Edition,  publiGied  by  the  Author  in 
1791,,  Qf  the  very  great  Reputation  which  this 
Play  has  acquired  upon  the  Continent,  fome  Idea 
may  be  formed  from  the  Circumftance,  that, 
prior  to  the  Appearance  of  that  Publication,  no 
lefs  than  twelve  fpurious  and  imperfect  Editions 
had  been  publifhed  at  Neuwied,  Franckfort,  Co- 
logne, and  Leipfick. 

ANNE  PLUMPTRE. 

London,  Off.  15,  1798. 


DRAMATIS  PERSON JE. 

Performed  by 

Baron  von  Wildenhain,  a  Co- 
lonel out  of  fervice,     .    -    -    -    Mr.  Murray. 

Amelia,  bis  Daughter,  -    -    -    Mrs. H.  Johnston. 

The  Pastor  of  the  Parijh,  in  which 
lies  the  Baron's  Eftate,  performed 
under  the  Name  of  Anhalt*,      Mr.  H.  Johnston, 

Count  von  der  Mulde,  per- 
formed under  the  Name  of  Count 
Cassel,    -------   Mr.  Knight. 

WlLHELMINA  BoETTCHER,/>*T- 

formed  under  the  Name  of  A  gatha 

Fribourg,   ------    Mrs.  Johnson. 

Frederick  Boettcher,  ayoung 

Soldier,  performed  under  the  Name 

of  Frederick  Fribourg,        Mr.  Pope. 
A  Cottager, performed  under  the  Name 

of  Hubert,    -----      Mr.  Powel. 

Cottager's  Wife,    -    -     -      Mrs.  Davenport, 
Christian,  Butler  in  the  Baron's 

Familyy     ----___      Mr.  MuNDEN, 

Landlord  of  the  Public  Houfi% 

^Farmer. 

.//Labourer. 

A  Young  Country  Girl. 

A  Jew. 

^Huntsman. 

Servants  and  Huntsmen. 


*  This  name,  in  the  former  Editions,  is,  by  miftake,  called 
Arnaud. 


THE  NATURAL  SON, 


ACT    I, 


SCENE  I.  The  High-way  leading  to  a  Town.  The  Road 
runs  through  afmall  Village ,  the  lajl  Houfes  of  which 
are  in  Sight— r A  Public  Houfe  on  the  Right. 

Enter  Landlord  from  the  Public  Houfe,  pulling  Wii> 
HELmina  out  by  the  arms. 

Landlord. 

NO  flaying  here,  woman,  no  ftaying  here  !— -It  is  the 
fair  to  day  in  the  village,  and  as  the  country  people 
pafsby  with  their  wives  and  children,  they'll  be  coming 
in,  and  I  fhall  want  every  corner  of  my  houfe. 

Wilhel.  Will   you  thruft  a  poor  fick  woman  out  of 
doors  ? 

Land.  I  do  not  thrujl  you  out. 

Wilhel.  Your  unkindnefs  breaks  my  heart, 

hand.  It  is  no  fuch  mighty  hardfhip. 

Wilhel.  I  have  fpent  my  laft  penny  with  you. 

Land.  You  have-*--and  becaufe  it  was  your  laft,  you 
can  ftay  here  no  longer  ? 

Wilhel.  I  can  work. 

Land.  Why  you  can  fcarcely  move  your  hands, 

Wilhel.  My  ftrength  will  return. 

Land,  Well,  then  you  may  return  hither, 

Wilhel.  But  what  will   become  of  me  in  the  mean 
time  ? 
v  Land.  It  is  fine  weather — you  may  be  any  where. 

Wilhel.  Who  will  clothe  me  mould  this  my  only  wretch-, 
ed  garment  be  wet  through  with  dew  and  rain  ? 

B  '  Land. 


2  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Land.  He  who  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field. 

Wilhel.  Who  will  give  me  a  morfel  of  bread  to  ap~ 
peafe  my  hunger  ? 

Land.  He  who  feeds  the  fowls  of  the  air. 

Wilbel.  Hard-hearted  man !  you  know  that  \  have 
fafted  ever  fince  yefterday  morning. 

Land.  The  fick  can  eat  but  little — .eating  is  not  good 
for  them. 

Wilbel.  I  will  faithfully  and  honourably  pay  for  every 
thing. 

Land.  By  what  means  ?— the  times  are  hard. 

Wilbel.  My  fate  is  alfo  hard. 

Land.  I'll  tell  you  what,  woman — here  lies  the  high- 
way ;  the  road  is  full  of  paffengers— -beg  a  fmall  matter 
of  fome  pitiful  heart. 

IVilbel.  Beg  !— No— -I  will  rather  ftarve  ! 

Land.  That's  the  great  lady  indeed  ! — but  many  an  ho- 
neft  woman  has  begged  for  all  that.  Only  try,  cuftom, 
makes  every  thing  eafy. 

(WiLHELMiNAyfo  down  on  ajione  under  a  tree.) 

Land.  And  here  comes  fomebody — I'll  teach  you  how 
to  begin. 

SCENE  II.  Enter  a  Labourer,  with  his  implements 
paffing  along  the  Road. 

Land,  (to  the  Labourer)  Good  day  ! 

Lab.  Good  day. 

Land.  Neighbour  Nicholas,  won't  you  pleafe  to  beftow 
a  fmall  matter  upon  a  poor  woman.  (  The  Labourer  pajfes 
off.)  That  won't  do.  The  poor  devil  muft  work  him- 
felf  for  his  daily  pay.  But  here  comes  our  fat  Farmer, 
who  every  Sunday  puts  fome  money  into  the  poor's- 
box,  I'll  lay  a  wager  he  gives  you  fomething. 

SCENE  III.     Enter  a  jolly  looking  Farmer,  who  walks 
on  very  Jlowly.     . 

Land.  Good  day,  Mr.  Farmer !  Fine  weather  ! — . 
Yonder  fits  a  poor  fick  woman,  who  begs  alms  of  you. 

Farmer.  Is  me  not  afhamed  of  herfelf  ?  She  is  ftill 
young ;  fhe  can  work. 

Land.  She  has  had  the  fever. 

Farmer.  Aye,  one  may  work  one's  fingers  to  the 
bones  j  one  may  toil  hard — but  money  is  fcarce  enough 
now-a-days, 

2  Lat\i, 


A    PLAY.  3 

Land.  Only  beftow  a  fmall  matter  on  her ! — fhe  is 
hungry. 

Farmer,  (as  he  pajfes  on)  The  harveft  has  been  very 
bad,  and  the  diftemper  has  carried  off  the  beft  of  my 
cattle.  [Exit. 

Land.  There's  a  mifer  for  you,  that  does  nothing  but 
brood  over  his  old  dollars! — But  talking  of  brooding* 
it  comes  into  my  head  that  my  old  hen  hatches  to  day— I 
inuft  make  hafte  and  look  after  her. — (Goes  into  the 
houfe.) 

SCENE    IVi      Wilhelmina    alone. Her    Clothe? 

wretched^    her  Countenance  bearing  Marks  of  Sicknefs 
and  Sorrow,  yetjlill  retaining  Traces  of  Beauty. 

Wilhel.  O  God !  thou  knoweft  that  it  was  never  thus 
with  me  while  I  had  wherewithal  to  give  ! — Deareft 
God  !  thou  who  haft  hitherto  fhel(;ered  me  from  defpair, 
accept  my  thanks.  Oh  that  I  could  but  work  again  ! — 
but  this  fever  has  fo  fhaken  me — did  my  Frederick  know 
that  his  mother  hungered ! — Ah,  lives  he  ftill,  or  does  a 
weight  of  earth  now  cover  his  remains  ? — Ah,  no,  no  ! — 
God  forbid !  I  exift  only  to  fee  him  once  more. — Thou 
author  of  my  woes,  I  will  not  curfe  thee  ;  heaven  fuffer 
thee  to  profper,  if  it  can  grant  profperity  to  the  feducer 
of  innocence  ! — Should  chance  conduct  thee  this  way, 
fhouldft  thou,  amid  thefe  rags,  beneath  this  forrow- 
ftricken  form,  recognize  thy  formerly  blooming  Wil- 
helmina— what  muft  be  thy  feelings? — Ah,  I  hunger; 
had  I  but  a  morfel  of  bread  !— but  patience;  here  on  the 
highway  I  cannot  long  be  fuffered  to  want. 

SCENE  V.  Enter  a  young  Country  Girl,  carrying 
Eggs  and  Milk  to  Market — Jhe  pajfes  brijkly  on,  but  feeing 
Wilhelmina,  flops  andfpeaks. 

Country  Girl.  God  preferve  you. 

Wilhel.  I  thank  you  kindly! — Ah,  deareft  child,  have 
you  not  a  morfel  of  bread  to  give  to  a  poor  woman  ? 

Country  Girl,  (with  looks  of  compajjion)  Bread !  no, 
indeed,  I  have  not  any.     Are  you  hungry  then  ? 

WilheL  Alas,  I  am. 

B  2  Country 


4  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Country  Girl.  Ah,  deareft  God! — and  I  have  nor 
money,  and  I  have  eaten  the  very  laft  morfel  of  my 
brcalcfaft. — But  I  will  haften  to  the  town,  fell  my  milk 
and  eggs,  and  when  I  return  I  will  give  you  a 
Dreyer.*  But,  now  1  think  of  it,  all  that  time  you  will 
ftill  be  hungry. — Will  you  drink  a  little  of  my  milk  ? 

Wilhel.  Oh,  yes !  and  thank  you  kindly,  tender- 
hearted girl. 

Country  Girl.  Well,  drink  !  drink  !  (Jhe  holds  the  vef- 
fel  up  to  her  with  much  kindnefs)  Won't  you  have  any- 
more ? — drink  again  if  you  like,  you  are  heartily  wel- 
come. 

Wilhel.  Heaven  reward  you  ! — you  have  quite  re- 
vived me. 

Country  Girl.  J  am  heartily  glad  of  it  (gives  her  a 
friendly  nod)  good  day,  mother  !  God  protect  you  ! 

[Exit.Jinging, 

Wilhel.  (looking  after  her)  Such  once  was  I — like  her, 
brifk  and  joyous,  and  awake  to  pity, 

SCENE  VI.     Enter  a  Huntsman,  -with  his  Gun  and 

Dogs. 

Wilhel.  Good  fport  to  you,  honeft  man  ! 

Huntfman.  (as  he  pajjes  on)  Damnation \  muft  I  be 
crofied  on  my  way  by  an  old  woman  at  my  firft  fetting 
"  out  I — I  (hall  have  no  luck  to  day.  The  devil  fetch 
you,  you  old  witch.  [Exit. 

Wilhel.  That  fellow  feeks  to  varnifh  over  the  hardnefs 
of  his  heart  by  his  fuperfHtion.~But  here  comes  another— 
a  Jew — Ah,  if  I  could  beg — of  him  would  I  afk  relief, 
for  Chriffians  do  but  profefs  humanity. 

SCENE  VIL  Enter  a  Jew,  who  is  about  to  pafs  onf 
but  feeing  Wilhelmin  a,  flops  and  examines  her  coun- 
tenance. 

Wilhel.  God  blefs  you  ! 
few.    A  thoufand   thanks,  poor  woman  ! — you  feera 

very  ill. 

Wilhel.  I  have  a  fever. 

Jew.  (feeling  haftily  in  his  pockety  whence  he  takes  out  a 

fmall  purfe,  and  gives  her  fome  money.)  Here,  take  this,  'tis 

all  I  can  fpare,  I  have  not  much  myfelf.  [Exit, 

*  About  a  halfpenny  Englifli.    T. 

mibti. 


A    PLAY,  $ 

Wilhel.  (much  afifecled  calls  after  him) — A  thoufand 
thanks  !  a  thoufand  thanks ! — Was  I  wrong  ? — Did  my 
expectation  deceive  me  ?— the  creed  has  no  influence 
upon  the  heart. 

SCENE  VIII.  Frederick  enters  with  his  Knapfack 
at  his  Backx  walks  brifikly  on,  humming  a  Tune  :  as  he 
approaches,  he  obferves  the  Sign  of  the  Public-Houfe, 
and  flops. 

Fred.  Humph ! — to  drink  ! — it  is  very  hot  to-day. 
— But  let  me  firft  examine  my  purfe. — (takes  out  fome 
pieces  of  money ,  which  he  contemplates  as  he  holds  them  in 
bis  hand)  Yes,  to  be  fure  there  will  be  enough  to  pay 
for  a  breakfaft  and  a  dinner,  and  by  evening,  pleafe  God, 
I  hope  to  be  at  home.  Come,  then,  I  am  very  thirfty — 
Holla !  Landlord  !  (he  fees  Wilhelmina)  But  what  have 
we  here  ?  a  poor  fick  woman,  pining,  confuming  away — 
ihe  does  not  beg,  but  her  fituation  afks  afliftance,  and 
fhould  we  always  wait  to  give  till  we  are  entreated  ? — 
fye,  fye ! — We  muft  forego  the  drinking,  elfe  fhall 
we  have  nothing  left  for  dinner ;  be  it  fo ! — To 
perform  a  good  action  fatisfies  both  hunger  and  thirft 
—There  !  (goes  to  her  intending  to  give  her  the  money , 
which  he  was  holding  between  his  fingers  to  pay  for  his 
liquor.) 

Wilhel.  (looks  at  himfledfaftly,  then  gives  a  loud  Jhriek) 
•—Frederick  !  !  ! 

Fred,  (fitarts,  gazes  at  her  earnefitly,  throws  away  his 
money,  knapfack,  hat,  /tick,  whatever  encumbers  him,  and 
falls  into  her  arms)  Mother  !  !  !  (both  remain  fpeechlefs 
fome  time — Frederick  firft  recovers  himfelf  and  proceeds) — 
Mother  !  Good  heavens  !  to  find  you  in  this  ftate  ! — 
Mother  ! — what  is  the  matter  ! — fpeak  ! 

Wilhel.  (trembling)  I  cannot — fpeak — dear  fon  !--- 
dear  Frederick  ! — the  joy  ! — the  transport ! 

Fred>  Recover  yourfelf,  dear,  dear  mother !  (he  refits 
her  head  upon  his  breafit)  Recover  yourfelf!  how  you 
tremble  ! — you  are  fainting. 

Wilhel.  I  am  fo  weak — my  head  is  fo  giddy — the 
whole  of  yefterday — I  had  nothing  to  eat. 

Fred,  (ftarting  up,  wildly,  and  covering  his  face  with 
both  hands)  Ah,  my  God  !  (he  runs  to  his  knapfack,  tears 

it 


6  THE  NATURAL  SOKj 

it  open,  and  takes  out  a  piece  of  bread)  here  is  bread  I 
(collects  together  the  money  which  he  had  thrown  away, 
and  adds  what  remained  in  his  pocket)  here  is  my  little 
ftore  of  money,  and  my  coat,  my  cloak,  my  arms* 
I'll  fell  them  all.  Ah,  mother,  mother. — Holla,  Land- 
lord !  (knocks  haftily  at  the  public-houfe). 

Landlord*  (looking  out  at  the  window)  What's  the 
matter  ? 

Fred*  A  bottle  of  wine  here  !— quick  !— difpateh  ( 

Land.  A  bottle  of  wine  ! 

Fred.  Yes,  yes  ! 

Land.  And  for  whom  ? 

Fred.  For  me ! — the  devil ! — make  hafte  ! 

Land.  Well,  well ! — but,  Mr.  Soldier,  can  you  pay5 
for  it  ? 

Fred,  Here  is  money ! — but  make  hafte,  or  I'll  break 
every  window  in  your  houfe. 

Land.  Patience!  patience!   (he  Jhuts  the  window) . 

Fred,  (to  his  mother)  Fafted  the  whole  day  ! — fafted  ! 
«^— and  I  had  wherewithal  to  eat ! — I  had  a  good  fupper 
ferved  up  to  me  yefterday  evening  at  the  Inn,  while  my 
mother  hungered ! — Oh,  God  !  how  is  all  my  promifed 
joy  embittered ! 

Wilhel.  Be  comforted,  dear  Frederick  \ — I  fee  thee 
again — I  am  now  well — I  have  been  very  ill — I  fcarcely 
hoped  ever  to  fee  thee  more. 

Fred.  Ill !  and  I  was  not  with  you  \ — Well,  never 
will  I  leave  you  more.~-See,  I  am  become  tall,  and 
ftrong,  I  will  work  for  your  fupport. 

Enter  Landlord  with  a  bottle  and  glafs. 

Land.  There  is  wine — of  precious  growth;  a  glorious 
bottle  ;  'tis  only  Franconian  wine  to  be  fure,  but  it  is  four 
enough  to  pafs  for  good  old  Rhenifh. 

Fred.  Bring  it  hither  !  What  does  the  tram  coft  ? 

Land.  Train  !  call  one  of  the  moft  precious  gifts  of 
Heaven  tram  !  Good  friend  my  wine  is  no  trafh  ;  I  have 
befides  another  delicious  French  wine  in  my  cellar,  aye,- 
you  ought  to  tafte  that,  fo  rich,  fo  lufcious,  when  you 
have  emptied  the  giafs  it  looks  dyed  all  over  fuch  a  line 
red.    (Frederick  impatiently  attempts  to  fnatch  the  bottle 

from 


A    PLAY,  7 

from  him)  Come,  come,  I  muft  have  the  money  firft* 
this  bottle  cofts  half  a  guilder*. 

Fred.  (Gives  him  all  his  money)  There !  there  !  (pours 
cut  fame  for  his  mother,  who  drinks,  and  eats  a  piece  of 
bread  with  it,) 

Land.  (Counting  over  the  money)  It  is  one  drey er  Ihort, 
but  however  one  ought  to  be  companionate — To  revive  * 
poor  fick  woman,  one  may  overlook  fuch  a  thing ;  but 
take  care  of  the  bottle,  and  do  not  break  the  glafs,  there's 
a  fine  German  verfe  engrav'd  upon  it.  [Exit. 

Wilhel.  I  thank  thee  kindly,  deareft.  Frederick !  wine 
is  reviving,  and  wine,  from  the  hands  of  afon,  gives  new 
Jife. 

Fred.  Don't  exhauft  yourfelf  by  talking,  mother ;  re- 
cover yourfelf ! 

Wilhel.  Tell  me  then  how  it  has  fared  with  you  for 
thefe  lafr.  five  years  ? 

Fred.  Good  and  ill  jumbled  together  j  one  day  'twas  all 
plenty,  the  next  nothing  at  all. 

Wilhel.  'Tis  a  long  time  fince  you  have  written  to 

me. 

Fred.  Ah  deareft  mother  'tis  a  hard  matter  for  a  poor 
ibldier  to  afford  the  money  for  poftage,  only  think  of  the 
diftance— it  takes  half  a  year's  pay,  and  you  know  one 
muft  live.  And  then  I  always  thought  within  myfelf, 
my  mother  is  ftrong  and  healthy,  and  I  am  ftrong  and 
healthy,  I  may  as  well  wait  a  few  weeks  longer ;  and  fo 
I  delayed  it  from  one  week  to  another, — but  I  hope  you'll 
forgive  me,  deareft  mother. 

Wilhel.  We  eafily  forgive  neglect  when  the  anxiety 
it  occafions  is  no  longer  felt.  Have  you  then  obtained 
your  difcharge  ? 

Fred.  No.  I  have  only  procured  leave  of  abfence  for  a 
few  months  for  a  particular  reafon ;  but  you  want  me, 
I  will  continue  with  you. 

Wilhel.  There  is  no  occafion,  dear  Frederick, — your 
vifit  will  reftore  my  health  and  renew  my  vigour,  then 
fliall  I  be  able  again  to  work,  and  you  may  return  to 
your  regiment ;  I  would  not  be  a  hindrance  to  your  for- 
tune. But  it  feems  you  have  obtained  leave  of  abfence 
for  a  particular  reafon  ?  Did  you  not  fay  fo  ? — may  I  know 
jthis  reafon? 

*  About  thirteen  pence  Englifh.   T. 

Frtd. 


*  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Fred.  Oh  yes,  dear  mother ! — liften  and  I  will  relate 
it. — When  I  left  you  five  years  ago,  you  equipped  me 
excellently  with  clothes,  and  linen,  and  money, — but  one 
trifle  you  forgot, — the  certificate  of  my  birth.  I  was  at 
that  time  a  giddy,  thoughtlefs  lad  of  fifteen,  and  this 
never  occurred  to  me,  but  it  has  fince  occafioned  mc 
much  vexation.  Many  times  have  I  been  heartily  weary 
of  a  foldier's  buftling  life,  and  was  defirous  of  obtaining 
my  difcharge,  that  I  might  apply  myfelf  to  learning  fome 
reputable  trade,  but  whenever  I  mentioned  this  fubje£t  to 
any  tradefman,  faying,  "  Good  Sir,  I  wifh  to  bind  my- 
felf to  you  to  learn  your  trade,"  the  firft  queftion  always 
was,  "  where's  the  certificate  of  your  birth  ?"— That 
fettled  the  point  at  once.  I  was  vexed  and  continued  a 
foldier,  for  in  that  profefiion  they  only  afk,  whether  all 
is  right  about  the  heart  j  the  certificate  of  birth  is  of  no 
more  account  than  the  diploma  of  nobility.  But  ftill 
this  brought  me  into  many  unpleafant  fcrapes.  My  com- 
rades found  this  out,  and  if  any  of  them  wimed  to 
teaze  me,  or  were  intoxicated,  they  would  fneer  at  me, 
and  make  ill-natured  fpeeches,  and  endeavour  to  irri- 
tate me.  Twice  I  was  even  compelled  to  fight,  and 
was  put  under  arreft.  My  captain  frequently  admonifhed 
me- —and  at  laft  about  five  weeks  ago,  when  another  of 
thefe  quarrels  happened,  he  called  me  to  him  in  his  own 
room — (Oh,  mother,  my  captain  is  a  fine  charming  man) 
— "  Boettcher,"  faid  he,  "  I  am  forry  to  learn,  that 
you  are  continually  getting  into  quarrels  and  incurring  pu- 
nifhment,  for  in  other  relpects  I  am  extremely  fatisfied 
with  your  fervice,  and  have  a  good  opinion  of  you.  The 
ferjeant  has  informed  me  of  the  caufe.  I'll  tell  you 
what — write  home,  and  defire  that  your  certificate 
may  be  fent,  or  if  you  are  inclined  to  go  and  fetch  it 
yourfelf,  I  will  give  you  leave  of  abfence  for  a  few 
months, — the  time  of  exercifing  is  over." — Oh,  mother, 
your  form  hovered  before  my  eyes,  as  he  fpoke  fo  kindly. 
1  killed  his  hand  and  Hammered  out  my  thanks.  He 
prefented  me  with  a  dollar,-—"  Go,  my  lad,"  faid 
he,  u  may  your  journey  be  profperous,  and  remember 
to  return  at  the  proper  time." — Now,  mother,  you  fee 
I  am  here,  and  this  is  the  whole  of  theftory. 

Wilkel.  (who  had  lijlened  to  his  narrative  with  embar- 
rafsment.)  And  you  are  come  hither,  dear  Frederick,  to 
fetch  the  certificate  of  your  birth  ? 

Wilheh 


A    PLAY.  9 

Fred.  Yes. 

Wilhel.  Oh  heavens! 

Fred.  What  is  the  matter?  (Wilhelmina  burfts  into 
tears)  for  God's  fake  what  is  the  matter  ?   . 

Wilhel.  Alas,  you  can  have  no  fuch  certificate  ! 

Fred.  How  ? 

Wilhel.  You  are — a — Natural  Son 

Fred.  So,  fo  ! — and  who  then  is  my  father  ? 

Wilhel.  Ah  !  the  wildnefs  of  your  looks  tortures  me  ! 

Fred,  (recovering  himfelf  and  /peaking  mildly  and  affic 
tionately)  Be  not  alarmed,  deareft  mother  ! — ftill  I  am 
your  fon — tell  me  only  who  is  my  father  ? 

Wilhel.  When  you  left  me  five  years  ago,  you  were 
too  young  to  be  entrufted  with  fuch  a  fecret.  Now  your 
maturer  years  demand  my  confidence.  You  are  grown 
to  man's  eftate,  and  are  moreover  worthy  of  the  name 
of  man.  My  fair  maternal  hopes  have  not  deceived  me. 
Ah,  I  have  heard  full  often,  how  confolatory,  how  re- 
viving it  is  to  the  fpirits  of  the  affli&ed  to  meet  with 
one  to  whom  their  wrongs  may  be  imparted.  The  tears 
which  thofe  fufferings  draw  from  the  eyes  of  another, 
afluage  the  anguim  of  the  fufferer.  Thanks,  thanks  be 
to  God  the  hour  is  arrived,  in  which  I  can  enjoy  this 
confolation:  my  fon  is  my  confident,  be  he  alfo  my 
judge,  for  a  ftrict  judge  I  muft  deprecate,  but  my  fon 
will  not  be  fevere  on  me. 

Fred.  Speak,  deareft  mother !  lay  open  your  whole 
heart ! 

Wilhel.  Ah  my  fon,  I  will  tell  you  all ;  and  yet  fhame 
almoft  chains  my  tongue  :  do  not  then  look  at  me. 

Fred.  Know  I  not  well  the  heart  of  my  mother !  ac- 
curfed  be  the  thought  that  would,  condemn  her  for  a 
weaknefs of  a  crime  fhe  is  incapable. 

Wilhel.  Yon  village,  the  fpire  of  whofe  church  you 
fee  at  a  diftance,  is  the  place  of  my  birth :  In  that 
church  was  I  baptized,  and  there  alfo  was  I  inftrudr.ed  in 
the  firft  rudiments  of  our  faith.  My  parents  were  pious 
and  good  cottagers;  poor,  but  honeft.  When  I  was 
fourteen  years  old,  I  chanced  one  day  to  be  feen  by  the 
lady  of  the  caftle  :  I  pleafed  her,  fhe  took  me  to  her 
manfion,  and  delighted  in  forming  my  ruftic  mind.  She  put 
good  books  into  my  hands  ;  I  was  inftru£ted  in  French 
and  mufic  ;  my  ideas  and  capacity  for  learning  developed 
themfelves,  but  fo  ajfo  did  my  vanity :  Yes,  under  the 

C  appearance 


io  THE  NATURAL  SON? 

appearance  of  referve  I  became  a  vain  filly  girl.  I  had 
juft  attained  my  feventeenth  year,  when  the  fon  of  my 
benefactrefs,  who  was  in  the  Saxon  fervice,  obtained 
leave  of  ab fence,  and  came  to  vifit  us ;  it  was  the  firft 
time  of  my  feeing  him  ;  he  was  a  handfomeand  engaging 
youth  ; — he  talked  to  me  of  love,  of  marriage ; — he  was 
the  firft  man  who  had  paid  homage  to  my  charms  :  Ah, 
Frederick,  do  not  look  at  me,  I  cannot  go  on. 

Fred,  (cafis  down  his  eyesy  and  prejfes  her  band  to  his 
heart — both  paufe. ) 

IVilhel.  I,  too  credulous  creature,  was  beguiled  of  my 
innocence  !  he  feigned  the  molt  ardent  love — promifed  me 
marriage  after  the  death  of  his  aged  mother — fwore  eter- 

•  IT 

nal  faith  and  conftancy. — Alas  I  and  I  forgot  my  pious 
parents,  the  precepts  of  our  worthy  paftor,  the  kindnefs 
of  my  fofter-m  other — Ah  Frederick,  Frederick,  often  as 
I  caft  my  eyes  towards  the  tower  of  yonder  church,  fo 
often  does  the  figure  of  our  good  old  paftor  with  his  filver 
hairs  feem  to  ftand- before  my  eyes,  as  he  appeared  when 
for  the  firft  time  I  went  to  confeilion.  How  did  my 
young  heart  then  flutter — how  full  was  I  of  virtue  and 
elevated  devotion  ! — Oh  at  that  time,  certain  of  triumph, 
I  had  courage  frankly  to  acknowledge  every  failing. — 
How,  good  Heavens  !  how  could  it  be  poffible,  that  a  wild, 
unthinking  youth,  fiiould,  by  a  few  idle  words  and 
glances,  efface  that  deep,  deep  imprefnon:  yet  fo  it  was — 
I  became  pregnant. — We  were  both  awakened  from  our 
fweet  intoxication,  and  (huddered  at  the  fearful  profpect 
of  the  future.  I  had  put  every  thing  to  the  hazard — he 
only  had  to  fear  the  anger  of  his  mother,  a  good,  but  in- 
exorably ftricl:  woman.  How  tenderly  did  he  conjure  me, 
how  affeftingly  did  he  entreat  of  me,  not  to  betray  him  ! — 
How  impreflively,  how  ardently  did  he  promife  hereafter 
to  make  me  amends  for  all — and  fo  dearly  did  I  love 
him,  that  I  gave  him  my  word,  to  conceal  the  name  of 
my  feducer, — to  bury  his  image  in  my  heart,  and  pa- 
tiently to  endure,  for  his  fake,  whatever  forrow  might  be 
in  ftore  for  me. — Alas  'tis  much  indeed  that  I  have  fuf- 
fered  ! — He  departed,  fatisfied — meanwhile  the  time  of 
my  delivery  approached — I  could  no  longer  conceal  my 
fituation — Ah  I  was  feverely  dealt  with  for  perfifting  in 
my  refufal  to  name  the  father  of  my  child. — I  was  driven 
indignantly  from  the  houfe,  and  whenl  came  to  the  door 

of 


A    PLAY.  11 

©F  my  afflicted  parents,  there  too  was  I  denied  admittance. 
My  rather  upbraided  me  bitterly,  and  even  was  about  to 
curfe  me,  when  my  mother  tore  him  haftily  away.  She 
foon  returned — threw  me  a  crooked  dollar,  which  fhe 
wore  about  her  neck,  and  wept ;  fince  that  time  I  never 
have  feen  them.  But  the  dollar  I  have  ftill  (/he  draws  it  out 
from  her  bofom.)  I  have  fuffered  hunger  rather  than  part 
with  this  !  (Jhe  gazes  on  it  fome  time,  kijfes  it,  and  reji ores  it 
to  its  place.)  Without  a  houfe  in  which  to  hide  my  head, 
without  money,  without  friends,  I  wandered  a  whole  night 
in  the  open  fields.  Once  I  had  arrived  at  the  river-fide, 
there  where  ftands  the  mill,  and  forely  was  I  tempted  to 
throw  myfelf  in  under  the  mill-wheel,  thus  at  once  to 
end  my  mifery.  But  immediately  the  image  of  the  wor- 
thy   Paftor  prefented   itfelf  before  me   with  his  gentle, 

venerable  mien. 1   ftarted  back,    and   looked   around 

to  fee  whether  he  were  not  behind  me.— The  thought 
of  him,  and  of  his  precepts,  awakened  my  confidence — 
morning  came  on,  I  refolved  to  go  to  his  houfe.  He  re- 
ceived me  afFeciionately,  uttered  not  a  fingle  re- 
proach— "  What  is  done,"  he  laid,  "  is  done !  Heaven 
pardons  the  penitent — reform  then,  my  daughter,  and  all 
may  yet  be  well.  Here  in  this  village,  however,  thou 
muff,  not  remain  ;  that  will  be  to  thee  a  continued  mor- 
tification, and  a  fcandal  to  my  panihioners but," — and 

here  he  put  a  piece  of  gold  into  my  hand,  together  with  a 
letter  which  he  had  written  in  my  behalf, — u  go  to  the 
town,  my  daughter,  feek  out  an  old  and  refpeiStable  widow  to 
whom  this  letter  is  directed,  with  her  thou  wilt  be  fafe, 
and  fhe  will  hefides  give  thee  inftruAion  in  what  man- 
ner to  obtain  an  honeft  livelihood." — With  thefe 
words  he  laid  his  hand  upon  my  forehead,  and  giving  me 
his  blefling,  promifed  alfo  to  endeavour  to  foften  my 
father. — Ah  I  feemed  now  to  receive  new  life  ! — On  my 
way  to  the  town  I  reconciled  myfelf  with  my  Creator,  and 
folemnly  vowed  never  again  to  deviate  from  the  path  of 
virtue — that  vow  I  have  ftriclly  kept,  fo  far  may  you 
ftill  refpect  me,  my  Frederick.  (Frederick  pre/Jes  her 
filently  in  his  arms,  after  a  pauje  Jhe  proceeds)  Your  birth 
was  to  me  the  caufe  of  much  forrow,  and  much  joy—*- 
Twice  did  I  write  to  your  father,  but  God  only  knows 
whether  he  received  the  letters,  no  anfwer  have  I  ever 
obtaiaed. 

C  2  Fred. 


j 2  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Fred.  (Hajiily)  No  anfwer! 

Wilbel.  Be  calm !  my  fon,  be  calm  !■ — It  was  in 
time  of  war,  his  regiment  was  then  in  fervice, — all  was 
buftle  and  confufion  throughout  the  whole  country, — the 
troops  of  three  different  powers  purfued  each  other  al- 
ternately ;  how  eafily  then  might  letters  be  loft ;  No, 
he  certainly  never  received  mine,  for  he  was  no  villain, 
5ince  then  indeed  I  have  never  troubled  him ;  it  might 
be  pride,  or  call  it  what  you  pleafe,  but  I  thought  that  if 
he  had  not  forgotten  me,  he  would  certainly  feelc  inform- 
ation concerning  me, — learn  from  our  paftor  whither  I 
was  retired,  and  come  to  fee  me,  but  alas,  he  came  not, 
and  fome  years  after  I  even  heard  (Jhe  fighs  deeply) — that 
he  was  married.  Thus  was  I  compelled  to  bid  farewel 
to  my  laft  ray  of  hope ; — in  folitude  and  obfcurity  I  inha- 
bited an  indigent  cottage,  where  I  gained  a  livelihood 
by  the  work  of  my  hands,  and  by  inftructing  the  neigh- 
bouring children  in  what  I  had  learnt  at  the  caftle. 
You,  my  deareft  Frederick,  were  my  only  joy ;  and  on 
your  education  I  beftowed  all  that  I  could  fpare  from  the 
neceflaries  of  food  and  clothing.  My  diligence  was  not 
ill  repaid  ;  you  were  a  good  boy,  only  your  wildnefs,  your 
youthful  fire,  your  love  for  a  foldier's  life,  and  defire  to 
ramble  about  the  world,  occafioned  me  many  a  heart- 
ache :  at  laft  I  thought  it  muft  be  as  God  pleafes !  Is  it 
the  boy's  deftination  ?  I  will  not  hinder  him,  though 
my  heart  fhould  break  at  the  feparation.  Five  years  ago 
therefore,  I  fuffered  you  to  depart,  giving  you  at  that 
time,  all  that  I  could  pofiibly  fpare,  perhaps  more  than  I 
ought  to  have  fpared,  but  I  was  then  in  health,  and  when 
that  is  the  cafe,  one  is  too  apt  to  think  that  ficknefs  never 
can  come.  Indeed  had  I  continued  well,  I  had  ftill  earnt 
much  more  than  I  wanted  for  myfelf,  had  been  a  rich 
woman  for  one  in  my  fituation,  and  ftill,  dear  Frederick, 
had  fent  you  every  year  a  Chriftmas  prefent.  But  I 
was  attacked  by  a  lingering  illnefs — there  ended  my 
earnings — my  little  ftore  fcarcely  fufficed  for  phyfician, 
nurfe,  and  medicines,  and  I  was  obliged  a  few  days  ago,  to 
turn  my  back  upon  my  poor  little  cottage,  as  I  had  no 
longer  wherewithal  to  pay  the  rent.  My  only  refource 
was  to  totter  along  the  road  with  this  ftick,  this  bag,  and 
thefe  rags,  and  folicit  a  morfel  of  bread  from  the  charity 
of  thofe  who  happened  to  pafs  by. 

5  Fred. 


A,  PLAY.  13 

Fred.  Ah,  if  your  Frederick  had  fufpe&ed  this,  how 
bitter  would  have  been  every  morfei  he  eat,  every  drop 
that  he  drank.  Well,  God  be  thanked !  I  am  here 
again,  you  are  alive,  and  I  will  remain  with  you;  I 
will  not  on  any  account  leave  you  ;  and  I  will  write  thus 
to  my  Captain.  Let  him  take  it  as  he  will,  let  him  re- 
vile it  as  defertion,  I  will  not  ftir  from  my  mother. 
Alas !  however  I  have  not  learnt  any  art,  any  trade,  but 
I  have  a  pair  of  nervous  arms,  I  can  guide  the  plough,  I 
can  handle  the  flail;  I  will  hire  myfelf  as  a  day-labourer, 
and  at  night  copy  writings  for  fome  lawyer ;  for 
thanks  to  you,  my  good  mother,  I  write  a  fair  and 
legible  hand.  Oh,  all  will  go  well  !  God  will  help 
us,  for  he  fupports  thofe  who  honour  their  parents. 

Wilhel.  (clafps  him  in  her  arms  much  affecled)  What 
princefs  could  offer  me  an  equivalent  for  fuch  a  fon  ? 

Fred.  One  thing  you  have  ftill  forgotten,  mother — 
What  is  my  father's  name  ? 

Wilhel.     Baron  Wildenhain. 

Fred.  And  he  lives  on  this  eftate  ? 

Wilhel.  Here  once  lived  his  mother,  but  me  is  dead. 
He  himfelf  married  a  noble  heirefs  in  Franconia,  and  as 
I  am  allured,  has,  to  pleafe  her,  for  ever  forfaken  his 
native  country.  A  Steward,  in  the  mean  time,  lives  in 
the  houfe,  who  manages  the  eftate  at  his  pleafure. 

Fred.  I  will  haften  to  the  Baron  my  father — I  will  boldly 
face  him —  I  will  bear  you  upon  my  back  to  him.  How 
great  is  the  diftance  of  Franconia  ;  from  twenty  to  thirty 
miles*  ?  only  fo  far  has  he  removed  himfelf,  and  has  he 
efcaped  from  his  confeience  at  fofhort  a  diftance  ?  Truly,  a 
lazy  creeping  kind  of  a  confeience,  twenty  years  has  it  been 
crawling  after  him,  and  not  yet  overtaken  him  ! — Oh, 
fhame  J  fhame  t — Wherefore  muff.  I  know  my  father,  when 
my  father  is  not  an  honeft  man  ?  My  heart  was  fatisfied 
with  a  mother,  a  mother  who  has  taught  me  to  love, 
and  why  fhould  I  know  a  father  who  will  teach  me  to 
hate  ? — No,  I  will  not  feek  him  ! — Let  him  remain 
where  he  is,  and  feaft  and  pamper  himfelf  till  his  laff. 
hour,  and  then  he  may  fee  how  he  has  prepared  himfelf 
to  meet  his  God.     Is  it  not  true,  mother,  that  we  need 

Jiim  not  ?  We  will but  what  is  the  matter !  your 

countenance  is  changed  ! — Mother,  what  is  the  matter  ? 

*  A  German  mile  is  equal  to  abotit  five  Englifli.  T. 

Wilhel. 


i4  THE  NATURAL  SON  ; 

Wilhel.    (very  weak   and  almost  fainting)    Nothing 
nothing  ! — my  joy  ! — too  much  talking  ! — I  wifh  to  be 
quiet  awhile. 

Fred.  My  God !  I  never  till  now  perceived  that  we 
were  in  the  high  way  !  (he  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  public- 
houfe)  Halloo  !  Landlord  ! 

Land,  {at  the  window)  Well,  what  is  the  matter 
now  ? 

Fred.  Here,  I  want  a  bed  in  an  inftant  for  this  poor 
woman. 

Land.  A  bed  for  this  poor  woman!  (fneeringly)  Ha, ha, 
ha  I — Laft  night  fhe  lay  in  the  ftall  with  my  cattle,  and 
has  bewitched  them  all !  (/huts  the  window). 

Fred,  {taking  up  a  ftone  in  a  rage)  Curfed  fcoundrel ! 
{he  looks  at  his  mother  and  drops  the  ftone  again)  Ah,  my 
poor  mother  !  {he  knocks  in  despairing  anguijh  at  a  cottage 
door  which  ftands  further  in  the  back  groud)  Halloo  ! 
halloo ! 

SCENE  IX.     Enter  a  Cottager  from  the  Houfe. 

Cottager.  God  preferve  you  ! — What  do  you  want  ? 

Fred.  Good  friend,  look  at  this  poor  woman,  fhe 
is  fainting  here  in  the  open  air.  She  is  my  mother.  Do 
pray  let  her  have  a  corner  in  your  houfe,  where  fhe  may 
reft  for  half  an  hour.  I  beg  it  for  God's  fake,  and  hea- 
ven will  reward  you  ! 

Cottager.  Hold  your  tongue,  I  entreat ! — I  underftand 
you  perfectly  well  (fpeaking  to  fomebody  in  the  houfe)  Bet, 
make  up  the  bed  there,  quickly  j  you  can  lay  the  boy 
upon  the  bench  in  the  mean  time  :  {to  Frederick)  Don't 
tell  me  a  long  ftory  again  about  God  rewarding,  and 
heaven  paying  ;•  if  God  is  to  pay  all  fuch  trifles,  he'll 
have  enough  to  do  indeed.  Come,  quick,  fupport  her, 
let  us  lead  her  in  gently.  A  bed,  as  good  as  I  can  give 
her,  fhe  fhall  have ;  but  indeed  fhe  will  not  find  much 
in  my  houfe  befides.  ( They  lead  her  into  the  cottage). 


>END    OF    THE    FIRST    ACT  = 


A    PLAY.  t$ 


ACT     II. 


SCENE  I.     A  Room  in  the  Cottage. 

WlLHELMINA,   FREDERICK,  the  COTTAGER  and  his 

Wife. 

Wilhelmina  fits  on  a  wooden  Stool,   with  her  Head 
fupported  on  her  Son's  Breajl. 

Frederick   {[peaking  to  the  Cottager  and  his  Wife,   as 
they  are  bufied  about  the  Cottage.) 

Frederick. 

DEAR  good  people,  have  you  nothing  then  ?    No- 
thing ftrengthening  ?  nothing  reviving  ? 

Wife.  Run,  hufband,  to  our  neighbour  at  the  public 
houfe,  and  fetch  a  bottle  of  wine. 

Fred.  Ah,  that  will  not  do ! — his  wine  is  as  bad  as 
his  heart.  She  has  already  tried  that,  and  I  fear  it  has 
proved  poifon  to  her. 

Cottager.  Go  and  fee,  wife,  whether  the  black  hen 
has  not  laid  an  egg.     A  new  laid  egg  boiled  foft 

Wife.  Or  a  few  ripe  currants 

Cottager.   Or,  the  beft  thing  that  I  have a  piece  of 

bacon. 

Wife.  Or,  there's  about  half  a  pint  of  brandy  ftanding 
in  the  dairy. 

Fred,  (much  ajfecled.)  God  blefs  you  and  reward  you 
for  your  kind-heartednefs ! — Do  you  hear  mother  (Wil- 
helmina nods  her  head) — Do  you  like  any  of  thefe  things? 
(Wilhelmina  makes  a  motion  with  her  hand  declining  them) 
She  does  not  fancy  them — is  there  no  phyfician  in  the 
neighbourhood  ? 

Cottager.  There's  a  horfe  doctor  lives  in  the  village—- 
but  I  never  in  my  life  faw  any  other. 

Fred. 


16  THE  NATURAL  SON ; 

Fred.  Oh  God  what  fhall  I  do ! — fhe  will  die  in  my 
arms — merciful  God,  take  pity  on  me  ! — Kind  people 
pray  for  us — pray  l  entreat  you  !  I  cannot  pray  myfelf. 

Wilhel.  (with  a  broken  voice,)  Be  comforted  dear 
Frederick — I  am  well— I  am  only  faint,  very  faint — a 
glafs  of  good  wine— 

Fred.  Yes  mother  ! — immediately  mother — directly  ! 
But,  oh  God  where  fhall  I  procure  it ! — no  money— 
none,  not  a  doit. 

Wife.  Look  you  here,  hufband — did  you  carry  the 
money  for  the  rent  yefterday  to  the  fteward  ? 

Cottager.  Yes,  indeed,  the  more's  the  pity.  What 
can  be  done  ! — It  is  true,  as  I  am  an  honeft  man,  that 
I  have  not  a  fingle  doit  in  the  houfe. 

Fred.  I  will — I  will  beg — and  if  I  cannot  fucceed  by 
begging,  I  will  rob  ! — Good  people,  take  care  of  my  poor 
mother — do  what  you  are  able  ! — give  her  what  help 
you  can  !-~I  will  foon  return.  (Rujhes  out  of  the  houfe.) 

SCENE  II.  Wilhelmina,  the  Cottager,   and  his 
Wife. 

Cottager.  Should  he  but  ftep  to  our  paftor,  he*ll  give 
fomething  for  certain. 

Wilhel.  Does  the  worthy  old  paftor  then  ftill  live  ? 

Wife.  Alas  no  ! — The  good  old  gentleman ! — it  has 
pleafed  God  to  take  him — he  died  two  years  ago,  worn 
out  and  weary  of  life. 

Cottager.     He  went  out  like  a  lamp. 

Wife,  (wiping  her  eyes)  We  have  reafon  enough  to 
weep  for  him. 

Cottager,  (with  tears  alfo)  He  was  our  father. 

Wilhel.   (extremely  ajfefted)   Our  father  ! 

Wife.  We  fhall  never  have  fuch  another. 

Cottager.  Well,  well !  let  every  man  have  his  due — 
we  rauft  not  cry  down  any  body.  Our  prefent  paftor  is 
alfo  a  worthy  good  man. 

Wife.  Yes,  indeed,  hufband — but  very  young. 

Cottager.  'Tis  true,  one  can't  look  up  to  him  with  quite 
fo  much  refpeel — our  hearts  don't  take  to  him  fo  rea- 
dily— but  our  old  paftor  himfelf,  you  know,  was  once 
young. 

Wife. 


A    PLAY.  17 

Wife,  (to  Wilhelmina)  This  gentleman  was  tutor  in 
the  family,  and  my  lord  the  Baron  was  fo  well  fatisfied 
with  him,  that  he  made  him  our  paftor. 

Cottager.  And  well  he  might  be  fatisfied  ;  for  to  be 
fure  our  young  lady,  God  blefs  her,  is  a  charming,  af- 
fable creature. 

Wife.  Not  at  all  proud.  When  {he  comes  to  church, 
ihe  nods  her  head  round  to  all  the  countrywomen,  firft 
to  one  and  then  to  another. 

Cottager.  And  when  {becomes  into  the  pew,  {beholds 
her  fan  before  her  face,  and  prays  with  fuch  devotion  ! 

Wife.  And  during  the  fermon,  fhe  never  once  turns 
away  her  eyes  from  the  paftor. 

Wilhel.   (with  emotion)  And  who  is  this  young  lady  ? 

Cottager.   The  daughter  of  my  lord  the  Baron. 

Wilhel.    Is  {he  here,  then  ? 

Wife.  Here! — yes,  to  be  fure! — did  not  you  know 
that  r — Next  Friday  it  will  be  five  weeks  fince  his  lord- 
ihip  made  his  entry  into  the  Caftle,  bag  and  baggage. 

Wilhel.   Baron  Wildenhain  ? 

Wife.   Yes,  my  lord  himfelf. 

Wilhel.  And  his  lady  ? 

Cottager.  Oh,  no ;  her  ladyfhip  is  dead.  They 
lived  fome  hundred  miles  oft,  in  Franconia;  and 
while  her  ladymip  was  alive,  my  lord  never  came 
amongft  us.  That  has  frequently  been  a  great  lofs 
to  us.  (Speaking  in  a  fort  of  ivhifper.)  She  was  a  proud 
kind  of  lady,  with  a  heap  of  fancies.  Well,  well,  we 
fhould  not  fpeak  ill  of  the  dead.  The  Baron  is  ftill  a 
very  good  kind  of  gentleman ; — fcarcely  had  my  lady 
cloied  her  eyes,  when  he  refolved  immediately  to  leave 
the  place,  and  returned  to  Wildenhain.  And  well  he 
might,  for  this  is  his  native  place  ; — here  he  grew  up  to 
manhood  j  many  a  time  has  he  joined  in  our  country 
fports,  and  has  often  danced  with  my  wife  on  a  Sun- 
day evening  under  the  lime-trees. Don't  you  re- 
member it,  Bet  ? 

Wife.  O  yes,  to  be  fure,  I  may  well  remember  it. 
The  young  gentleman  ufed  to  wear  a  red  coat,  and  fine 
buckles  fet  withfparkling  ftones. 

Cottager.  Afterwards,  indeed,  when  he  became  an  of- 
ficer, he  turned  out  rather  wild  ;  but  young  folks  mult 
Cow  their  wild  oats  j   the  foil   was  naturally  good,  but 

D  the 


18  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

the   richefl   earth,    you    know,    will    fometimes     beaf 
weeds. 

Wife.  But  do  you  remember,  hufband,  what  a  piece 
of  work  he  made  with  Boettcher's  Minny  ? — That  was 
not  right. 

Cottager.  Hufh,  wife  !  we  muft  not  bring  up  fuch  old 
ftories.  Befides,  we  don't  know  that  he  was  the  father 
of  her  child  ;  (he  never  faid  fo. 

Wife.  Well,  for  all  that,  I'd  lay  my  Sunday  gown 
and  laced  cap  that  he  was  the  man,  and  nobody  elfe. — 
No,  no,  hufband,  you  muft  not  defend  that — that  was 
wicked.  Who  knows  whether  the  poor  creature  has  not 
died  of  hunger  and  grief — and  her  poor  father,  old 
Boettcher,  he  might  have  lived  longer,  if  he  had  not  been 
(o  heart-broken  about  it.  (Wilhelmina  faints.) 

Cottager,  (firji  perceiving  her)  Bet !  Bet  I — Help  1 
Zounds,  help  ! 

Wife.  Ah  !  my  God  ! — poor  woman  ! 

Cottager.  Quick,  quick,  carry  her  into  the  chamber  ; 
lay  her  on  the  bed — and  then  we'll  go  and  fetch  the 
pallor,  for  file  fcarccly  can  live  till  morning. 

(They  carry  her  in.) 

SCENE  III.    J  Room  in  the  Baron 's  Cajlle. 

The  Br  eakfafl -table  is  fet  out>  a  lighted  Candle  and  a  Roll 
of  wax  Taper  on  the  Table, 

The  Baron  enters  in  his  night  gown. 

Baron.    Sleeps  the  Count  ftill  ? 

Servant.   No,  my  lord  ;  his  hair  is  already  drefled. 

Baron.  I  fu {peeled  fo  ;  the  whole  houfe  is  fcented  witk 
poudre  a  la  Marechalle.  Call  my  daughter  hither.  (The 
fervant  goes  out,  the  Baron  fills  his  pipe  and  lights  it.)  — 
It  feems  to  me  that  the  old  privy-counfellor  has  faddled 
me  with  a  complete  coxcomb  ;  whatever  he  fays  and 
does,  is  as  filly  and  conceited  as  his  countenance. — No% 
I  will  not  be  precipitate — my  Amelia  is  too  dear  tome 
for  that; — I  muft  flift  know  the  young  gentleman  a  little 
better,  and  not  for  the  lake  of  an  ancient  friendfhip  make 
my  daughter  unhappy.  The  poor  girl  innocently  fays 
yes,  arid  ftie  will  do  as  her  father  pleafes,  and  he  under- 

ftands 


A    PLAY.  19 

ftarids  thefe  things  better  than  herfelf.  Pity,  pity,  in- 
deed, that  the  girl  war.  not  a  boy  ! — Pity  that  the  name 
of  Wildenhain  muft  be  extinct,  even  as  the  flame  which 
I  now  blow  out. — (He  blozvs  out  the  candle  with  which  he 

had  lighted  his  pipe.) All  my  fine  eftates,  my  glorious 

profpe<Sts,  my  honeft,  well-conditioned  tenants — all, 
all  muft  pafs  into  foreign  hands  !-— 'tis  to  be  regretted — 
much  to  be  regretted  ! 

SCENE  IV.     Enter  Amelia  in  a  loofe  morning drefs. 

Amelia,  (kijjing  the  Baron's  hand)  Good  morrow,  dear 
father. 

Baron.  Good  morrow,  my  daughter.  You  have  flept 
well,  I  hope  ? 

Amelia.  Oh!  yes. 
.    Baron.    You  have,  indeed,  flept  well  ?    Not  been  at 
all  difturbed  ? 

Amelia.  No — only  the  gnats  made  rather  a  humming 
in  my  ears. 

Baron.  The  gnats  !  Well,  that  does  not  much  fig- 
nify.  We  muft  only  fmoke  a  bough  of"  juniper  in  the 
room.     'Tis  eafier  to  drive  away  gnats  than  maggots. 

Amelia.  If  you  want  to  drive  them  away,  'tis  only  to 
boil  fome  peas  with  a  little  quickiilver,  and  that  will  kill 
them. 

Baron,  (laughing)  Well,  well,  it  will  be  happy  for 
you,  Amelia,  ifvou  never  know  any  other  maggots  than 
what  a  plate  of  peas  will  kill. 

Amelia.  Oh,  you  mean  maggots  in  the  head  !  No,  no, 
I  have  none  of  them. 

Baron.  So  much  the  better.  What,  indeed,  mould  a 
young,  lively  girl  of  fixteen  like  you,  have  to  do  with 
maggots  in  her  head.  You  have  a  father  who  loves  you 
tenderly,  and  a  fuitor  who  begs  permidion  to  love  you. 
How  do  you  like  the  Count  von  der  Mulde  ? 

Amelia.    Very  well. 

Baron.  Do  you  not  bluih  when  I  name  him? 

Amelia,   (feeling  her  cheeks)    No. 

Baron.  No! — Humph! — And  you  have  not  dreamt  of 
him  ? 

Amelia.  No. 

Baron.  You  did  not  dream  at  all,  perhaps  ? 

D  2  AmAia. 


20  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Jmelia.  (conftdering)  Oh !  yes,  I  dreamt  of  OUT 
paftor. 

Baron.  Aha !  as  he  flood  before  you,  and  afked  you 
for  the  ring  ? 

Jmelia.  Oh,  no  !  not  fo. — I  dreamt  that  we  were  ftill 
in  Francor.ia,  and  he  was  ftill  my  tutor,  and  was  about 
to  depart,  and  that  I  wept'  bitterly. 

Baron.  And  that  your  father  laughed,  and  your  mother 
fcclded  ? — Is  it  not  true  I — Yes,  yes,  it  was  a  foolifh 
fcene. — It  is  ftill  perfectly  in  my  remembrance. 

Jmelia.  And  when  I  waked,  my  eyes  were  really  wet. 

Baron.  Hear  me,  Amelia  !  When  you  dream  again  of 
t}ie  paftor,  let  it  be  that  he  flood  at  the  altar,  and  yoa 
and  the  Count  flood  before  him,  and  exchanged  rings  *. 
What  think  you  of  that  ? 

Jmelia.  I  will  moll  certainly,  dear  father,  if  you  com- 
mand it. 

Baron.  The  devil  ! — No,  I  do  not  command  it ! — But 
I  wifh  to  know  whether  you  love  him  ?  You  know  you 
faw  him  at  the  ball,  when  we  fpent  a  few  days -in  town 
lafl  winter. 

Jmelia.  Should  I  then  love  every  body  whom  I  fee  at 
a  ball  ? 

Baron.  Amelia  !  Amelia  !  Do  not  be  ftupid  ! — I  mean, 
that  at  that  time  the  Count  von  cer  Mulde  fimpered  and 
ogled  with  you — danced  an  elegant  minuet  or  two  to- 
gether— he  poured  eau  de  mille  Jieurs  upon  your  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  God  knows  what  he  was  talking  about 
all  the  time. 

Jmelia.  God  knows,  indeed  ! — I'm  fure  I  remember 
nothing  about  it. 

Baron.  Nothing  ? 

Jmelia.  If  it  would  be  a  fatisfaclion  to  you,  I  will  en- 
deavour to  recollect  as  much  as  I  can. 

Baron.  No,  no,  there  is  no  occafion.  What  one  is 
forced  to  try  to  recollect,  can  only  be  brought  forth  from 
a  corner  of  the  memory,  not  from  the  recefies  of  the 
heart.     You  do  not  then  love  him  ? 

Jmelia.   I  believe  not. 


*  In  Germany,    it  is  the  practice,   in  the  marriage  ceremony, 

for  the  bride  and  bridegroom  to  exchange  rings. T. 

Baron. 


A    PLAY.  21 

Baron,  (afidd)  I  believe  not  too. — Yet  I  wifh  to 
make  you  underftand  the  connection  between  his  vifit 
and  my  queftions.  His  father  is  a  privy-counfellor — a 
man  of  wealth  and  rank — of  wealth  and  rank  !  doft  thou 
hear  ? 

Amelia.  Yes,  dear  father — if  you  command  it.  ■  But 
our  paftor  always  told  me  that  I  mould  not  regard  fuch 
things  j  that  wealth  and  rank  are  mere  gifts  of  chance. 

Baron.  Well,  well,  he  is  right  enough  in  that.  But  if 
it  fo  happen  that  wealth  and  rank  go  hand  in  hand  with 
merit,  then  they  are  an  advantage.  You  underftand  me  ? 
Amelia.  Perfectly.  (With  fimpli city,  and  without  any 
apparent  defign.)  And  is  that  the  cafe  with  the  Count 
von  der  Mulde  ? 

Baron,  (embarrajfed.)  Humph  ! — His  father  has  ren- 
dered the  State  important  fervices  ; — he  is  my  old  friend — 
he  forwarded  my  fuit  with  your  mother,  and  I  have  great 
obligations  to  him  ;  andbecaufe  he  fo  earneftly  wiffres  for 
a  marriage  between  you  and  his  ion — and  becaufe  he  fup- 
pofes  that  in  time  you  will  love  the  young  man  fo  ar- 
dently-  

Amelia.  Does  he  fuppofe  that  ? 

Baron.  Yes.  But  it  appears  to  me  that  you  are  not 
of  the  fame  opinion  ? 

Amelia.    Not   entirely.     Still,  if  you  command,  dear 

father 

Baron.  The  devil  U— I  tell  you  that  one  mud  not  com- 
mand in  fuch  things  ; a  marriage  without  love  is  like 

flavery  in  the  galleys  ; — none  but  congenial  minds  {hould 
be  united — I  would  not  pair  a  nightingale  with  a  finch.  If 
you  like  each  other,  be  it  fo — if  not,  here  let  the  matter 
reft.  (More  calmly.)  Attend,  my  Amelia! — the  whole 
of  the  affair  is  this — can  you,  or  can  you  not,  love  this 
man?  If  you  cannot,  then  we  muft  fend  him  back  with 
a  refufal. 

Amelia.  Dear  father,  it  appears  to  me  that  I  never  fhall 
love  him.     I  have  read  fo  much  in  romances  about  love, 

how  ftrange  and  wonderful  ate  its  effects 

Baron.  Hey!  what!  Don't  prattle  to  me  of  your  ro- 
mances! they  are  the  devil,  indeed! — they  tell  you  a 
parcel  of  nonfenfe,  that  never  can  ftand  the  teft  of  expe- 
rience. But  ftop !—  I  will  put  a  few  queftions  to  you— 
anfwer  them  with  nnccrity,  Amelia — with  ftrict  fincerity. 

Amelia. 


22  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Amelia.  I  have  never  anfwered  you  otherwife. 

Baron.  Are  you  pleafed  when  you  hear  people  talk  of 
the  Count  ? 

Amelia.  Good  or  ill  ? 

Baron.     Good,  good  ? 

Amelia.  Oh,  yes.  I  am  always  pleafed  when  I  hear 
good  of  any  man. 

Baron.  But  are  you  not  elated  when  you  hear  him 
mentioned  ?  (She  Jhakes  her  head.)  Are  you  not  embar- 
rafied?  (She /hakes  her  head.)  Do  you  not  wifh  fome- 
times  that  he  mould  be  made  the  fubject  of  converfation, 
yet  have  not  courage  to  begin  talking  of  him  yourfelf  ? 
(She  Jhakes  her  head.)  Would  you  not  defend  him,  if 
you  mould  hear  him  calumniated  ? 

Amelia.  Oh,  certainly,  if  I  could.     Our  paflor 

Baron.  Pfhaw  !  Pfhaw  !  we  won't  talk  about  our  paftor 
at  prefent. — How  do  you  feel  when  you  fee  the  Count  ? 

Amelia.   Very  well. 

Baron.  Don't  you  feed  any  palpitation  as  he  approaches 
you  ? 

Amelia.  No.  (Hajlily  recolletting  herfelf.)  Yes,  I  did 
once. 

Baron.  Aha  ! — now  it's  coming  out. 

Amelia.  It  was  at  the  ball,  when  he  trod  on  my  foot. 

Baron.  Don't  be  foolifh,  Amelia  !- — Don't  you  cad 
down  your  eyes  when  he  addrefles  you  ? 

Amelia.  I  never  caft  my  eyes  down  before  any  body. 

Baron.  Do  you  not  play  with  your  apron  or  handker- 
chief, when  he  is  talking  to  you  ? 

Amelia.    No. 

Baron.  Does  not  your  face  glow  when  he  makes  you  a 
fine  fpeech,  referring  perhaps  to  love  or  marriage  ? 
1    Amelia.  Did  he  ever  fay  any  thing  of  that  kind  to  me  ? 
'Tis  more  than  I  recoiled!:. 

Baron.  Humph!    humph! (After  a  paufe.)    Have 

you    not  fometimes    yawned   while  he   was  talking  to 
you  ? 

Amelia.  No,  dear  father — that  is  not  polite. 

Baron.  But  were  you  ever  difpofed  to  yawn  ? 

Amelia.   Oh  yes,  dear  father. 

Baron.  So ! — then  there  is  little  hope. — Do  you  think 
him  handfome  ? 

Amelia.  I  don't  know. 

Baron. 


A    PLAY.  n 

Baron.  Do  not  you  know  what  beauty  is  ? — or  do  you 
not  know  whether  you  think  him  handfome  ? 
*    Amelia.  I  never  particularly  examined  him. 

Baron.  Bad  again. — How  did  you  feel  when  he  came 
yefterday  evening  ? 

Amelia.  I  was  vexed ; — for  at  the  very  time  the  fervant 
fo  unfeafonably  called  me,  I  was  walking  with  our  paftor 
on  the  little  romantic  hill. 

Baron.  Unfeafonably  ! — Humph  ! Well,  only  one 

more  queftion. — Have  you  not  undefignedly  drafted  your 
hair  this  morning  with  unufual  care,  and  fele<5ted  a  par- 
ticularly becoming  defhabille  ? 

Amelia,  (furveying  herfelf)  This  is  not  dirty  yet,  dear 
father ;  I  only  wore  it  yefterday  and  the  day  before. 

Baron,  (af.de)  Here  is,  indeed,  little profpect  of  fuccefs! 
Well,  my  dear  child,  the  Count,  then,  is  indifferent  to  vou  ? 
Amelia.  Why,  yes — unlefs  you  command — 
Baron,  (warmly)  Liften  to  me,  Amelia ! — If  you 
repeat  again  your  damned  command^  I  may  be  tempt- 
ed perhaps  to  command  indeed.  (More  mildly.)  To 
fee  you  happv,  my  child,  is  my  earner!:  wifh,  and  com- 
mands cannot  produce  happinefs.  iMarriage  is  a  very  in- 
harmonious duet,  if  the  tones  are  ill  alToned  ;  therefore 
the  great  Compofer  has  planted  in  our  hearts  the  pure 
harmony  of  love.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Amelia,  I  will  fend 
the  paftor  to  you. 

Amelia,   (joyfully)  The  paftor  \ 

Baron.    He    fhall   inftruct:    you    in  the  duties  of  the 
marriage  ftate ;  for  that  office  a  clergyman  is  better  qua- 
lified than  a  father. — Then  examine   yourfelf ;    and    if 
you   believe  that  the  Count  is  the  man  towards  whom 
your  heart  can  fulfil  thefe  duties,  in  God's  name  marry 
him. — Till  then   I  fay  no  more,     (calls)     Henry  !      (a 
fervant   enters)      Go  to  the  paftor,    and  defire   him,  if 
he   be  difengaged,   to  come  hither    for   a    quarter   of  an 
hour.     (The  fervant  is  going.) 
.Amelia.  And  tell  him,  I  wifh  him  a  good  morning. 
Baron,   (looking  at   his  watch)     My   young  gentleman 
takes  a  devilifh  time  for   dreffing,  methinks.       Come, 
Amelia,  pour  out  the  tea. 

(Amelia  fits  down  at  the  tea-table.) 
Baron.  What  fort  of  weather  have  we? — Have  you 
put  your  head  out  of  the  window  this  morning  Amelia  ? 

Amelia. 


24  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Amelia.  Oh,  I  was  in  the  garden  by  five  o'clock ;  it 
is  indeed  a  moit  charming  morning. 

Baron.  One  may  then  take  an  hour's  fhootingj  I 
know  not  what  elfe  to  do  with  my  gentleman — he 
fatigues  me  terribly.     Ha  !  here  he  comes  ! 

SCENE  V.     Enter  Count  von  der  mulde. 

Count.  Ah,  hon  jour  mon  colonel ! — Dear  young  lady, 
I  kifs  your  hand.     (Amelia  curtjies.) 

Baron.  Good  morrow  !  good  morrow  !  Why,  count, 
it  is  almoft  noon.  In  the  country  one  is  ufed  to  rife 
earlier. 

Count.  *Pardonnez,  mon  colonel  I — I  have  been  up 
ever  fince  fix  o'clock ;  but  my  homme  de  cbambre  has 
been  guilty  of  a  betife,  which  has  quite  driven  me  to 
defpair — a  lofs  which  pour  le  moment  cannot  be  repaired. 

Baron.  Aye  I  aye  !  1  am  forry  indeed  for  that.  (Amelia 
ejfers  htm  tea.) 

Count,  (taking  it)  I  am  your  moft  humble  flave!  Is 
it  Hebe  herfelf,  or  Venus  in  la  place  of  Hebe  ?  [Amelia 
looks  at  him  farcajlically.) 

Baron,  (rather  peevijhiy)  Neither  Venus,  nor  Hebe, 
but  Amelia  Wi'denhain  with  your  permiffion.  But 
may  I  be  informed  of  your  lofs  ? 

Count.  Oh,  my  God !  help  me  to  banifh  the  trifle 
remembrance,  I  am  envelope  in  a  maze  of  perplexities. 
I  am  afraid  I  muft  even  be  obliged  to  write  a  letter  upon 
the  occafion. 

Baron.  What  ?  Is  the  misfortune  really  fo  great  ? 

Count,  (fipping  his  tea)  'Tis  abfolute  nectar,  moft 
divine  young  lady!  but  could  it  be  otherwife  from  your 
fair  hands  ? 

Baron.  Indeed  this  nectar  was  fold  to  me  for  plain 
congou  tea. 

Amelia.  But,  my  good  count,  you  do  not  tell  us  what 
you  have  loft  ?  * 

Baron,  (ajide)  His  understanding ! — 

Count.  You  command — your  flave  obeys.  But  in 
doing  this  you  tear  open  wounds,  which  even  the  fight 

*  The  reader  fhould  underftand,  that  fine  gentlemen  in  Ger- 
many as  in  England,  afiect  to  introduce  phrafes  of  bad  French 
into  familiar  conversation.     T. 

of 


A    PLAY.  25 

©f  you  had  fcarcely  healed.  My  homme  de  chambre— 
the  vaut-rien  ! — Oh  the  man  is  a  mauvais  fujet.  As  he 
was  packing  up  my  things  the  day  before  yefterday,  I 
faid  to  him,  "  Henri  "  faid  I,  "  Yonder,  on  that  win- 
dow ftands  a  little  pot  of  pommade"  You  underftand 
me,  moft  charming  lady,  I  faid  to  him  mod  emphatically, 
M  forget  it  not  upon  any  confideration,  let  it  be  packed 
up."  I  rq?eated  it  three  times,  nay,  I  believe,  four 
times — "  You  know,  Henri"  I  faid,  "  that  I  am 
undone  without  this  po?nmade" — for  you  will  underftand, 
madam,  they  cannot  make  pornmadc  here  in  Germany, 
they  know  not  how  to  give  it  Fodeur — it  is  incomparable. 
I  can  allure  you,  madam,  it  comes  tout  droit  from  Paris, 
the  author  is  parfumeur  du  roi.  More  than  once,  when 
I  have  been  dejour  *  at  her  highnefs  the  princefs  Adelaide, 
me  has  afked,  where  I  could  get  mypommade, "  for  count," 
fhe  faid,  "  the  whole  chambre  is  par  fume  when  you 
are  with  me  dejour.  Now  only  imagine,  moft  charming- 
lady,  et  vous  mon  colonel,  the  fellow  totally  forgot  the 
pommade,  there  it  ftands  upon  the  window  full,  as  I  am 
a  true  cavalier. 

Amelia.   (f?7iiling)  Dreadful  indeed ! 

Baron.  Unlefs  the  mice  mould  have  feafted  upon  it. 

Count.  Et  voila  encore,  mon  colonel,  another  raifon  which 
drives  me  to  defperation.  Would  you  believe  it,  this 
fellow,  this  Henri,  has  been  thirty  years  in  our  fervice ! 
For  thirty  years  has  he  been  provided  in  our  family  with 
every  thing  for  which  a  man  of  his  extraclion  can  have  oc- 
cafion,  and  what  does  he  now  in  return  ?- — forgets  my 
pommade — leaves  it  {landing  on  the  window — as  i  am  a 
vrai  cavalier*.  O  del!  and  the  German  mice  will 
perhaps  gormandize  upon  the  moft  delicate  parfum  that 
all  France  can  produce.  But  it  was  impoffible  to  reftrain 
mon  indignation  ;  I  inftantly  difcharged  him. 

Baron,  (throwing  himfelf  back)  A  fervant  who  had 
lived  with  you  thirty  years  ! 

Count.  Oh  be  not  uneafy !  I  have  another  in  petto — an 
excellent  fervant  indeed!  he  drefles  hair  like  a  deity. 

Amelia.  And  poor  Henri  mult  be  turned  away  for  fuch 
a  trifle ! 

*  Dejour  fignifies  the  cuftom  which  prevailed  in  France,  of 
ladies  being  attended  by  gentlemen  at  their  toilets.     T. 

E  Count. 


,  s*6  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Count.  What  fay  you,  charming  lady  ?  a  Bagatelle? 
Amelia.  Deprive  a  poor  man  of  his  bread  ! 
Count.   My  God,  how  can  I  do  lefs  ?    Has  he  not 
deprived  me  of  my  pommade  f 

Amelia.  May  I  not  plead  for  him  ? 
Count.  Your  fentiments  tranfport  me  !  but  your  good- 
nefs  muft  not  be  abufe.  The  man  has  quantite  of  chil- 
dren, who  in  the  courfe  of  time,  when  they  are  arrived 
at  an  age  mur  will  be  able  to  maintain  their  blockhead  of 
a  father. 

Amelia.  And  has  he  a  family  too  ?  Oh,  I  entreat  you 
moft  earneftly,  count,  not  to  difcharge  him ! 

Count.  Vous  etes  aimable,  divine  creature  ! — tres  aim- 
able! — You  command,  your  flave  obeys.  Henri  fhall 
come  and  kifs  the  fkirt  of  your  garment. 

Baron,  (ajide,  rubbing  his  hands  impatiently)  No  !  that 
is  not  to  be  borne  !■ — away  with  the  coxcomb  !  {to  the 
count)  What  fay  you,  count,  to  taking  an  hour's  {hoot- 
ing before  dinner  ? 

Count,  (kijjing  the  ends  of  his  fingers)  Bravo  !  mon 
colonel !  a  charmant  thought  \  I  accept  the  party  with 
pleafure.  Madame,  you  will  then  have  a  fight  of  my 
elegant  fhooting-drefs.  You  will  find  it  in  the  very 
neweft  tafte.  I  had  it  made  up  on  purpofe  pour  cette 
occajion.  And  my  gun,  monfieur  le  colonel,  the  flock  is 
fet  with  mother-of-pearl,  you  never  faw  any  thing 
finifhed  with  fuperior  gout ;  my  arms  are  carved  upon 
it. 

Baron  (drily)  Can  you  fhoot  ? 

Count.  I  never  was  out  a  (hooting  but  once  in  my  life*, 
and  I  cannot  fay  then  that  I  had  the  fortune  to  attraper 
any  thing. 

Baron.  My  gun  is  but  an  old  and  dull  looking  one  to 
he  fure — but  it  brings  down  every  bird  at  which  'tis  aim'd. 

Enter  a  Servant..  The  paftor  attends^  fir. 

Baron.  Well  then,  haften,  count,  and  put  on  your 
elegant  fhooting-drefs,  I  will  be  with  you  quickly. 

Count.  I  fly.  My  deareft  lady,  it  is  unfacrifice  due  to 
your  father,  thus  to  tear  myfelfaway  for  a  while  from 
his  aimable  daughter.     (Exit.) 

Baron.    Hear  me,   Amelia  ! — It  is  fcarcely  neceflary 

that  I  mould  talk  with  the  paftor,  and  he  afterwards  talk 

with  you.     But  ftill,  as  he  is  here,  leave  us  together — 

5  I  have 


A    P  L  A  Y.  27 

X  have  other  matters  on  which  I  wifti  to  confer  with 
him. 

Amelia,  {going)  Dear  father,  I  do  not  think  I  ever 
fhall  love  the  count. 

Baron.  As  you  pleafe. 

Amelia  {meeting  the  paftor  with  a  complacent  fmile)  Good 
morrow!  good  morrow!  dear  fir.     {Exit.) 

SCENE  VI.     The  Baron,  the  Pastor. 

Paftor.  I  wait  your  lordfhip's  commands. 

Baron.  Excufe  me  if  I  have  fent  for  you  at  an  incon- 
venient time,  a  few  words  will  comprize  my  bufinefs — 
I  yefterday  received  a  miferable  tranflation  from  the 
French,  which  came  from  the  prefs  about  twenty  years 
ago.  I  myfelf  poflefs  a  very  elegant  German  original, 
of  which,  it  is  no  vanity  to  fay,  that  I  am  the  author. — 
Now  I  am  folicited  to  ftrike  my  name  out  of  the  original, 
and  bind  it  up  together  with  this  contemptible  tranflation 
— and  I  wifli  to  afk  you,  as  corre£tor  of  my  work,  your 
opinion  upon  the  fubje£t. 

Paftor.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  do  not  underftand  yo.ur 
allegory. 

Baron.  No  I 1  am  forry  for  that,  I  thought  I  had 

framed  it  fo  dexteroufly — but  in  fhort  then,  the  young 
Count  von  der  Mulde  is  here,  and  would  fain  marry 
my  daughter. 

Pa/lor.  (ftarts  but foon  recovers  himfelf)  Indeed! 

Baron.  He  is  a  gentleman  of  the  privy-chamber--- 
but  nothing  elfe  upon  God's  earth.  He  is — he  is — in 
fhort,  I  like  him  not. 

Paftor.  (rather  eagerly)  And  your  daughter  ? 

Baron,  (imitating  her)  As  you  command — if  you  com- 
mand— what  you  command — Well,  well,  but  I  think 
you  know  me  fufficiently  to  believe,  that  on  fuch  an  oc- 
cafion  I  would  not  lay  any  commands — yet,  if  the  man's 
head  were  not  fo  totally  empty,  and  his  heart  were  right, 
I  mould  have  no  objection ;  for  his  father  is  my  old 
friend,  and  the  match  in  other  refpedls  advantageous. 

Paftor.  In  other  refpedts,  my  Lord  ? — what  then  re- 
mains to  one,  whofe  head  and  heart  are  good  for  no- 
thing. 

E  2  Barovt 


28  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Baron.  I  only  mean  with  refpeft  to  rank  and  for- 
tune. My  friend,  I  will  explain  to  you  my  ideas  upon 
this  fubie&.  If  Amelia  loved  another,  I  fhould  not 
wafte  a  Tyllable  upon  the  fubject,  I  would  only  afk  who 
he  is  ? — is  all  right  here?  (pointing  to  his  heart).  If  the 
anfwers  were  fatisfactory,  in  God's  name  they  mould 
have  my  blefling.  But  Amelia  does  not  love  any  other 
man,  which  circumftance  alters  the  cafe  entirely. 

Paftor.  And  never  will  love  another. 

Baron.  Truly  that  is  a  different  queftion. — But  un- 
derftand me.  I  dp  not  mean  to  perfift  in  this,  I  would 
only  do  what  is  incumbent  on  me  not  to  offend  the  old 
Count  von  der  Mulde,  by  refufing  to  honour  the  bill  of 
exchange,  which  he  has  drawn  for  my  daughter ;  for  I 
have  already  received  the  value  in  friendihip  from  him  ; 
therefore  I  wifh  you  to  talk  with  my  child,  and  explain 
to  her  the  duties  of  the  marriage  ftate,  and  this  done,  afk 
her,  whether  flie  be  inclined  to  take  upon  herfelf  thofe 
duties  as  the  wife  of  the  young  Count :  if  {lie  anfwer  in 
the  negative,  'tis  enough — fhe  mail  be  urged  no  farther. 
What  think  you  of  this  ? 

Paftor.  I- — yes— certainly. — J  underftand  you  well— 
I  will  talk  with  the  young  lady. 

Baron.  Yes,  yes,  do  fo !  (he  fetches  a  deep  figh.)  Ah  ! 
one  weight  is  now  removed  from  my  mind,  but  another 
hangs  more  heavily  upon  it,  and  opprefles  it  more 
grievoufiy.  You  underftand  me — No  fuccefs  yet,  my 
friend?  ftill  no  intelligence? 

Paftor.  I  have  fought  it  with  all  diligence,  but  hi- 
therto in  vain. 

Baron.  Believe  me,  this  has  occafioned  me  many  a 
fleeplefs  night.  How  often  is  a  man  guilty  of  errors  in 
his  youth,  which  in  age  he  would  give  all  he  pof- 
fefTes,  could  they  be  obliterated.  How  does  he  thus  lay 
up  a  ftore  of  mifery  to  corrode  the  happinefs  of  his  fu- 
ture life,  fince  the  retrofpecr.  of  the  paft,  and  the  hopes 
and  profpec~f.s  of  the  future  are  infeparably  linked  toge- 
ther. Is  the  view  behind  us  darken'd  o'er  with  clouds, 
fo  furely  mufl  we  encounter  ftorms  as  we  proceed  on- 
wards in  our  courfe.  Well,  well,  we  will  hope  the 
beft.  Farewell,  my  friend,  I  am  going  a  mooting.  In 
the  mean  time  make  your  experiment,  and  remember  to 
{fjne  with  me.  [Exit^ 

Paftor. 


A    PLAY.  29 

Paftor.  (alone)  What  a  commiffion ! — to  me  ?  (looking 
anxiou/ly  around)  If  I  mould  meet  with  her  directly ! — , 
No,  I  muft  firft  colledT:  myfelf — prepare  myfelf  for  the 
interview — at  prefent  it  is  impoflible  to  encounter  it. — 
A  walk  in  the  fields,  and  a  devout  prayer  to  heaven — 
then  will  I  return — but  ah,  the  inJlruSior  alone  muft 
come  hither,  the  man  I  muft  leave  at  home.  [Exit. 


$ND  OF  THE  SECOND  ACT. 


ACT 


3«  THE  NATURAL  SON; 


ACT     III. 


SCENE  I.     An  open  Country, 

Enter  Frederick  alone,  holding  fame  Pieces  of  Money 
in  the  Palm  of  his  Hand. 

RETURN  with  thefe  few  pieces? — Return  to  fee 
my  mother  die  ? — No,  no,  rather  plunge  into  the 
water  at  once — rather  run  on  to  the  end  of  the  world. 
Ah,  my  feet  feem  clogged — I  cannot  advance — I  can- 
not recede — the  fight  of  yonder  ftraw-roofed  cottage, 
where  refts  my  fuffering  mother ! — why  muft  I  always 
turn  my  eyes  that  way  ? — am  I  not  furrounded  by  ver- 
dant fields  and  fmiling  meadows  ?  why  muft  my  looks 
be  ftill  drawn  irrefiftibly  towards  that  cot  which  contains 
all  my  joys,  all  my  forrows !  (looks  with  anguijh  at  the 
money)  Man !  man !  is  this  your  bounty  ?  this  piece 
was  given  me  by  the  rider  of  a  ftately  horfe  followed  by 
a  fervant,  whole  livery  glittered  with  filver; — this,  by 
a  fentimental  lady  who  had  alighted  from  her  carriage  to 
gaze  at  the  country,  defcribe  it,  and  print  her  defcrip- 
tion.  "  Yon  cottage,"  faid  I  to  her,  while  my  tears  in- 
terrupted me — "  It  is  very  pi&urefque"  {he  anfwered, 
and  fkipped  into  her  carriage.  This  was  given  me  by 
a  fat  prieft,  enveloped  in  a  large  bufliy  wig,  who,  at  the 
fame  time,  reviled  me  as  an  ialer,  a  vagabond,  and  thus 
took  away  the  merit  of  his  gift.  This  Dreyer  (ex- 
tremely affeSted)  a  beggar  gave  me  unafked  j — he  fhared 
with  me  his  mite,  and,  at  the  fame  time,  gave  me  God's 
bleffing.  Oh!  at  the  awful  day  of  retribution,  how  many 
fold  will  this  dreyer  be  repaid  by  the  all-righteous  Judge  ! 
(He  paufes  and  looks  again  at  the  money)  what  can  I 
purchafe  with  this  paltry  fum  ?  Hardly  will  it  pay  for  the 
nails  of  my  poor   mother's  CQifin.~4carcely  buy  a  rope 

to 


A    PLAY.  31 

to  hang  myfelf !  (He  cajls  a  wijbful  look  towards  the  dif- 
tant  country)  There  infultingly  rife  the  ftately  towers 
of  the  prince's  refidence  ; — fhall  I  go  thither  ?  there  im- 
plore pity  ? — Oh  no !  flie  dwells  not  in  cities — the  cot- 
tage of  the  poor  is  her  palace— -the  heart  of  the  poor  her 
Temple.  Well  then,  mould  a  recruiting  officer  pafs  by, 
for  five  rix-dollars  paid  on  the  fpot,  he  fhall  have  a  flout 
and  vigorous  recruit.  Five  rix-dollars  !  Oh  what  a  fum ! 
yet  on  how  many  a  card  may  fuch  a  fum  be  flaked,  even 
at  this  moment !  (wipes  the  fweat  from  his  forehead)  Fa- 
ther !  Father !  on  thee  fall  thefe  drops  of  anguifh  ! — on 
thee  the  defpair  of  a  fellow  creature,  and  all  its  dreadful 
confequences ! — yet  God  forbid  that  thou  fhouldft  languifh 
in  vain  for  pardon  in  another  world,  as  my  wretched  mo- 
ther languimes  in  this  for  a  drop  of  wine,  (a  hunting 
horn  is  heard  at  a  dijlance, — a  gun  is  fired, — -fucceeded  by 
the  "  Halloo,  Halloo"  to  the  hounds  ;  feveral  dogs  run 
ever  the  ft  age,  Frederick  looks  around)  Hunters  !  Noble- 
men probably!  Well  then,  now  to  beg  once  more! — to 
beg  for  my  mother ! — Oh  God !  God !  grant  that  I  may 
meet  with  companionate  hearts ! 

SCENE  II.     Enter  the  Baron  and  the  Count. 

Baron.  (Waiting  a  few  moments  for  the  Count  who  fol- 
lows him  out  of  breath)  Quick,  quick,  Count ! — Ha, 
ha ! — that  was  a  curfed  blunder  indeed — the  hounds  have 
loft  the  fcent  now  and  won't  recover  it  again. 

Count,  (panting  for  breath)  Tant  mieux,  tant  mieux  f 
man  colonel ! — then  one  may  take  a  little  breath,  {fup- 
ports  himfelf  on  his  gun.  The  Baron  retires  into  the  back 
ground  and  looks  after  the  hounds  ; — Frederick  advances 
with  hefitatibn  to  the  Count. ) 

Fred.  Noble  Sir!  I  entreat  alms  of  you! 

Count,  {eyeing  him  from  head  to  foot)  Comment  mon  ami? 
—you  are  a  damned  impertinent  fellow,  you  have  limbs 
like  Hercule, — your  moulders  are  equal  to  the  Cretan 
Milo's  j — I'll  lay  a  wager  you  have  ftrength  enough  to 
carry  an  Ox. 

Fred.  If  your  Iordfhip  would  permit  me  to  make  the 
experiment. 

Count.  Our  police  is  not  careful  enough  of  idlers  and 
vagabonds. 

Fred, 


32  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Fred,  [with  a  Jignificant  look)  So  it  appears  to  me ! 
[turns  to  the  Baron  who  comes  forward)  Noble  Sir,  have 
compaffion  on  a  wretched  fori  who  begs  for  a  fick  mo- 
ther ! 

Baron,  (puts  his  hand  into  his  pocket  and  gives  him  a 
irijie)  It  would  be  more  proper,  young  man,  to  work  for 
your  fick  mother. 

Fred.  Willingly,  willingly,  would  I  work  for  her, 
but  at  thi»  moment  the  neceflity  is  too  urgent — Pardon 
me,  noble  Sir,  but  what  you  have  given  me  is  not 
iufficient  ? 

Baron,  (furprized  and  miling)  Not  fufKcient  ? 

Fred.  By  God  it  is  not ! 

Baron.  This  is  fingular !    however,  I  fhall  give  n« 
more. 
Fred.  If  you  have  any  humanity  give  me  a  florin. 

Baron.  This  is  the  firft  time  that  I  ever  heard  a  beg- 
gar prefcribe  what  I  mould  give  him. 

Fred.  Oh,  for  heaven^s  fake,  noble  Sir,  give  me  a  florin  ! 
you  will  refcue  a  fellow-creature  from  deipair ! 

Baron.  You  are  befide  yourfelf,  my  friend. — Come 
along  Count. 

Count.  Allons,  mon  Colonel! 

Fred.  For  the  love  of  God,  my  Lord,  give  a  florin  ! 
You  will  fave  the  lives  of  two  unhappy  wretches  !  (as  he 
fees  the  Baron  moving  ojf  he  kneels  to  him)  a  florin,  noble 
Sir !  you  can  never  purchafe  the  falvation  of  a  man  at  a 
cheaper  rate.  (The  Baron  moves  onward^  Frederick  rujhcs 
wildly  with  his  drawn  fword  upon  the  Barony  and  feizes 
him  by  the  collar.)  Your  money  or  your  life. 

Baron,  (agitated)  How!  what!  halloo!  help!  help! 
thieves  !  (feveral  huntfmen  rujh  in  and  difarm  Frederick— 
the  Count  running  off.) 

Fred.  Oh  God  !  what  have  I  done ! 

Baron.  Bear  him  away !  take  heed  of  him  !  confine 
him  in  the  tower! — I  fhall  follow  immediately. 

Fred,  (kneeling)  Only  grant  me  one  petition  my  Lord  \ 
I  have  forfeited  my  life,  do  with  me  what  you  will,  but 
oh  aflift,  I  entreat  you  aflift,  my  poor  mother !  fhe 
languifhes  for  want  in  yonder  cottage — fend  thither  and 
learn  the  truth  !  'twas  for  my  mother  I  drew  my  fword, 
for  her  would  I  fhed  every  drop  of  my  blood. 

Baron. 


A    PLAY.  33 

Baron.  Away  with  him  to  the  tower  !  keep  him  on 
bread  and  water. 

Fred,  (as  he  is  borne  off  by  the  buntfmen)  Accurfed  be 
my  father  that  he  ever  gave  me  exiftence  !  [Exeunt. 

Baron,  (to  another  huntfman))  Francis — haften  to  the 
village — If  in  the  firft,  the  fecond,  or  the  third  houfe, 
you  find  a  poor  fick  woman,  give  her  this  purfe. 

Huntfrn.   Very  well,  my  Lord.  [Exit. 

Baron.  Upon  my  foul  this  is  a  raoft  extraordinary  ad- 
venture !  there  is  fomething  noble  in  the  young  fellow's 

countenance mould  it  prove  true  that  he  begged  for 

his  mother — for  his  mother's  fake  robbed  upon  the  high- 
way ! — Well,  well,  we  muft  investigate  the  matter — this 
would  indeed  be  a  fubjecT:  for  one  of  Meiffner's  (ketches. 

[Exit. 

SCENE  III.     A  Room  in  the  Baron's  Caftle. 

Amelia,  (alone)  Why  am  I  thus  reftlefs  ?  What  can 
be  the  matter  with  me  ? — I  did  not  mean  to  come  into 
this  room — I  meant  to  go  into  the  garden.  (Jhe  is 
goings  but  immediately  returns.)  No,  I  will  not  go- 
Yes,  but  I  think  I  will — I  will  fee  whether  my 
auriculas  are  yet  in  flower,  or  whether  the  apple- 
kernels  which  our  paftor  lately  fowed  are  come  up. — 
— Oh,  they  muft  be  come  up!  [returning  again)  "Then 
if  any  body  mould  come  to  fpeak  with  me,  I  fhall  not 
be  in  the  way,  but  muft  be  called  and  fought  for. — No, 
better  remain,  here — yet  the  time  will  feem  very  tedi- 
ous, (Jhe  pulls  a  nofegay  to  pieces)  Hark  !  did  I  not  hear 
the  houfe-door  open  ?  No,  it  was  only  the  wind — r 
will  look  at  my  canary-birds.  But  fuppofe  any  body 
fhould  come,  and  not  find  me  in  the  vifiting  room  ?  Yet 
who  is  likely  to  come?  What  makes  my  cheeks  burn 
thus.  (She  paufcs  and  begins  to  weep)  What  have  I  to 
complain  of?  (fobbing)  why  then  fhould  I  weep? 

SCENE  IV.  Enter  the  Pastor. 

Amelia,  [cheers  up  and  wipes  her  eyes)  Ah  !  good 
morning,  dear  Tutor  ! — Paftor  1  would  fay — but  you 
will  pardon  me,  I  have  been  fo  accuftomed  to  call  you 
Tutor. 

F  Paftor. 


34  THE  NATURAL  SON  ;  '   , 

Pajior.  Call  me  fo  ftill,  dear  madam,  I  (hall  always 
hear  it  with  pleafure  from  your  mouth. 

Amelia.  Indeed ! 

Pajior.  Yes,  indeed ! — Am  I  miftaken  ?  or  have  you 
not  been  weeping  ? 

Amelia.  Oh,  'tis  nothing — a  few  tears  only. 

Pajior.  Yet  they  are  tears — may  one  afk  what  can 
have  called  them  forth  ? 

Amelia.  I  know  not. 

Pajior.  Perhaps  thinking  of  your  deceafed  mother  ? 

Amelia.  I  might  fay  yes — but 

Pajior.  A  fecret,  perhaps — I  would  not  be  intrufive. 
— Pardon  me,  madam,  that  I  come  hither  at  fo  unufual 
an  hour — I  am  commiflioned  by  your  Father. 

Amelia.,  You  are  welcome  to  me  at  all  times. 

Pajior,    Indeed !  am  I  really  fo  ? — Oh,  Amelia 

Amelia.  My  father  teaches  me,  that  he  who  forms 
the  heart  and  mind,  is  more  one's  benefactor,  than  he 
who  merely  gives  one  life  (cajling  dozvn  her  eyes)  my 
father  fays  fo,  and  my  heart  feels  it. 

Pajior.  How  fweetly  does  this  moment  repay  me  for 
eight  years  exertion. 

Amelia.  1  was  a  wild  girl — often  have  I  feverely  tried 
your  patience — it  is  no  more  than  juft  that  I  mould  love 
you  in  return. 

Pajior.  (ajide)  Oh  God!  (in  a  faultering,  hefitating 
manner)  I — I — come  from  my  Lord,  your  father-— with 
a  commiffion — will  you  fit  down  ? 

Amelia,  (fetches  him  a  chair  hajlily)  Sit  down  yourfelf 
— I  had  rather  ftand. 

Pajior.  (pujhing  back  the  chair)  Count  von  der  Mulde 
— is  come  hither — 

Amelia.    Yes. 

Pajior.    Do  you  know  with  what  intention  ? 

Amelia.  To  marry  me. 

Pajior.  That  is  indeed  his  wifh  (very  earncjily)  But, 
believe  me,  madam,  your  father  would  on  no  account 
conftrain  you — no,  he  would  by  no  means  ufe  compulfion. 

Amelia.  Ah,  I  know  that  well 

Pa/tor.  But  he  wifhes — he  defires  to  afcertain  your 
inclination — I  come  to  confult  your  inclination 

Amelia.  Towards  the  Count  r 

Pa/tor. 


A    P  L  A  Y.  35 

Pa/tor.  Yes — no — rather  on  the  fubjecl:  of  matrimo- 
ny in  general. 

Amelia.  What  I  am  ignorant  of,  muff  be  indifferent 
to  me — I  know  nothing-  of  the  marriage  ftate. 

Pa/tor.  For  that  very  reafon  I  wait  upon  you,  ma- 
dam, it  is  the  fubjedr.  of  my  commiflion  from  your  fa- 
ther. He  wifhes  me  to  lay  before  you  the  agreeable  and 
difagreeable  fides  of  fuch  a  condition. 

Amelia.  Begin  then  with  the  difagreeable,  the  beft 
fhall  be  referved  to  the  laft. 

Pa/tor.  With  the  difagreeable  ? — Oh,  madam,  when 
two  affectionate  congenial  hearts  unite;  the  marriage 
ftate  has  then  no  difagreeable  fide.  Hand  in  hand  the 
happy  pair  journey  through  life.  Where  they  find  their 
path  occafionally  ftrewed  o'er  with  thorns,  diligently 
and  cheerfully  they  clear  their  way.  If  a  ftream  crofs 
their  fteps,  the  ftronger  bears  the  weaker  over :  or  if  a 
rock  is  to  be  climbed,  the  ftronger  takes  the  weaker  by 
the  hand  : — patience  and  love  are  their  companions. 
What  would  be  impracticable  to  one,  to  their  united  ef- 
forts proves  but  fport and  when  they  have  reached 

the  fummit,  the  weaker  wipes  the  fweat  from  the  brows 
of  her  more  vigorous  partner.  Their  joys  their  pains 
are  never  divided  guefts,  nor  can  one  ever  experience 
a  pang  of  forrow  while  tranfport  warms  the  bofom  of 
the  other.  A  fmile  illumines  the  countenance  of  both  j 
or  tears  diftil  from  both  their  eyes.  But  their  raptures  are 
more  lively  and  exftatic  than  fingle  unparticipated  joy; 
their  forrow  lefs  corroding  than  folitary  woe :  for  par- 
ticipation enhances  the  one,  and  alleviates  the  other. 
Thus  their  whole  life  refembles  a  beautiful  fummer's 
day ;  beautiful,  eyen  though  a  tranfient  fhower  may  in- 
tervene : — for  fhowers  rerrefh  the  face  of  nature,  anci 
the  fun  appears  with  added  luftre  when  it  breaks  out  anew. 
And  when  the  evening  of  their  day  draws  on,  it  finds 
them  furrounded  with  flowers,  which  they  themfelves 
hv        planted  and  reared,  patiently  awaiting  the  approach 

of  night.    Then,  then,  indeed for  night  will  come 

the  one  takes  the  lead  and  firft  lies  down  to  fleep, 

and  happy   that  one,  to  whofe  lot  it  falls : the  fur- 

vivor  wanders  in  melancholy  folitude  weeping  at  not 

being  allowed  to  fleep  alfo. And  this  is  the  only  dif* 

agreeable  feature  of  fuch  a  marriage. 

F  2  Amelia. 


36  THE  NATURAL  SON ; 

Amelia.    Oh,  I  will  marry  ! 

Paftor.  Right,  madam,  this  picture  is  alluring,  but 
recoiled:  that  'tis  a  picture  for  which  two  affectionate, 
congenial  hearts  fat  as  the  models.  But  if  motives  of 
mere  convenience  (what  the  world  generally  terms  pru- 
dence) if  parental  authority,  rafhnefs  or  caprice,  tie  the 
bonds  of  hymen,  then,  alas  !  the  ftate  of  matrimony 
has  no  agreeable  fide.  No  longer  free  and  unfhackled 
man  and  woman  walk  with  light  and  airy  fteps,  but  vic- 
tims of  a  late  repentance  drag  along  their  galling  chains. 
Satiety  is  depicted  on  each  brow.  Images  of  loft  hap- 
pirfefs,  painted  in  ftronger  colours  by  imagination's  de- 
lufive  hand,  and  more  tempting  in  proportion  as  they 
are  unattainable. — Sanguine  and  romantic  hopes,  which 
haply  might  never  have  been  realized  if  this  marriage 
had  not  taken  place,  but  the  practicability  of  which  the 
mind  holds  certain,  if  the  parties  were  not  fettered 
by  wedlock.  Thefe  ideas  inceflantly  harafs  the  foul, 
and  condemn  them  to  actual  fuffering,  where  otherwife 
patience  Only  would  have  been  called  into  exertion. 
Gradually  they  accuftom  themfelves  to  contemplate  their 
irkfome  companion  as  the  hateful  caufe  of  all  the  evils 
which  befal  them.  Gall  infufes  itfelf  into  their  converfa- 
tion,  coldnefs  into  their  carefTes.  To  none  are  they  more 
captious,  from  none  more  apt  to  take  offence,  than  from  their 
wedded  partner  :  and  what  would  yield  them  delight  in  a 
itranger  is  viewed  with  apathy  in  the  perfon  of  their  neareft 
connection.  In  this  manner,  with  averted  face  and  down-, 
caft  eyes,  the  haplefs  pair  drag  on  through  life,  till  at  length 

one  lies  down  to  fleep  : then  exultingly  the  furvivor 

lifts  the  head  and  triumphantly  exclaims,  u  Liberty  ! 
Liberty  !" — And  this  forms  the  only  pleafmg  feature  in 
fuch  a  marriage. 

Amelia.  I  will  not  marry  ! 

Paftor.  That  is  in  other  words  to  fay  I  will  not  love. 

Amelia.  Ha  ! — yes — I  will  marry — for  I  will  love^— I 
love  already. 

Paftor.  [extremely  confufed)  Indeed  !- — You  love  the 
Count  von  der  Mulde  ? 

Amelia.  Oh  no !  no  ! — away  With  the  fool  (taking 
both  his  hands  with  the  moft  cordial  familiarity)  I  love 
you. 

Paftor.  Madam,  for  God's  fake  ! 

Amelia. 


A    PLAY.  37 

Amelia.  And  you  will  I  marry. 

P after.  Me ! 

Amelia .  Yes,  you,  dear  tutor. 

Paftor.  Amelia! — you  forget 

Amelia.  What  do  I  forget  ? 

Paftor.  That  you  are  of  noble  extraction* 

Amelia.  What  fignifies  that  ? 

Pajlor.   Oh,  Heavens! — No,  that  cannot  be. 

Amelia.  If  you  have  an  affection  for  me  ? 

Pajlor.  I  love  you  as  my  life. 

Amelia.  Well,  then,  marry  me. 

Pajlor.  Oh,  fpare  me,  Amelia ! — I  am  a  minifter  of 
religion,  'tis  true — that  gives  me  much  fortitude — but 
ftill  I  am  a  man. 

Amelia.  You  have  yourfelf  exhibited  to  me  fo  alluring 
a  picture  of  the  marriage  ftate! — But  I  am  not,  then,  the 
woman  with  whom  you  could  go  hand  in  hand,  with 
whom  you  could  fhare  all  your  joys,  all  your  forrows  ? 

Pajlor.  Were  it  in  my  choice,  you  only  fhould  be  the 
perfon.  Did  we  live  in  the  golden  days  of  which  poets 
dream,  when  all  ranks  were  equal,  I  would  have  you 
alone.  But  'tis  not  for  us  to  alter  the  cuftoms  of  the 
world  j  and  as  the  world  is  now  conftituted,  you  muft 

marry  a  man  of  rank. Whether  you  would    be  happy 

or  not  with  the  humble  paftor,  is   not   the  queftion. 

Oh,  God  !  I  have  already  faid  too  much ! 

Amelia.  Others,  perhaps,  may  not  make  that  a  quef- 
tion, but  it  muft  be  one  with  me. — Have  you  not  often 
told  me  that  the  heart  alone  ennobles  us.  (She  places  her 
hand  upon  his  heart)  Oh,  truly,  I  fhall  marry  a  noble- 
man. 

Paftor.  Madam  !  let  me  entreat  you  to  call  in  reafon 
to  your  aid. — A  thoufand  objections  lie  againft  fuch  an 
union — but,  at  this  moment,  Heaven  knows,  not  one 
occurs  to  me. 

Amelia.  Becaufe  in  truth  there  are  none. 

Pa/lor.  Yet,  yet — but  my  heart  is  fo  full — my  heart 
would  plead — but  that  it  ihall  not,  muft  not.  Think 
only  of  the  fneers  of  your  relations — how  they  will 
fhun  you,  afhamed  of  the  new  connection  you  have 
brought  among  them — on  thofe  folemn  days  when  all 
the  family  mould  be  collected  together,  omitting  to 
invite  you?  ftiaking  their  heads  when  your  name  is  men- 
tioned, 


38  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

tioned,  whifpering  your  ftory,  forbidding  their  children 
to  play  with  yours,  or  even  to  accoft  them  with  fami- 
liarity  embroidering  their  arms    upon    their    liveries, 

painting  them  upon  their  carriages,  while  you  muft  ride 
in  one  humble  and  unornamented — fcarcely  recollecting 
you,  fliould  they  meet  you  at  a  third  place — or,  if  they 
ihould  condefcend  to  favour  you  with  a  word,  addreffing 
you  not  as  a  lady  of  rank,  but  with  fcornful  counte- 
nances, as  the  parfon's  wife. 

Amelia.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !     Is  that  fo  very  terrible  ? 

Pajlor.  You  laugh  ? 

Amelia.  Yes ;  you  muft  pardon  me,  dear  tutor.  For 
eight  years  was  I  under  your  inftruction,  but  in  all  that 
time  never  were  any  of  your  precepts  advanced  upon 
iuch  fhallow  reafonings  as  thofe  you  have  now  uttered. 

Pajlor.  I  am  forry  for  that — extremely  forry,  indeed  ! 
for-^ 

Amelia.  It  rejoices  me  extremely — for 

Pajlor.  (much  embarrajfed)  For 

Amelia.  For — you  muft  marry  me. 

Pa/tor.  Never  ! 

Amelia.  You  know  me  well — you  know  that  I  am  not 
untraceable,  and  from  a  conftant  intercourfe  with  you, 
I  fhall  daily  improve.  I  will  take  all  poffible  pains  to 
make  you  happy — or  rather,  it  fhall  coft  me  no  pains  to 
make  you  fo.  Together  we  will  live,  happy,  truly 
happy  in  each  other,  till  one  of  us  lie  down  to  fleep,  and 
then  the  other  fhall  weep,  indeed ;  but  that  time  be 
yet  far  diftant.  Well,  then,  confent,  elfe  fhall  I  think 
you  have  no  regard  for  me. 

Pa/tor.  Oh !  it  is  glorious  to  maintain  the  chara&er 
of  a  man  of  honour  ;  but  the  talk  is  often  hard.     Madam, 

did  you  but  know  how  much  you  torture  me ! No, 

no,  this  muft  not,  cannot  be  !  I  fhould  fink  into  the 
earth  at  the  moment,  were  I  to  attempt  to  make  fuch  a 
propofal  to  your  father. 

Amelia.   I  will  make  it  myfelf. 

Pa/tor.  For  Heaven's  fake,  forbear!  To  his  liberality 
I  owe  my  prefent  comfortable  fituation — to  his  friendship 
the  happieft  hours  of  my   life — and  fhall   I,  ungrateful 

wretch  !    miflead   his  daughter,  his   only  child  ! Oh, 

God  !  Oh,  God  !  thou  feeft  the  purity  of  my  intentions  ! 
fupport  me  in  this  conflict ! 

Amelia. 


A    PLAY.  39 

Amelia.  My  father  wifhes  me  to  marry — he  wifhes  to 
fee  me  happy.  Well  then,  I  will  marry.  I  will  be 
happy — but  with  you  only.  Thus  will  I  tell  my  father, 
and  what  will  be  his  anfwer. — At  the  firft  moment  he  will 
ftart,  and  fay,  "  Girl,  art  thou  mad  !"  but  foon  he  will 
recollect  himfelf,  and,  fmiling,  add,  "  Well,  well,  in 
God's  name  be  it  fo."  Then  will  I  kifs  his  hand,  fkip 
away  from  him,  and  fly  into  your  arms.  It  fhall  be  told 
about  that  I  am  betrothed  ;  the  country  people,  with  their 
wives,  from  the  whole  village,  will  come  and  wifh  me 
joy,  and  afk  God's  blefling  upon  us  both — and  God  will 

blefs  us. — Certainly,  certainly,  he  will  blefs  us. Ah ! 

ever  fince  my  father  returned  hither,  I  have  not  known 
what  it  was  fo  opprefled  my  heart,  but  I  know  it  now — 
k  is  now  lightened,   (taking  his  hand.) 

Paftor.  [withdrawing  his  hand.)  Oh!  you  have  al- 
moft  deprived  me  of  my  fenfes — and  of  more,  of  my 
peace  of  mind. 

Amelia.  No,  no. — But  I  hear  fome  one  on  the  flairs — 
I  have  yet  many  things  to  fay  to  you. 

SCENE    V.      Enter  Christian  the  Butler ■,    an  old 
Servant  in  the  Houfe. 

Amelia,  (peevijhly.)  Ah!   is  it  you? 

Chrift.  Without  vanity  be  it  fpoken,  Chriftian  Le- 
brecht  Goldmann  has  purfued  his  way  hither  the  moment 
the  happy  news  reached  his  ears. 

Amelia,  (embarrajfed)  What  news  ? 

Paftor.  (confufed)  He  has  overheard  us  ! 

Chrift.  A  faithful,  old  fervant,  young  lady,  who  has 
often  carried  the  lady  vour  mother  in  his  arms,  and, 
without  vanity  be  it  fpoken,  has  received  from  her  many 
a  box  on  the  ear,  hath,  on  this  joyful  day,  flown  hither 

to  prefent  his  humble  gratulations. Sing,  Oh,  Mufe  \ 

on  the  happy  occafion — ftrike  up  thy  notes,  Oh  Lyre  ! 

Amelia.  My  good  Chriftian,  I  have  no  inclination  at 
prefent  to  attend  to  your  mufe  or  to  your  lyre.  And 
what  is  the  matter  now  ? 

Chrift.  Ah  !   my  noble,  blefled  young  lady — 
To-day  I  cannot  filent  be, 
But  hither  muft  command  to  flee 

Trumpet, 


40  THE  NATURAL  SON  5 

Trumpet,  violin,  and  drum, 
As  faft  as  ever  they  can  come ; 
And  bid  my  verfes  foftly  flow, 
As  waters  through  the  meadows  go. 
Hitherto  has  no  birth-day,  or  wedding-day,  or  chriften- 
ing-day,  or  their  anniverfaries,  been  folemnized  in  the 
moft  noble  Baron's  family,  which  has  not  been  celebrated 
by  an  offering  from  my  ever-ready   and  obedient  mufe. 
In  the  courfe  of  fix-and- forty  years,  no  lefs  than  three 
hundred  ninety  and   feven  congratulatory  efFufions  have 
flowed  from  my  pen.     To-day,  the  three  hundred  ninety 
and  eighth  {hall  echo  around.  Who  knows  how  foon  a  fo- 
lemn  marriage  affiance  in  Chrift  may  furnifti  an  opportu- 
nity for  a  three  hundred  ninety  and  ninth  ! and  then, 

ha  !  ha  !  ha ! — in  another  year  will  come  the  four  hun- 
dredth. 

Amelia.  To-day  is  Friday — that  is  the  only  thing  re- 
markable in  it,  that  I  can  recollect. 

Chrift.  Yes,  indeed,  it  is  Friday;  but  more — in  the 
firft  place,  Heaven  has  been  pleafed  to  refcue  our  noble 
lord  the  Baron  from  an  imminent  danger — and  in  the  fe- 
cond  place,  it  is  therefore  a  day  of  rejoicing. 

Amelia.  Refcued  my  father  from  danger  ! — What  do 
you  mean  ? 

Chrift.  This  very  moment  has  the  huntfman  Frank 
arrived  in  hafte,  and  advertifed  the  congregated  houfe- 
hold  of  his  lordfhip  of  apiece  of  villainy,  which  the  lateft 
pofterity,  without  vanity  be  it  fpoken,  never  {hall  read 
without  the  ftrorfgeft  emotions  of  horror. 

Amelia,  (anxioujly)  Oh !  tell  it  me  quickly. 

Chrift.  Our  moft  noble  Baron,  and  the  foreign  Count 
of  the  Holy  Roman  Empire,  had  fcarcely 

One  half  hour  trodden  the  unbeaten  way, 
To  feek  the  nimble-footed  hare  to  flay. 

Amelia.  For  heavens  fake  tell  it  me  in  profe ! 

Chrift.  My  Lord  Baron  had  already  fhot  one  hare — 
for  I  myfelf  have  had  the  honour  of  feeing  it  j  the  left 
fore  foot  was  quite  torn  to  pieces. 

Amelia,  {impatiently)  Well,  well,  but  my  father!   ■ 

Chrift.    A   fecond  hare   was  already  ftarted,  and  the 

hounds  purfued  her  with  due  activity,  particularly  Spa- 

dillio,    he  more  than  any  other    diftinguiftied    himfelf, 

when  fuddenly  his  honourable  Lordftiip  was  met  in  the 

5  midft 


A    PLAY.  41 

midft  of  the  field  by  a  foldier  who  demanded  alms. 
Frank,  the  huntfman  himfelf,  faw  how  the  molt  noble 
Baron  with  inexpreflible  kindnefs  felt  in  his  pocket, 
drew  out  a  piece  of  money,  and  gave  it  to  the  beggar. 
But  the  ungrateful,  audacious,  high-way  robber,  fud- 
denly  drew  hisfword,  fell,  without  vanity  be  it  fpoken, 
like  a  mad  dog  upon  his  honourable  Lordfnip,  and  had 
not  our  active  huntfmen  haftened  in  a  moment  to  his 
afiiftance,  I,  poor  old  man,  mould  have-  been  under  the 
mournful  neceffity  of  compofing  a  funeral  elegy,  and  an 
epitaph  in  commemoration  of  his  melancholy  exit. 

Amelia,  [terrified)  My  God  ! 

Pa/tor.  A  highway-robber  !— in  broad  day-light ! — 
that  is  extraordinary ! 

Cbrift.  I  muft  form  it  into  a  ballad  after  the  manner  of 
Burger. 

Paftor.  Is  not  the  man  taken  up  ? 

Chrift.  Yes,  indeed  he  is.  The  moft  noble  Baron 
has  commanded,  that  till  further  orcers,  he  be  confined 
in  the  old  Tower.  Frank  fays  he  will  be  here  imme- 
diately :  (he  fteps  to  the  window)  I  believe,  indeed — the 
fun  blinds  me  a  little — they  are  coming  already — Sing 
Oh  mufe,  ftrike  up  thy  notes  Oh  lyre!  (he  runs  out>  the 
others  go  to  the  window). 

Amelia.  Never  in  my  life  did  I  fee  a  highway  robber  ! 
—he  muft  doubtlefs  have  a  terrifying  phyfiognomy. 

Paftor.  Did  you  never  fee  the  Female  Parricide  in 
Lavater's  Fragments  ? 

Amelia.  A  female  Parricide  ! — Can  fuch  a  monfter 
exift  in  the  world  ? — But  look — the  young  foldier  ap- 
proaches— an  interefting  figure  indeed  ! — a  noble  coun- 
tenance ! — yet  it  is  full  of  farrow  ! — the  poor  man  ex- 
cites my  compaflion. — No,  no ;  he  cannot  be  a  highway 
robber! — Oh,  fye,  fye!  fee  how  the  huntfmen  thruft 
him  into  the  Tower !  hard-hearted  wretches  ! — now 
they  lock  the  door — and  now  he  is  in  total  darknefs — 
what  muft  be  the  feelings  of  the  unhappy  creature  ! 

Paftor.  (aftde)  They  can  fcarcely  be  more  poignant 
than  mine. 


G  SCENE 


4-2  THE  NATURAL  SON  j 

SCENE  VI.     Enter  the  Baron. 

Amelia,  [running  up  to  him)  A  thoufand  congratula- 
tions to  you,  dear  father  ! 

Baron.  For  God's  fake  fpare  me ! — Old  Chriftian  has 
been  pouring  out  his  congratulations  in  Alexandrines 
all  the  way  up  ftairs. 

Paftor.  The  ftory  then  is  true  ? — indeed,  as  related 
by  the  talkative  old  Butler,  it  appeared  wholly  in- 
credible. 

Amelia.  The  young  man  with  the  interefting  counte- 
nance was,  indeed,  a  highway  robber  ? 

Baron.  'Tis  true  ;  yet  am  I  almoft  convinced  that  he 
was  fo  for  the  firft  and  laft  time  in  his  life.     My  friend, 

{to  the  paftor)   it  was   a  moft  lingular  accident. He 

begged  of  me  for  his  mother. — I  gave  him  a  trifle — 
I  might,  perhaps,  have  given  him  more,  but  the  hares 
were  running  in  my  head,  and  the  cry  of  the  hounds 
filled  my  ears.  You  know  well,  that  when  a  man  pur- 
fues  his  pleafure,  he  has  no  feeling  for  the  afflictions  of  his 
brethren.  In  fhort,  he  wanted  more — defpair  was  in  his 
whole  manner,  yet  I  turned  my  back  upon  him ;  loft  to 
himfelf  he  drew  his  fword,  but  I  would  wager  my  life 
againft  Amelia's  head-drefs,  that  highway-robbing  is  not 
his  trade. 

Amelia.  Certainly  not. 

Baron.  He  trembled  as  he  held  me  by  the  breaft,  a 
child  might  have  knocked  him  down.  Oh,  it  was  a 
fhame  that  I  did  not  fufFer  the  poor  wretch  to  efcape. 
My  fport  may  perhaps  coft  him  his  life,  and  I  might 
have  faved  it — faved  the  life  of  a  man  for  a  florin  only. 
Ah,  that  he  had  not  been  feen  by  my  people  !  but  the 
bad  example ! — come  with  me  to  my  clofet,  good  Pallor, 
we  muff,  contrive  how  we  can  beft  fave  the  culprit ;  for 
fhould  he  be  configned  over  to  the  arm  of  juftice,  adieu 
to  all  hopes  of  deliverance,    (going.) 

Amelia.  Dear  father,  I  have  had  much  converfation 
with  the  Paftor. 

Baron.  Have  you  ? — and  on  the  fubject  of  the  holy 
marriage  ftate  ? 

Amelia.  Yes  ;  I  have  told  him— • 

Paftor.  {extremely  embarrajfed)  In  confequence  of  my 

commiffion 

1  Amelia. 


A    PLAY.  43 

Amelia.  He  will  not  believe  me — • 

Paftor.  I  have  explained  to  the  young  lady- 

Amelia.  And  indeed  I  fpoke  from  my  heart 

Paftor.   (pointing  to  the  clofet)  May  I  requeft 

Amelia.   But  his  diffidence 

Paftor.  The  refult  of  our  converfation  mall  be  related 
in  your  clofet 

Baron.  What  the  devil  is  the  matter  now  ; — you 
interrupt  each  other,  fo  that  neither  can  go  on.  Amelia, 
have  you  entirely  forgotten  all  the  rules  of  politenefs  ? 

Amelia.  Oh,  no,  dear  father  ! — but  is  it  not  true  that 
you  faid  you  would  let  me  marry  whom  I  mould  chufe  ? 

Baron.  AfTuredly! 

Amelia.  Hear  you  not,  dear  Tutor  ? 

Paftor.  [takes  out  his  handkerchief  in  hafte,  and  holds 
it  to  his  fice)  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  Lord,  I  am  not 
well.  [Exit. 

Baron,  (calls  after  him)  I  mall  expect  you!    (Going.) 

Amelia.  Stop  a  moment,  dear  father !  I  have  raoft  im- 
portant things  to  communicate. 

Baron,  (J  mi  ling)  Important  things !  I  fuppofe  you 
want  me  to  buy  you  a  new  fan.  [Exit. 

Amelia,  [alone)  A  fan ' — indeed  I  think  I  am  in  want 
of  a  fan,  (flie  fans  herfelf  with  her  pocket-handkerchief) 
my  cheeks  burn  fo;  but  this  will  not  relieve  me!  Ah 
my  God  how  my  heart  beats ! — I  do,  indeed  I  do,  rnonr 
dearly  love  the  Paftor;  how  unfortunate  that  he  mould 
be  taken  ill  juft  now  ; — No,  the  Count  fcarcely  deferves 
the  name  of  man.  When  I  contemplate  my  father  or 
the  Paftor,  I  feel  a  fort  of  reverence ;  but  the  Count  I 
feel  only  difpofed  to  ridicule.  (Jhe  goes  to  the  windovj) 
The  tower  is  ftill  locked.  Oh  how  terrible  muft  be 
fuch  confinement ! — I  wonder  whether  the  poor  man  has 
any  thing  to  eat  and  drink  !  (Jhe  beckons  and  calls)  Chris- 
tian !  Chriftian !  come  hither  directly  ! — the  young  man 
interefts  me — I  know  not  why,  but  he  does  intereft  me  : 
he  has  hazarded  his  life  for  his  mother,  that  does  not  be- 
fpeak  a  bad  heart. 


SCENE 


44  THE  NATURAL  SON; 


SCENE  VII.     Enter  Christian. 

Amelia.  Ah,  good  Chriftian,  tell  me,  have  you  car- 
ried the  prifoner  any  thing  to  eat? 

Chrijl.  Yes,  my  moft  benevolent  young  lady  ! 

Amelia.  What  have  you  carried  him  ? 

Chrijl.  Good  black  bread,  and  fine  clear  water. 

Amelia.  Oh  fye  ! — are  you  not  afhamed  ? — haften  in- 
ftantly  into  the  kitchen  and  get  fome  meat  from  the  cook, 
then  fetch  a  bottle  of  wine  from  the  cellar,  and  carry 
them  to  him  immediately. 

Chrijl.  Moft  gladly  would  I  fulfil  the  will  of  my  moft 
benevolent  young  lady,  but  atprefent  he  muft  be  content 
with  bread  and  water,  for  the  moft  noble  lord  baron  nath 
exprefsly  commanded 

Amelia.  Ah,  my  father  only  did  that  in  t..e  firft  mo- 
ments of  paflion. 

Chrift.  What  our  noble  mafters  command  in  paflion, 
'tis  the  duty  of  a  faithful  old  fervant,  without  vanity  be 
it  fpoken,  to  obey  in  cold  blood. 

Amelia.  You  are  a  great  oaf! — fo  old,  and  have  not 
yet  learnt  that  'tis  your  duty  to  comfort  the  unfortunate. 
Give  me  the  key  of  the  cellar,  I  will  go  mjfelf. 

Chrift    I  folemnly  proteft  moft  blefTed  Lady— — - 

Amelia.  Give  it  to  me,  I  command  you. 

Chrift.  (gives  her  the  key)  I  muft  go  immediately,  ana 
exculpate  myfelf  to  his  honourable  Lordfhip. 

Amelia.  You  may  do  that  with  all  my  heart. 

[Exrtbaftily* 

Chrift.  (after  a  paufe,  and  fhaking  his  head.) 

In  woe  and  anguifh, 

Each  day  to  languifh, 

Is  right  affecting 

And  dejecting. 

Is  then  the  youthful  mind 

To  follow  good  inclin'd ; 

Let  him  ftill  in  memory  keep 

'I  he  good  old  proverb,  look  before  you  leap. 

[Exit, 

END  OF  THE  THIRD   ACT. 


A  PLAY.  ,  45 


ACT    JV* 

SCENE  I.     APrifon  in  an  old  Tower  in  the  Caftle  of 
Wildenhain. 

Frederick  [alone). 

JlJlOW  can  a  few  moments  of  anguifli — one  hour  of 
devouring  mifery  fwallow  up  all  the  paft  happinefs  of  a 
man's  life  !  When  I  left  the  inn  this  morning,  the  fun  was 
juft  rifing,  I  fang  my  morning  fong,  and  oh  how  cheer- 
ful, how  happy  was  I ! — In  thought  I  banqueted  at  the 
table  of  joy, — I  dreamt  with  tranfport  of  the  firrt  re-union 
with  my  mother ! — I  meant  to  fteal  along  the  road  towards 
the  fpot  where  fhe  once  dwelt;  thought  how  I  fhould 
creep  clofe  by  the  wall,  that  fhe  might  not  from  the  win- 
dow efpy  my  approach  ;  and  when  arrived  at  the  houfe- 
door,  how  1  mould  foftly,  foftly  pull  the  bell. — Then  in 
idea,  I  faw  her  lay  afide  her  work,  rife  up,  and  come 
down,  I  thought  how  my  heart  would  beat,  when  I  fhould 
hear  her  fteps  upon  the  flairs,  how  (he  would  open  the  door 
to  me,  and  I  fhould  throw  myfelf  into  her  arms.  But  oh, 
farewell,  ye  air-built  caftles,  ye  beauteous  variegated  bub- 
bles, feen  through  hope's  prifmatic  glafs  ! — I  returned  to  my 
native  land,  and  the  firft  object  which  met  my  eyes  was  my 
dying  mother,  my  flrft  habitation  is  a  prifon,  and  my  firit 
going  forth  will  be  to  the  place  of  execution.  Oh  righteous 
God  '  have  I  deferved  this  fate  ?  or  muft  the  fon  anfwer  for 
the  crimes  of  a  father  !  But  be  {till,  my  heart — I  entangle 
myfelf  in  a  labyrinth!  To  fuffer  without  murmuring,  to 
forrow  and  be  iilent !  Such  is  the  leflbn  taught  me  by  my 
mother,  and  fhe  hath  fuffered  much  ! — Thou,  oh  God, 
thou  art  juft  !   [looks  towards  Heaven  with  uplifted  hands) 

SCENE  II.     Enter  Amelia  with  a  plate  of  proviftons 
and  a  bottle  of  wine. 

Fred,  [turning  round  at  the  noife)  Who's  there  ? 

G  Auielia . 


4&  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Amelia.  My  good  friend,  I  bring  you  fome  refrefh- 
uient — you  may  perhaps  be  hungry  or  thirfty. 

Fred.  Alas  no  !  I  feel  neither  hunger  nor  thirft. 

Amelia.  Here  is  a  bottle  of  old  wine,  and  fome  meat. 

Fred,  {eagerly)  Old  wine  '  really,  good  old  wine? 

Amelia.  I  do  not  underftand  much  of  wine  myfelf,  but 
I  have  often  heard  my  father  fay  this  wine  is  a  true  cor- 
dial. 

Fred.  Ten  thoufand,  thoufand  thanks,  lovely,  amiable, 
Unknown  !  You  make  me  a  coftly  prefent  indeed,  in  this 
bottle  of  wine. — Oh  haften,  haften  then,  moft  benevolent 
tender-hearted  maiden,  let  it  be  inftantly  difpatched  to  the 
neighbouring  village;  clofe  by  the  public-houfe  Hands  a 
little  cottage,  where  will  be  found  a  poor,  fick  woman— ra 
fainting  woman,  whom,  if  fhe  yet  live,  this  wine  may  re- 
vive !  {he  takes  the  bottle  from  Amelia's  hand^  and  raifes  it 
up  towards  heaven)  Oh  God  !  blefs  this  liquor  !  why  can 
I  not  myfelf? — [gives  back  the  bottle  to  Amelia)  but  no — 
haften,  haften  then  with  it,  moft  amiable  of  your  fcx  !  fave 
v\y  mother,  and  you  will  be  my  guardian  angel. 

Amelia,  (much  ajfeEled)  Worthy  creature !  Oh  I  am 
right,  he  cannot  be  a  villain,  a  murderer  ! 

Fred.  God  be  thanked,  that  I  ftill  deferve  to  he  no- 
ticed by  fo  noble  a  foul  ! 

Amelia.  I  will  go  myfelf  immediately. — But  let  me 
leave  this  bottle  of  wine  here;  I  will  fetch  another  for 
your  poor  mother.  {Jhe  Jets  down  the  bottle  and  is  going) 

Fred.  Yet  one  word  more,  Let  me  know,  fweet  maid- 
en, who  you  are,  that  in  my  prayers  to  heaven,  your  name 
maybe  remembered. 

Amelia.  My  father  is  Baron  Wildenhain,  the  poflefTar 
of  this  eftate. 

Fred.  Merciful  God  !  !  !— 

Amelia.   What  is  the  matter  ? 

Fred.  ( Jhuddering)  And  the  man,  againft  whom  I  this 
day  drew  my  fword  ! 

Amelia.  Was  my  father  ? 

Fred.  My  father  !  I ! 

Amelia.  I  feel  agitated  in  his  prefejice.   {She  runs  out.) 

SCENE  III.      Frederick.  (Alone.) 

(He  repeats  the  wirds  with  agony.)  Was  my  father  ! 

—Eternal 


A  PLAY.  47 

<— Eternal  juftice  thou  flumbereft  not ! — The  man  againft 
Whom  I  drew  my  fword  this  day — was  my  father  ! — A 
Few  moments  more,  and  I  had  been  a  parricide! — 
Oh — h — h  !  an  icy  coldnefs  freezes  all  my  limbs — my 
hair  ftands  an  end — a  mill  floats  before  my  fight — Oh  for 
breath  !  for  breath  !  {he  finks  down  on  his  feat — a  long 
paufe.)  What  a  tumult  does  this  idea  raife  in  my  brain  ! 
— how  the  horrid  images  flit  before  my  eyes  as  clouds 
and  vapours,  which  every  moment  change  their  forms. — 
And  if  fate  had  deftined  him  thus  to  be  facrificed ! — had 
my  arm  confummated  the  dreadful  ilroke  ! — Great  Judge 
of  all  things,  whofe  had  been  the  guilt  ? — VRpuld  not 
thyfelf  have  armed  the  hand  of  the  fon,  to  averige  a  mo- 
ther's wrongs  on  an  unnatural  father?— *  Oh  Zadig  ! 
Zadig! — [he  is  loji  for  fome  minutes  in  deep  refie£lion) — 
but  this  maiden — this  amiable,  lovely,  inexpreflibly  lovely 
creature, — who  has  juft  left  me, — who  has  awakened  a 
new  and  moft  tranfporting  fenfation  in  my  breafl, — this 
lovely  creature  is  my  filler ! — And  the  filly  being,  the  cox- 
comb, who  accompanied  my  father,  was  he  then  my 
brother  ? — an  ill-educated  boy,  who  as  it  appears  to  me, 
from  his  youth  confidered  as  the  only  heir,  has  been 
taught  to  regard  nothing  but  his  wealth,  his  rank,  and  is 
thus  inflated  with  his  own  confequence,  while  I,  his  bro- 
ther, and  my  dear  mother,  fuller  want. 

SCENE  IV.     Enter  Pastor. 

Pajior.     God  preferve  you,  my  friend  ! 

Fred.  And  you  too,  Sir.  Judging  by  your  appearance, 
you  are  of  the  church;  therefore  a  meffenger  of  peace. 
You  are  truly  welcome  to  me. 

Pajior.  I  wifh  to  bring  peace  and  tranquillity  to  your 
foul.  Reproaches  I  fhall  fpare,  for  your  own  confeience 
muft  upbraid  you  more  loudly  than  the  preacher's  voice. 

Fred.  Oh,  you  are  right  ! And,  where  confeience 

then  is  filent,  are  you  not  of  opinion,  that  the  crime  at  leafi: 
is  doubtful  ? 

Pa/ior.  Or  mufl  have  been  perpetrated  by  a  wicked 
and  obdurate  heart  indeed. 

*  Referring  to  Voltaire's  well-known  novel  of  "  Zad'g,  or  the 
EookofFate."    T. 

Fred. 


48  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

Fred.  That  is  not  my  cafe.  I  really  would  not  change 
this  heart  for  that  of  any  prince — no,  nor  any  prieft.— 
Pardon  me,  Sir,  that  was  not  aimed  at  you. 

Pajior.  And  if  it  was,  mildnefs  is  the  character  of  the 
religion,  I  teach. 

Fred.  I  only  mean  to  fay — that  my  heart  is  not  obdu- 
rate, yet  my  confcience  does  not  reproach  me  with  a 
crime. 

Pa/tor.  Does  it  not  deceive  you  ? — Self-love  fometimes 
ufurps  the  place  of  confcience. 

Fred.  No !  no  ! — Oh,  tis  a  pity  that  I  am  not  more 
endued  with  learning, — that  I  underftand  not  in  what  way 
properly  to  arrange  my  ideas, — that  I  can  only  feel — that 
I  cannot  demonstrate  ! — Yet,  let  me  afk  you,  Sir,  what 
was  my  crime  ? — that  I  would  have  robbed  ! — Oh, 
for  a  few  moments  put  your felf  in  my  place: — have  you 
any  parents  ? 

Pajior.  No,  I  was  early  left  an  orphan. 

Fred.  Pity  ! — pity  indeed!  then  you  cannot  fairly  judge 
me. — Yet  will  I  defcribe  my  cafe  as  well  as  I  am  able.  I 
think,  when  one  looks  around,  and  fees  how  nature  every 
where  exuberantly  pours  forth  her  ample  ftores;  when  one 
obferves  this  fpe&acle,  and  beholds  at  the  fame  time  a  dying 
mother  by  one's  fide,  who  with  parched  tongue  faints 
for  a  drop  of  wine — if  then  one  rich,  and  blefTed  with 
abundance,  fhould  pafs  by,  and  mould  deny  the  defpairing 
wretch  a  florin,  becaufe — becaufe  it  would  interrupt  his 
fport — then  fuddenly  the  feelings  of  the  equality  of  all  man- 
kind fhould  be  awakened  in  the  fufferer's  foul,  and  feeing 
himfelf  neglected  by  fortune,  he  fhould  determine  to  refume 
his  rights — rights  authorized  by  nature,  who  is  not  un- 
juft  to  any  of  her  children;  and  fhould  inftindtively  grafp 
at  a  fmall  fhare  of  thofe  bounties  which  fhe  prefents  to  all 
— Such  a  man  does  not  plunder,  he  rightly  takes  his  own. 

Pajior,  My  friend,  were  thefe  principles  univerfal, 
they  would  cut  afunder  every  tie  that  binds  fociety,  and 
change  us  foon  into  Arabian  hordes. 

Fred.  'Tis  poffible !  and  'tis  alfo  poiTible,  that  we 
fhould  not  be  more  unhappy. — Among  the  hofpitable 
Arabs  my  Mother  would  not  have  been  fuffered  to  ftarve 
on  the  highway  ! 

Pajior.  (Mtich  fitrprifed)  Young  man,  you  appear  to 
have  had  an  education  above  vour  rank. 

Fred. 


A  PLAY.  49 

Fred.  That  is  foreign  to  the  purpofe — for  what  I  am, 
I  am  indebted  to  my  mother. — I  would  only  reprefent  to 
you,  why  my  confcience  does  not  accufe  me. — The  judge 
pronounces  fentence  according  to  the  letter  of  the  law, 
the  Divine  fhould  judge  not  merely  the  deed  itfelf,  but  the 
motive  which  prompted  it.  The  Judge  might  then  con- 
demn me,  but  you,  oh  Sir,  would  inftantly  pronounce  my 
pardon. — That  the  glutton,  who  picks  even  the  laft  mor- 
fel  from  his  pheafant's  bones,  fhould  leave  unmolefted  his 
neighbour's  black  bread,  can  be  no  merit. 

Pajior.  Well,  young  man  !  fuppofe  I  grant  your  fophifm ; 
grant,  that  perhaps  your  peculiar  fituation  allowed  you 
to  take,  what  you  could  not  obtain  by  felicitation,  does 
that  alfo  exculpate  murder,  which  you  meditated. 

Fred.  Murder  !  no,  it  does  not  exculpate  that.  Still  I 
was  but  the  inftrument  of  a  higher  power.  In  this  advent 
tu  re,  you  only  behold  one  folitary  link  of  a  mighty  chain,  held 
by  an  invifible  hand,  On  this  fubjecl:  I  cannot  explain, 
cannot  juftify  myfelf.  Yet,  (hall  L  appear  with  ferenity 
before  my  judge,  with  calmnefsmeet  my  death,  convinced 
that  an  all-powerful  hand  intends  by  my  blood,  the  ac- 
complishment of  fome  great  purpofe  in  the  career  of  fate. 

Pajior.  It  is  well  worth  fome  pains,  mofl  extraordinary 
young  man,  to  be  better  acquainted  with  you,  and  per- 
haps to  give  a  different  complexion  to  many  of  your  ideas. 
If  it  be  poffible,  continue  with  me  for  fome  weeks,  and 
give  me  your  confidence.  Your  fick  mother  I  will  alfo 
take  to  my  houfe. 

Fred,  (embraces  him)  A  thoufand  thanks  for  my  poor 
mother's  fake.  As  for  myfelf,  you  know  that  I  am  a  pri- 
foner,  in  expectation  of  receiving  fentence  of  death.  The 
refpite  which  the  forms  of  jufticemay  afford,  ufe  at  your 
pleafure. 

Pajior.  You  are  miftaken. — You  are  in  the  hands  of  a 
noble-minded  man,  who  honours  your  filial  love,  com- 
paffionates  your  unhappy  fituation,  and  heartily  forgives 
you  what  has  this  day  happened.  You  arc  free — He  fent 
me  hither  to  announce  to  you  your  liberty,  and  with  a 
paternal  exhortation,  a  brotherly  admonition,  to  refeafe 
you  from  your  prifon. 

Fred.  And  the  name  of  this  generous  man  ? 

Pajior,  Is  the  Baron  von  Wildfinhain. 

Fred. 


S*  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Fred.  Von  Wildenhain  !  (as  if  he  was  recollecting  hint' 
felf)  Did  he  not  live  formerly  in  Franconia*  ? 

Pajlor.  You  are  right.  But  at  the  death  of  his  Lad y$ 
a  few  weeks  fince$  he  returned  to  this,  his  paternal  eftate. 

Fred.  His  wife  then  is  dead? — and  that  amiable  girl. 
Who  was  here  juft  before  your  arrival,  is  his  daughter  ? 

Pajlor.  Yes,  £he  is  his  daughter*  the  Lady  Amelia. 

Fred.  And  the  perfumed  young  man  is  his  fon  ,? 

Pajlor.  He  has  no  fon. 

Fred,  (eagerly)  Yes  he  has !  (recollecling  himfelf)  1 
mean  the  young  man  who  was  fporting  with  him  to-day* 

Pajlor.  No,  he  is  not  his  fon. 

Fred,  (a fide)  God  be  thanked  ! 

Pajlor.  Only  a  vifitor  from  town. 

Fred.  I  thank  you  for  this  information;  it  is  highly  in- 
terefting  to  me.  I  alfo  thank  you  for  the  kind  trouble 
you  have  taken,  the  philanthropy  you  have  fhewn.  It 
grieves  me  that  I  cannot  offer  you  my  friendfhip — were 
we  equals  it  might  be  of  fome  value- 

Pajlor.  Has  not  friendfhip  this  property  in  common 
with  love,  that  it  equalizes  all  ranks  ? 

Fred.  No,  kind  Parlor,  this  enchantment  is  peculiar  to 
love  alone  ! — Yet  I  have  one  more  requeft  to  make — 
Conduct  me  to  the  Baron  von  Wildenhain,  and  procure 
me,  if  it  be  in  your  power,  a  few  minutes  converfation 
with  him  in  private ;  I  wifh  to  thank  him  for  his  benevo- 
lence, but  if  any  one  be  with  him,  I  fhould  be  confufed, 
and  could  not  fpeak  with  fo  much  confidence. 

Pajlor.  Follow  me.  [Exeunt* 

SCENE  V.     A  room  in  the  Cajlle. 

If  he  Baron  feated  on  a  chair,  and  fmoking  his  pipe — ■. 
Amelia  in  converfation  with  him — The  Count  upon 
the  Sophay  one  moment  taking  fnuff,  another  holding  a 
fmeUing-bcttle  to  his  nofe. 

Baron.  No,  no,  my  child,  let  it  alone  at  prefent — to- 

*  In  the  performance,  Alface  and  France,  are  throughout  ufed 
inftead  of  Franconia  j  no  reafon  for  this  appears.  It  was  probably' 
a  miftake  arifing  from  the  fubftantive  Franken,  i.  e.  Franconia,  be- 
ing  applied  in  modern  language  to  French  as  an  adjective,  inftead  of 
Frattzofen.    T. 

wards 


A  PLAY.  51 

wjtrds  evening,  when  it  grows  cool,  we  may  take  a  walk 
that  way. 

Amelia.  It  is  fo  delightful  to  do  a  good  action  ! — why 
then  fliould  one  depute  it  to  a  fervant  ?  To  confer  a 
kindnefs  is  a  real  joy,  and  no  one  is  of  too  high  rank  for 
enjoyment. 

Baron.  Simpleton,  who  fpoke  of  rank  ?  That  was  a 
filly  remark  which  almoft  makes  me  angry.  I  tell  you  I 
have  fent  to  the  cottage  myfelf,  the  woman  is  better ;  and 
in  the  evening  we  will  take  a  walk  thither  together.  The 
faftor  fhall  conduct  us. 

Amelia,  (tolerably  fatisfied)  Well,  as  you  pleafe.  (Jhe 
fits  down  and  takes  out  her  work) 

Baron,  (to  the  Sount)  It  will  be  a  great  pleafure  to  you 
al  fo,  Count. 

Count.  "Je  n'en  doute  pas,  mon  Colonel,  the  douceur  and 
the  bonte  d'ame  of  Mademoifelle  will  charm  me.  But  what 
if  the  good  woman  fhould  have  gotten  fome  epidemical 
difeafe  ?  However  I  have  a  'uinaigre  incomparable  againft 
the  plague,- — we  will  at  leaft  be  prepared  with  that. 

Baron.  As  you  pleafe,  Count.  I  do  not  know  any  bet- 
ter prefervative  to  offer  you  againft  ennui,  than  fuch  a 
cordial. 

Count.  Ennui,  oh  mon  Colonel!  Who  can  think  of  en- 
nui in  the  fame  houfe  with  Mademoifelle? 

Baron.  Very  gallantly  fpoken  ! — Amelia,  don't  you 
thank  the  Count  ? 

Amelia.  I  thank  him,  truly,  (the  Count  makes  a  compli- 
mentary bow). 

Baron.  Tell  me,  Count,  did  you  refide  long  in  France? 

Count.  Oh  talk  not  to  me  of  France,  I  entreat  you, 
mon  Colonel — you  rend  my  heart. — My  father,  le  barbare, 
had  the  fottife  to  refufe  me  a  thoufand  Louis-d'ors  which  I 
had  dejtine  for  that  purpofe.  It  is  true  I  was  there  fome 
months — I  have  indeed  feen  that  dear  place  replete  with 
charms,  and,  fpite  of  le  barbare  de  pere,  I  had  perhaps 
been  there  ftill,  but  for  a  moft  unpleafant  occurrence. 

Baron,  (fneeringly)  Probably  une  affaire  d'honheur. 

Count.  Point  du  tout  but  it  was  no  longer  a  place  in 
which  a  vrai  Cavalier  could  remain  with  credit  to  himfelf. 
You  have  heard  of  the  Revolution  ?  Oh  yes,  you  muft 
have  heard  of  it,  for  it  is  the  converfation  of  all  Europe. 
^—Eh  bien  I  imagine*  vous ! — I  was  at  Paris,  I  went  into 

the 


St  THE  NATURAL  SON  j 

the  Palais  Royal^  I  knew  nothing  at  all  of  what  was  paf- 
fing — tout  d'un  coup  I  perceived  myfelf  furrounded  by  a 
crowd  of  dirty  raggamuffins,  one  kicked  me  on  one  fide, 
another  pufhed  me  on  the  other  fide,  another  thruft  his  fifts 
in  my  face. — I  afked  what  was  the  meaning  of  all  this  ? 
They  abufed  me,  and  cried  that  I  had  no  cockade  in  my 
hat — you  underftand  me,  no  national  cockade.  I  fcreamed 
out  that  I  was  Comte  du  Saint  Empire. — What  did  they 
do  ? — they  abfolutely  caned  me—foi  d'honnete  homrne  they 
caned  me,  and  a  dirty  Paiffarde  gave  me  a  filip  on  the 
nofe ; — indeed  there  were  even  fbme  who  would  have  had 
me  a  la  lanterne.-^-Whzt  fay  you  to  this  ?  what  would  you 
have  done  a  ma  place  ?  I  threw  myfelf  with  all  poflible 
expedition  into  my  poft-chaife,  and  haftened  away  with 
all  poflible  fpeed. — voila  tout !  it  is  indeed  une  hijloire 
fqcheufe,  but  neverthelefs  I  muft  ever  regret  the  moments 
' delicieufes  which  I  have  tailed  in  that  capitale  du  monde, 
and  this  I  muft  fay,  this  muft  every  one  perceive,  that 
though  indeed,  I  pafl'ed  but  a  few  months  there,  monfavoir 
vivre,  monfortnation^zndjleplie,  which  is  obferved  in  me, 
are  perfectly  Franfoife,  perfectly  Pariften. 

Baron.  Of  that  I  am  no  judge,  but  your  language  does 
not  appear  to  me  German. 

Count.  Ah,  mon  Colonel^  you  pay  me  a  high  compliment. 

Baron.  I  am  glad  you  take  it  as  fuch. 

Count.  Then  all  my  Joins  have  happily  not  been  taken  a 
fure  perte.  For  five  years  paft  have  I  made  every  poflible 
effort  totally  and  completely  to  forget  German.  What 
fay  you,  Madam,  is  not  the  German  language  entirely 
devoid  of  grace,  and  at  beft,  only  fuppor table  in  fo  lovely 
a  rnouth  as  yours.  That  eternal  guggling  and  rattling  in 
the  throat — a  tout  moment — one  reels — one  ftumbles — it 
does  not  flow,  roll,  fmoothly  on — as  par  exemple^  one 
would  make  a  declaration  d'amour,  one  wifhes  it  to  be  a 
chef  d'  aeuvre  d' 'eloquence.  Well,  one  ftudies  it,  but,  kclas, 
fcarcely  has  one  gone  through  a  douzaine  of  words,  but 
the  tongue  hitches  now  here,  now  there ;  thrufts  itfelf 
firft  one  way,  then  the  other  >  the  teeth  run  pile  mile 
againft  one  another;  the  throat  quarrels  with  the  roof 
of  the  mouth,  and  if  one  did  not  throw  in  a  few  French 
words  to  fet  all  to  rights  again,  one  fhould  run  the  haz- 
ard of  lofing,  irrecoverably,  the  faculties  of  fpeech.  Et 
ttmvcnoT,  votts  a  cela  MademoiJtlley  that  this  cannot  be 

otherwifiy 


A   PLAY.  53 

otherwile — for  why  ?  we  have  no  genles  celebres,  whofe 
tafte  is  properly  refined.  I  know,  indeed,  that  at  prefent 
the  Germans  pique  themfelves  much,  fur  la  gout,  la  lec- 
ture, les  belles  lettres.  There  is  a  certain  Monfieur  Wie- 
land,  who  has  gained  fome  rentmmee*,  by  tranflating  fome 
tales  from  the  Mille  et  une  nuits,  but  mon  dieu,  ftill  the 
original  is  French. 

Baron.  But  what  the  devil  is  the  matter,  Count,  that 
you  are  every  moment  muffing  up  your  tabac,  or  holding 
your  fmelling-bottle  to  your  nofe,  and  drenching  your 
clothes  and  my  fopha  with  Eau  de  Lavande,  and  making 
the  air  in  my  room  fo  fade,  that  it  is  like  the  fhop  of  a 
French  Marchand  des  modes. 

Count.  Pardonnez,  mon  Colonel,  but  it  muft  be  con- 
felled  that  the  fmoke  of  your  tobacco  is  altogether  infup- 
portable — my  nerves  are  moft  fenfibly  affected  with  it — 
my  clothes  muft  be  hung  a  month  at  leaft  in  the  open  air 
to  purify  them — and  I  allure  you,  mon  Colonel,  it  even 
gives  a  taint  to  the  hair.  It  is  a  vile  cuftom,  which  in- 
deed one  muft  pardon  in  Mefftetirs  du  Militaire,  becaufe 
en  campagne,  they  have  no  opportunity  of  mixing  with 
the  beau  monde,  and  acquiring  the  manners  of  ton.  But 
at  prefent,  there  is  no  poffibility  of  enduring  this  horrible 
fmell  any  longer. — Vous  m'excuferez,  mon  Colonel — but 
I  muft  go  and,  breathe  a  little  frefh  air,  and  change  my 
clothes.  [Exit. 

SCENE  VI.     The  Baron  and  Amelia. 

Baron.  Bravo,  my  young  gentleman  ! — I  know,  now, 
however,  a  means  of  getting  rid  of  you,  when  I  am  tired 
of  your  twatcling. 

Amelia.  Dear  father,  I  cannot  take  him  for  a  hufband. 

Baron.   Dear  child,  I  cannot  take  him  for  a  fon.  * 

Amelia.  (fVho  appears  to  have  fomething  on  her  mind.') 
I  cannot  endure  him. 

Baron.  Nor  I  neither. 

Amelia.  What  can  one  do,  if  one  cannot  b:ar  the 
man  ? 

Baron.  Nothing  at  all. 

Amelia.  Love  comes  and  goes  unfolicited. 

Baron.  It  docs  fo  indeed. 

Amelia.  It  is  often  fcarceiy  poffible  to  give  a  reafon 
why  oae  loves  or  hates. 

*H  Baron. 


54  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

Baron.  That  may  be  the  cafe. 

Amelia.  Yet  there  are  cafes  in  which  one's  inclination, 
or  averfion,  are  founded  upon  good  grounds. 
Baron.  Undoubtedly. 

Amelia.  For  example,  my  averfion  to  the  Count. 
Baron.  Certainly. 

Amelia.  And  my  inclination  towards  the  Paftor. 
Baron.  Yes,  (Both  paufe.) 
Amelia.  Probably  I  may  marry. 

Baron.  And  you  ought  to  marry.  {Both  paufe  again.) 
Amelia.  Why  does  not  out  Paftor  marry  ? 
Baron.  That  you  muft  afk  him  himfelf.  [Paufe  again.) 
Amelia.  {She  keeps  her  eyes  conjlantly  on  her  work,  at 
which  Jhe  is  very  bujily  employed.)  He  feems  to  have  a 
great  regard  for  me. 

Baron.  I  am  glad  to  hear  it. 
Amelia.  And  I  have  alfo  a  great  regard  for  him. 
Baron.  That  is  but  juft.     {Another  paufe.) 
Amelia.  I  believe  if  you  were   to  offer  him  ray  hand, 
he  would  not  refufe  it. 

Baron.  \  believe  fo  myfelf. 
Amelia.  And  I  would  readily  obey  you. 
Baron.  (With  particular  attention.)  Indeed!    Are  you 
ferious  ? 

Amelia.  Oh  yes  ! 

Baron.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha ! — well  we  mall  fee  ! 
Amelia.  {Looking  up  more  cheerfully.)  Are  you  really 
ferious,  dear  Father  I 
Baron.  Oh  no  ! 

Amelia.   {Dejedledly  again.)  No  ? 
Baron.    No,  Amelia — that  will  not  do — to  play  fuch  a 
pretty  romance,    like  Abelard  and  Heloife,  or  St.  Preux 
and  Julie — does  not  accord  with  our  rank,  and  the  Paftor 
himfelf  is  too  honourable  to  think  of  fuch  a  thing. 
Amelia.  You  are  his  benefactor. 
Baron.  At  leaft  he  thinks  me  fo. 

Amelia.  And  can  any  thing  be  more  honourable  than  to 
make  the  daughter  of  his  benefactor  happy  ? 

Baron.  But  if  this  daughter  be  a  child,  and  has  childifh 
fancies,  and  wifhes  to  day  to  poflefs  a  toy,  which  perhaps 
to-morrow  fhe  may  throw  away  in  fpleen? 
Amelia.  Oh  no,  I  am  not  fuch  a  child ! 

Baron* 


A  PLAY.  55 

Baron.  Liften  to  me,  Amelia ! — A  hundred  Fathers 
would  fay  to  you,  you  are  of  rank  yourfeJf,  you  muft 
marry  a  man  of  rank. — But  I  do  not  fay  fo — my  child 
ihall  not  be  facrificed  to  prejudice — a  woman  never  can 
obtain  rank  by  merit,  therefore  never  has  reafon  to  b« 
proud  of  it. 

Amelia.  And  therefore — 

Baron.  Therefore  I  fay,  in  God's  name,  marry  the 
Pallor,  if  you  do  not  find  among  our  young  men  of  rank, 
one,  who  for  perfon  and  endowments  of  heart  and  mind, 
correiponds  with  your  ideas.— There  may,  however,  be 
many  of  this  defcription — many,  perhaps — but  as  yet  you 
know  too  little  of  men  in  general,  to  have  formed  your  judg- 
ment upon  this  point.  -Wait  till  the  enfuing  winter — -we 
will  fpend  it  in  town — -we  will  frequent  balls  and  affem- 
blies,  perhaps  you  mav  then  think  differently. 

Amelia.  Oh  no ! — I  muft  firft  know  a  man  well)  and 
may  even  then  be  deceived  in  him.  But  with  our  Paftor 
I  have  been  {q  long,  fo  intimately  acquainted,  that  I 
can  read  his  heart  as  plainly  as  my  catechifm. 

Baron.  Amelia,  you  have  never  loved.  The  Paftor 
educated  you,  and  you,  ignorant  of  what  loVe  really  is, 
miftake  your  ardent  gratitude  for  love. 

Amelia.  You  explained  the  fubjec~t  to  me  this  morning. 

Baron.  Did  I  fo? — Well,  and  my  queftians ? 

Amelia.  All  applied  to  the  Paftor,  as  if  you  had  pene- 
trated the  inmoft  recefles  of  my  heart. 

Baron.  Reallv ! — Humph  ! — Humph  ! 

Amelia.  Yes,  dear  Father,  I  love,  and  am  alfo  beloved. 

Baron.  Are  alfo  beloved ! — Has  he  told  you  fo  ? 

Amelia.  Yes. 

Baron.  Fye  !  fye! — that  was  not  right  in  him. 

Amelia.  Oh  if  you  knew  how  1  took  him  by  furprife  ? 

Baron.  You  took  him  by  furprife? 

Amelia.  He  came,  by  your  defire,  to  fpeak  to  me  in  be- 
half of  the  Count, — and  I  told  him  I  never  would  marry 
the  Count. 

Baron.  But  would  marry  him  ? 

Amelia.  Yes,  him. 

Baron.  Very  frank,  by  my  foul  ? — and  what  anfvvered 
he? 

Amelia.  He  talked  to  me  about  my  rank,  my  family, 
my  uncles  and  aunts — of  his  4twy  to  you — and,  in  fhort, 

would 


56  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

would  have  perfuaded  me  to  think  no  more  of  this.     But 
my  heart  could  not  fuffer  itfelf  to  be  rjprfuaded. 

Baron.  That  was  honourable  in  him — And  he  will 
not  fpcak  to  me  on  this  fubject  ? 

Amelia.  No,  he  faid  that  was  impoflible  ! 

Baron.  So  much  the  better — then  I  may  be  fuppofed 
ignorant  of  the  whole  affair. 

Amelia.  But  I  aflured  him — that  I  would  fpeak  myfelf. 

Baron.  So  much  the  worfe — that  embarrafles  me  ex- 
ceedingly. 

Amelia.  And  now  I  have  done  as  I  faid  I  would. 

Baron.  Truly  you  have. 

Amelia*  Dear  Father! 

Baron.   Dear  Child! 

Amelia.  See  the  tears  will  come  into  my  eyes. 

Baron.  {Turning  from  her.)  Reprefs  them!  [Both 
paufe ;  Amelia  rifes  from  her  feat,  and  bends  downwards^ 
as  if  'looking  for •fotne thing.)  What  do  you  look  for  ? 

Amelia.  I  have  loft  my  needle. 

Baron.  (Pujhes  back  his  feat  and  bends  forwards  to  affijl 
her.)  It  cannot  be  gone  fo  far. 

Amelia.  {Approaches  and  falls  tenderly  on  his  neck.)  My 
dear  Father ! 

Baron.  Well,  and  what  now  ? 

Amelia.  This  one  requeft! — 

Baron.  Let  me  go ! — You  make  my  cheeks  wet  with 
your  tears! 

Amelia.  I  never  can  love  any  other — never  can  be 
happy  with  any  other. 

Baron.  Buffoonery,  Amelia! — Childifhnefs ! — be  a 
good  girl !  [heflroaks  her  cheeks.)  Sit  down  again ! — we 
will  talk  more  of  this  another  time — it  is  not  a  matter 
that  needs  fuch  great  hafte — there  is  no  occafion  for  an 
extra-poft  upon  the  fubjecT:.  The  knot  that  binds  you 
together  is  tied  in  a  moment — the  ftate  of  wedlock  en- 
dures for  years.  Many  a  girl  fheds  one  tear,  becaufe  fhe 
thinks  (he  cannot  have  her  lover,  and  if  {he  attain  him  at 
laft,  perhaps,  fheds  tears  in  torrents  that  fhe  can  never  be 
releafed  from  him.  Thou  haft  relieved  thy  heart  of  its 
oppreffive  burden,  and  thy  Father  now  bears  it  in  his — 
bears  it  for  thee,  for  his  dear  Amelia. — So  fmall  a  wound 
time  will  foon  heal,  or  if  it  do  not,  then  thou  may'ft 
chufe  thy  phyfician. 

Amelia. 


A  PLAY.  57 

Amelia.  My  dear,  kind  Father  ! 

Baron.  Aye  truly,  had  thy  Mother  been  alive,  thou 
wouldeft  not  have  efcaped  To  eafily — (he  would  have 
clung  to  the  fixteen  noble  generations,  which  flic  num- 
bered as  her  anceftors. 

SCENE  VII.     Enter  the  Pastor. 

Baron.  You  are  come  opportunely. 

Pajior.  In  confequence  of  your  order,  my  Lord,  I 
have  releafed  the  young  man  from  his  priibn  He  is  in 
the  anti-chamber,  and  wifhes  to  return  you  his  thank* 
in  perfon. 

Baron.  \  am  pleafed  to  hear  it — I  mud  not  fuffer  him 
to  depart  empty-handed,  I  would  not  confer  benefits  by 
halves. 

Pajior.  He  intreats  a  few  words  with  you  in  private. 

Baron.  In  private — Wherefore? 

Pa  (lor.  He  pleaded  his  confufion  in  the  prefence  of" 
witnefles.  Perhaps  he  has  fome  difcovery  to  make,  of 
which  he  wifhes  to  relieve  his  heart. 

Baron.  Well,  be  it  fo ! — Retire  Amelia,  remain  in 
the  anti-chamber  with  the  Paftor.  I  wifh  afterwards  for 
fome  converfation  with  you  both.  {Amelia  withdraws — the 
Pajior  opens  the  door,  introduces  Frederick,  and  retires.) 

SCENE  VIII.     Baron  and  Frederick. 

Baron.  {Approaching  Frederick.)  Depart  with  God's 
bleffing,  my  friend,  you  are  free.  I  have  fent  to  your  mo- 
ther, fhe  is  better,  for  her  fake  1  pardon  you,  but  beware 
of  a  repetition  of  your  offence ;  highway-robbing  is  a  bad 
trade.  There  is  a  Louis-d'or — feek  fome  creditable  em- 
ployment, and  if  I  hear  that  you  are  diligent  and  orderly 
in  your  behaviour,  my  doors  and  my  purfe  fhall  always 
be  open  to  affifl  you.  Go,  my  friend,  and  heaven  fupport 
you! 

Fred.  [Taking  the  Louis-d'or.)  You  are  a  liberal 
man,  free  in  parting  with  your  money — not  ("paring  of 
your  good  advice.  But  I  have  a  flili  greater  favour  to 
entreat  of  you. — You  are  a  rich  man,  a  man  of  influence, 
affifr.  me  to  obtain  juftice  againft  an  unnatural  Father! 

Baron.  How  ! — who  is  your  Father? 

Fred.  {JVith  anguijh.)  A  man  of  :ank,  lord  of  muck 
land,  and  over  many  tenants — efteemed  at  court — ho- 
noured 


58  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

noured  in  the  ftate — beloved  by  his  peafants — benevo- 
lent, noble-hearted,  generous — 

Baron.   And  yet  differs  his  Son  to  want  ? 

Fred.  Yet  fuffers  his  Son  to  want ! 

Baron.  Doubtlefs  not  without  reafon.  You  were  per- 
haps a  wild  young  fellow,  libertine  in  your  principles 
and  practices,  gamed,  kept  a  miftrefs,  and  your  Father 
therefore  thought  that  following  the  drum  for  a  few  years 
might  have  a  good  effect  in  correcting  fuch  irregularities. 
And  if  this  be  really  the  cafe,  I  cannot  think  your  Father 
has  done  wrong. 

Fred.  You  miftake,  Sir,  my  Father  knows  me  not— 
never  has  feen  me-^-he  caft  me  off  even  before  my  birth. 

Baron.  How  ! 

Fred.  The  tears  of  my  Mother  are  all  the  inheritance 
I  ever  received  from  my  Father.  Never  has  he  enquired 
after  me,  never  concerned  himfelf  whether  I  had  exift- 
ence. 

Baron.  That  is  bad  !  {much  confuted)  very  bad  indeed ! 

Fred.  I  am  the  unhappy  offspring  of  a  ftolen  amour. 
My  poor  feduced  Mother  has  educated  me  amidftfighs  and 
anguifh — with  the  labour  of  her  hands  fhe  gained  a  fuffi- 
ciency  to  enable  her,  in  fome  degree,  to  cultivate  my 
heart  and  mind — and  I  think  I  am,  through  her  care,  be- 
come a  man,  who  might  be  a  fource  of  joy  to  any  father. 
But  mine,  willingly  foregoes  this  pleafure,  and  his  con- 
icience  leaves  him  at  eafe  refpecting  the  fate  of  his  unhap- 
py child. 

Baron.  At  eafe ! — Oh  if  his  confcience  can  be  at  eafe 
under  fuch  circumftances,  he  muft  be  a  hardened  villain 
indeed ! 

Fred.  As  I  grew  up,  and  wifiied  no  longer  to  be  a 
burthen  upon  my  indigent  mother,  I  had  no  refourcc 
but  to  affume  thefe  garments,  and  I  entered  into  the  fer- 
vice  of  a  volunteer  corps — for  one  illegally  born  cannot 
be  received  as  an  apprentice  by  any  tradefman  or  artift. 

Baron.  Unfortunate  young  man ! 

Fred.  Thus,  amidft  turmoils,  patted  the  early  years  of 
my  life — To  the  thoughtlefs  youth  nature  generally 
gives  pleafure  as  his  companion,  and  through  enjoyment 
itrengthens  the  mind  againft  thofe  cares  and  forrows 
which  are  the  inevitable  lot  of  the  maturer  man;  but  the 
•nlyjoys  of  my  youth  were  coarfe  harfii  bread,  with  pure 

water, 


A    PLAY.  59 

water,  and  ftripes  from  the  ferjeant's  hand.  Yet,  what, 
fignifies  that  to  my  Father  ? — his  table  is  fplendidly  fet. 
oat^  and  to  the  laches  of  confcience  he  is  infenfible. 
Baron.  (Jfide)  This  young  man  wrings  my  heart ! 
Fred.  After  a  feparation  of  five  years  from  my  Mother, 
I  this  day  returned  home,  full  of  love  for  the  country 
which  contained  that  dear  parent — full  of  the  fweeteft 
dreams — of  the  moft  pleafing  pictures  imagination  could 
form.  I  found  my  poor  mother  fick — reduced  to  beggary 
— not  having  eaten  for  two  days — no  bundle  of  ftraw  on 
which  to  lay  her  head — no  fhelter  againft  rain  or  florins — 
no  compaffionate  heart  to  clofe  her  eyes — no  fpot  whereon 
to  die  in  peace.  But  what  does  that  concern  my  father  ? 
He  has*a  fine  caftle,  fleeps  on  foft  beds  of  down,  and  when 
he  dies,  the  minifter  of  religion  will  in  a  pompous  funeral 
fermon,  hand  down  topofterity  his  many  chriftian  virtues. 
Baron.  (Jhuddering .)  Young  man,  what  is  thy  father's. 
name  ? 

Fred.  That  he  abufed  the  weaknefsof  aguiltlefs  maiden, 
• — deceived  her  through  falfe  oaths — that  he  gave  exiftence 
to  an  unhappy  wretch,  who  muft  curfe  him  for  the  fatal  gift 
■ — that  he  has  driven  his  only  fon  almoft  to  parricide — Oh 
thefe  are  trifles — and  when  the  day  of  reckoning  comes, 
may  all  be  paid  for  by  a  piece  of  gold? — [throivs  the  Louis- 
d'or  at  the  Baron's  feet.) 

Baron.  {Half  dijlracled.)  Young  man,  tell  me  thy 
father'6  name  ! 

Fred.  Baron  Wildenhain!  (The  Baron Jlrikes  his  forehead 
with  both  hands,  and  remains  fixed  to  the  fpot  where  'be 
{lands.  Frederick  proceeds  with  violent  emotion.')  Ye:-;, 
in  this  houfe,  in  this  very  room,  perhaps,  was  my  mother 
beguiled  of  her  virtue,  and  I  was  begotten  for  the  fwordof 
the  executioner.  And  now,  my  Lord,  I  am  not  free — 
I  am  your  prifoner — 1  will  not  be  free. — I  am  a  high*  ay- 
robber — loudly  do  I  accufe  myfelf  as  fuch — you  fhall 
confign  me  over  to  the  hand  of  juftice — fhall  .conduct 
me  to  the  place  of  execution — you  fhall  hear  how  the 
prieft  feeks  in  vain  to  calm  my  mind — (hall  hear  ho w 
in  defpair  I  curfe  my  father— fhall  (land  by  me  as  the 
head  falls  from  the  trunk — and  my  blood — your  own 
blood — fhall  fprinkle  your  garments. 
Baron.  Oh  hold!   hold! 

'Fred.  And  when  you  turn  from  this  fcen?,  and  defcend 

from 


6©  THE  NATURAL  SON. 

from  the  fcaffbld — there  at  its  foot  fhall  you  find  my  mo- 
ther, even  at  the  moment  that  (he  draws  her  laft  breath— . 
fighs  out  her  foul  in  anguifh! 

Baron.   Inhuman  !  hold  ! 

[The  Pastor  rujhes  in  ha/lily.] 

Pa/lor.  Heaven's  what  is  the  matter? — I  hear  impaf- 
iianed  words  ! — what  has  been  pafling  here  ? — young  man, 
I  hope  you  have  not  attempted — 

Fred.  Yes,  fir,  I  have  attempted  to  take  your  office 
from  your  hands — I  have  made  a  finner  tremble  !  {point- 
ing to  the  Baron.)  See  there — thus  after  a  lapfe  of  one 
and  twenty  years,  the  injuries  arifing  from  inordinate  paf- 
ilons,  are  avenged. — I  am  a  murderer — I  am  a  high- 
way-robber— but  what  I  feel  in  this  moment  is  tranfport, 
is  blifs,  compared  with  the  thorns  which  lacerate  his 
hrcaft,  I  go  to  furrender  myfelf  up  to  juftice,  and  then 
at  the  throne  of  heaven  will  I  appear  a  bloody  witnefs 
againft  this  man.  [Exit. 

SCENE  IX.— 7he  Baron— the  Pastor. 

Pajlor.  For  heaven's  fake  what  is  the  matter  ? — I  can- 
not underfland. — 

Baron.  Oh  he  is  my  fon  !  he  is  my  fon ! — away,  my 
friend,  advife  me — afiift  me,  haflen  to  the  poor  fick 
woman  in  the  village — Frank  will  {hew  you  the  way— > 
haften  ! — oh  haften  ! — 

Pajlor.   But  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

Baron.  Oh  God  ! — -your  ov/n  heart  muft  inftru£t.  you  ! 
(Exit  the  Pajlor — the  Baron  proceeds  with  great  emotion 
holding  his  head  with  both  his  hands.)  Am  I  in  my 
fenfes  ? — or  are  thefe  only  vifions  of  fancy  ? — I  have  a 
/on,  a  brave,  a  noble  youth,  and  I  have  not  yet  clafped 
him  in  my  arms,  have  not  prefled  him  to  my  heart — 
(calls)  Rodolph  !  (Enter  a  Hunt/man.)    Where  is  he? 

Huntfman.  Who,  my  Lord  ? — the  highway-robber  ? 

Baron.  Sluggard  ! — the  young  man  who  even  now  went 
hence  ! 

Huntfman.  He  is  going  before  the  juftice — we  have 
fent  after  the  conftable. 

Baron.  Let  the  conftable  be  kicked  down  flairs  when  he 
eomes — let  no  one  dare  to  lay  hands  upon  the  young  man. 

Huntfman.  (furprifed.)  Very  well,  my  Lord,  (going.) 

Baron.  Stay,  Rodolph  ! 

ffuntfman.  Moft  noble  Lord  ! 

Baron. 


A    PLAY,  61 

Baron.  Conduct  the  young  foldier  into  the  green-room 
hy  the  dining-hall,  and  attend  upon  him  as  his  fervant. 

Hunt/mart.  The  count  von  der  Mulde  lodges  there,  my 
Lord. 

Baron.  Let  him  be  kicked  out,  and  fent  to  the  devil.-— 
(The  Huntfman  Jiands  perplexed,  not  knowing  what  he 
Jhoulddo,  the  Baron  walks  eagerly  backwards  and  forwards.) 
I  want  no  'fon-in-law  ! — I  have  a  fon — *a  fon  who  fhali 
continue   my  name,   and    inherit  my  eftates — a  fon    in 

whofe   arms    I    will  die. Yes,  I  will   atone  to    him 

for  all — J  will  fuffer  no  falfe  fhame  to  reftrain  me  ! — ;A11 
my  tenants,  all  my  fervants,  (hall  know  it ; — ^know  that  I 
could  forget  my  child — but  that  I  am  not  hardened  in  my 
guilt.     Rodolph  ! 

Huntfman.  My  Lord  ! 

Baron.  Conduct  him  hither  ! — entreat  him  to  come  in, 
and  let  all  who  are  in  the  anti-chamber  come  with  him. 
[Rodolph  goes  out.)  Oh,  my  heart !— 'What  is  it  thus 
makes  my  blood  rufti  through  my  veins,  that  from  the 
crown  of  my  head  even  to  the  fole  of  my  foot,  I  am 
pulfationall  oVer ! — 'Tis  joy  ! — joy  !— *joy  !™joy  wholly 
unmerited  by  me.  {Frederick  enters,  furrounded  by  a 
number  of  fervants,   the  Baron  ru/bes  towards  him.)     He 

comes! Oh  let  me  clafp  thee  to   this  heart!     [He 

throws  himfelf  upon  Frederick's  neck,  and  clafps  him  in  his 
arms.)     My  fon  I !  ! 


£nd  of  Act  IV. 


ACT 


&z  THE  NATURAL  SON; 


A  C  T     V. 

SCENE  I.     The  Cottager's  room,  as  in  the  fecond  Aft. 
WlLHELMINA,   //^COTTAGER,  and  his  WlFE. 

WlLHELMINA. 

GOOD  Father,  go  out  once  more,  and  fee  whether 
he  be  not  coming. 

,    Cottager.  That  will  not  bring  him,  good  woman  ! 

I  am  but  this  moment  come  in,  and  have  looked  about 
every  where,  and  can  fee  nobody. 

Wife.  Only  have  a  little  patience — who  knows  whither 
he  may  be  gone. 

Cottager .  Yes,  indeed,  he  may  be  ftraggled  into  the 
town. 

Wife.  True,  hufband  ! — but  he  won't  get  much  by 
that ;  people  are  hard-hearted  enough  in  the  town. 

Wilhel.  Yet  go  once  more,  I  entreat  you,  father !— — 
Perhaps  he  may  foon  come  now. 

Cottager.  Dire&ly  ! — to  oblige  you  !  [Exit. 

Wife.  If  your  fon  did  but  know  what  God  has  been 
pleafed  to  fend  in  his  abfence,  he'd  have  been  here  long 
ago. 

Wilhel.  I  am  fo  anxious. 

Wife.  How  ! — anxious  ! — One  who  has  fuch  a  purfe 
full  of  money  cannot  be  anxious  in  mind  j — that  is  to  fay, 
if  (he  come  by  it  honeftly. 
Wilhel.  Where  can  he  ftay  fo  long  ? — He  has  been 

gone  already  four  hours. Some  misfortune  muft  have 

happened  to  him. 

Wife.  No,  no  ! — What  misfortune  fhould  happen  ?— 
It  is  ftill  broad  day-light.     Be  cheery,  and  take  heart ; 

we'll  have  a  good  fupper  at  night. Oh,  you  may  live 

a  long  time  upon  that  money,  and  do  whatever  you  pleafe. 
— Is  it  not  true  that  our  Baron  is  a  fine  noble  gentleman. 
Wilhel.  How  can  he  have  learnt  that  I  was  here  ? 

Wife.  Nay,  that  heaven  only  knows ! Mr.  Frank 

was  fo  fecret. 

Wilhel.  (Halfafide.)  Does  he  then  know  me? It 

muft  be  fo,  elfe  he  would  not  have  been  fo  very  liberal. 

Wife, 


A    PLAY.  63 

Wife,  I  do'nt  think  that  follows  ! — Our  good  Baron  is 
kind  both  to  thofe  he  knows,  and  to  ftrangers. 

(The  Cottager  re-enters,  fcratching  his  head.) 

Wilhel.  (as  foon  as  foe  fees  him)   Well!  ftill no  tidings? 

Cottager.  One  might  gape  till  one  was  blind,  and  not 
fee  him  at  laft. 

Wilhel.  Ah,  God  ! — what  can  come  of  this  ! 

Cottager.  I  faw  our  good  Paftor  coming  round  the 
corner  there. 

Wilhel.  Coming  hither? 

Csttager.  Who  knows  ? he  commonly  comes  once  in 

three  or  four  weeks,  to  enquire  after  us. 

Wife.  Yes,  he  is  very  attentive  in  vifiting  all  his  parifhi<- 
oners,  and  then  he  afks  how  we  go  on  with  our  employ- 
ments, and  how  we  live  among  each  other.— If  there's 
any  quarrels  or  difcontents  among  us,  he  makes  them  up ; 

if  any  poor  man  is  in  great  want  he  affifts  him. 

You  know,  hufband,  how  lately  he  fent  one  of  his  cows  to 
the  lame  Michael. 

Cottager.  Yes,  he  feqt  him  the  beft  milch-cow,  out  of 
his  yard. God  blefs  him  for  it  I 

Wife.  God  blefs  him  ! 

SCENE  II.      Enter  the  Pastor. 

Paflor.  God  blefs  you,  my  children  ! 

Cottager  and  Wife.  Thank  you  kindly,  Sir  ! 

Cottager.  You  are  kindly  welcome  to  us  indeed. 

Wife,  (reaches  a  chair ,  which  Jhe  wipes  with  her 
apron)  Pray  fit  down ! 

Cottager.  The  weather  is  warm,  let  me  fetch  you  a 
glafs  of  beer. 

Wife.  Or  fome  nice  juicy  pears. 

Paftor.  I  thank  you,  good  people,  but  I  am  not  thirfty. 
You  appear  to  have  a  vifitor. 

Cottager.  Ah !  dear  Sir,  (he  is  a  poor  woman,  very 
fick  and  weak — we  took  her  in  here  from  the  road. 

Paflor.  God  will  reward  your  goodnefs. 

Cottager.  He  has  rewarded  it  already. — We  are  as  happy 
and  joyful  to  day,  as  if  we  were  going  to  the  wake  to- 
morrow— an't  we  Bet  ?    (holds  out  his  hand  to  his  wife.) 

Wife.  Yes  hufband  !  (Jhe  takes  his  hand  and  fhakes  it 
heartily.) 

Pa/tor.  (to  Wilhelmina.)  Who  are  you,  good  woman  ? 

Wilhel, 


64  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

Wilhel  I !— Ah,  Sir  !— (in  a  halfwhifper)  Oh  that  we 
Were  alone ! 

Pajlor  (to  the  Cottager)  Be  fo  kind,  John,  as  to  leave 
me  alone  with  this  woman  for  a  few  minutes — I  wifli  for 
fome  private  converfation  with  her. 

Cottager.  Do  you  hear,  Bet !  come  2long.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE  III.     The  Pastor  WWjlhelmina. 

Pajlor.  Well,  my  good  woman,  we  are  alone. 

Wilhel.  Before  I  tell  you  what  I  was,  and  who  I  am, 
allow  me  to  afk  you  fome  queftions.  Are  you  a  native  of 
this  country? 

Pallor.  No,  I  came  from  Franconia. 

Wilhel.  Did  you  know  the  worthy  old  Paftor,  your 
predeceffor  ? 

Pajlor.  No, 

Wilhel.  (inquisitively)  You  really  then  do  not  know 
any  particulars  of  my  unhappy  ltory,  and  it  was  merely 
chance  that  brought  you  hither? 

Pajlor.  If  you  are,  indeed,  the  perfon  I  fuppofe  you, 
and  whom  I  have  fo  long  fought,  your  ftory  is  not  wholly 
unknown  to  me. 

Wilhel.  Whom  you  fuppofe  ? — and  whom  you  have 
fo  long  fought? — who  then  gave  you  fuch  a  com- 
miffion  ? 

Pajlor.  A  man  who  interelts  himfelf  deeply  in  your 
fate. 

Wilhel.    Indeed— Oh  quickly  tell  me  then — whom  dq 
you  fuppofe  me  to  be  ? 
-  Pa/lor-.  Wjlhelmina  Boettcher. 

Wilhel.  Yes,  I  am  the  unfortunate,  feduced  Wilhel- 
mina! — and  the  man  who  takes  fo  deep  an  intereft  in  my 
fate — I  fuppofe  is  Baron  Wildenhain — he  who  robbed  me 
of  my  innocence — the  murderer  of  my  father — who  for 
twenty  years  has  confined  me  and  his  child  to  mifery,  and 
who  now  hopes  to  atone  for  all,  by  a  defpicable  purfe  of 
gold.  (Draws  out  the  purfe  fent  her  ly  the  Baron.)  I 
know  not  with  what  view  you  may  now  come  hither, 
whether  to  reproach,  or  to  confole  me,  or  whether  to 
banifli  me  from  thefe  borders,  that  my  prefence  may  not 
be  a  repronch  to  the  voluptuary — but  one  requeft  I  have 
earneftly  to  make  you  ! — carry  back  this  purfe  to  the  man 
who  has  ruined  me — tell  him,  that  my  virtue  was  not  to 

be 


A    PLAY.  65 

he  bartered  for  gold — that  gold  cannot  repay  me  for  my 
loft  peace  of  mind,  nor  can  the  curfe  of  an  aged  parent  be 
redeemed  by  gold.  Tell  him,  that  the  poor  ftarving  Wil- 
helmina,  though  clothed  in  beggar's  rags,  is  ftill  too  proud 
in  fpirit  to  receive  benefits  from  her  feducer.  We  have 
no- feelings  now  in  common  with  each  other — he  defpifed 
my  heart — with  equal  contempt  I  fpurn  his  gold  ! — he  has 
trampled  me  under  foot — I  trample  under  foot  his  gold. 
(She  throws  the  pur fe  difdainfully  upon  the  ground.)  But 
he  fhall  be  left  to  his  repofe — wholly  to  his  repofe — he 
ihall  live  as  hitherto,  in  mirth  and  cheerfulnefs,  nor  fhall 
the  fight  of  Wilhelmina  imbitter  his  pleafures.  As 
foon  as  I  have  fomewhat  recovered  my  ftrength,  I  will 
for  ever  leave  the  place,  where  the  name  of  Wildenhain, 
and  the  grave  of  my  poor  father,  bow  me  to  the  ground  ; 
and  tell  him  that  I  knew  not  he  was  returned  from  Fran- 
conia,  knew  not  that  he  was  fo  near  me ! — Allure  him 
earneftly  of  this,  or  he  may  believe  that  I  came  hither  in 
fearch  of  him. — Oh  he  muft  not  believe  that !-— And  now, 
Sir,  you  fee  that  your  prefence,  the  objeclt  of  your  vifit, 
have  exhaufted  my  little  ftrength. — I  know  not  how  to 
fay  more — I  know  not  what  more  he  who  fent  you  can 
require  of  me,  (with  indignation.)  Yet  one  thing  farther — 
perhaps  phe  Baron  has  recollected,  that  he  once  promifed 
me  marriage — that  on  his  knees  before  me,  he  called  on 
God  to  witnefs  his  vows,  and  pledged  his  honour  for  their 
performance—but  teil  him  not  to  be  uneafy  on  that  ac- 
count, for  the  remembrance  has  long  fince  been  banifhed 
from  my  bofom. 

Pa/tor.  I  have  liftened  to  you  with  patient  attention^ 
that  I  might  learn  your  whole  fentiments  of  the  Baron,  and 
your  own  peculiar  ways  of  thinking.  In  this  unprepared 
moment,  when  your  full  heart  overflowed,  you  doubt- 
lefs  have  not  difTembled,  and  I  rejoice  to  find  you  a  wo- 
man of  the  nobleft  fentiments,  worthy  of  the  higheft 
atonement  that  a  man  of  honour — a  man  of  ftri£t  honour 
can  make  you.— -With  what  fatisfaclion  therefore,  can 
I  correct  an  error,  which,  has  perhaps,  occafioned 
much  of  the  bitternefs  you  have  expreffed  againft  the 
Baron.  Had  he  known  that  the  fick  woman  in  this  cot- 
tage was  Wilhelmina  Boettcher,  and  had  fent  to  her  this 
purfe,  he  had  deferved  that  his  own  fon  fhould  be  his 
murderer! — but  no!  believe  me,  no! — this  has  he  not 
done.  Look  me  in  the  face,  my  profefHon  demands  con- 
fidence,, 


66  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

fidence,  but,  independently  of  that,  you  furely  would 
believe  me  incapable  of  a  falfhood — and  I  molt  folemnly 
allure  you,  that  it  was  chance  alone,  made  you  the  objecT: 
of  his  bounty,  which  he  believed  was  exercifed  towards 
an  entire  ftranger. 

Wllhel.  How,  Sir ! — Would  you  perfuade  me,  that 
Inch  a  prefent  as  this  was  the  effect:  of  chance  ? — To  a 
ftranger  one  fends  a  florin,  a  dollar,  but  not  a  purfe  of 
gold. 

Pajlor.  I  grant  it  is  extraordinary — but  the  occafion 
was  extraordinary.     Your  fon — 

Wilhel  What!  my  Son? 

Pajlor.  Becalm.  An  affectionate  Son  begged  for  his 
Mother — that  .affected  the  Baron. 

Wilhel.  Begged  of  the  Baron ! — of  his  Father  \ 

Pa/lor,  Even  fo  ! — but  underftand,  that  neither  knew 
the  other — and  that  the  mother  received  this  prefent  for 
the  fake  of  the  fon. 

Wilhel.  Knew  not  each  other! — And  where  is  my 
fon  ? 

Pajlor.  At  the  caftle. 

Wilhel.  And   ft  ill  are  they  unknown  to  each  other  ? 

Pajlor.  No — all  is  now  revealed,  and  I  am  fent  hither 
by  the  Baron,  not  to  an  unknown  fick-woman,  but  to 
Wilhelmina  lioettcher,  not  with  money,  but  with  acom- 
miflion  to  act  as  my  own  heart  fhall  dictate. 

Wilhel.  Your  heart ! — oh,  Sir,  pledge  not  your 
feelings  for  thofe  of  this  obdurate  man  ! — Yet  will  the 
woman  forget,  what  fhehas  fufferedforhis  fake,  if  he  only 
v/ill  atone  for  it  to  the  mother — the  woman  will  pardon 
him,  jf  be  deferve  the  Mother's  thanks.  In  what  ftate 
then  is  my  Frederick— how  has  the  baron  received  him? 

Pajlor.  I  left  him  overcome  by  violent  emotions — it 
was  eyen  then  the  moment  of  difcoyery — nothing  was 
yet  decided — yet,  doubtlefs,  at  this  inftant  the  fon  is 
clafped  in  his  father's  arms.  I  will  warrant  that  his 
heart — 

Wilhel.  Again  his  heart !— heaven's  how  is  the 
heart  of  this  man  thus  fuddenly  changed  ? — for  twenty 
years  deaf  to  the  voice  of  nature — 

Paftor.  You  do  him  injuftice ! — hear  before  you  judge 
him.     Many  errors  appear  to  us  at  the  firft  view  deteita- 
bje— when  if  we  knew  all  that  led  to  them,  all  the  inter- 
vening 


A    PLAY.  67 

vening  cifcumftances  which  infenfibly  prompted  to  the 
deed,  all  the  trifles  whofe  iufluence  is  fo  imperceptible, 
and  yet  fo  great,  how  might  our  opinions  be  altered.— 
Could  we  have  accompanied  the  offender  ftep  by  ftep,  in- 
ftead  of,  as  now,  feeing  only  the  firft,  the  tenth,  and  the 
twentieth,  often  indeed,  mould  we  exculpate,  where 
we  at  prefent  condemn.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  defend  the 
Baron's  mifcondudt,  but  this  I  dare  aflert,  that  even  a  good 
man  may  once  in  his  life  be  guilty  of  a  lapfe,  with- 
out deferving  to  forfeit  entirely  his  character  for  good- 
uefs.  Where  is  the  demi-god,  who  can  dare  to  vaunt, 
that  his  confcience  is  clear,  pure  as  falling  fnow  ! — and  if 
fuch  a  boafter  live,  for  God's-iake  trull  him  not,  he 
is  far  more  dangerous  than  a  repentant  finner. — Pardon 
my  difFufenefs — in  a  few  words  you  mall  now  have  the 
Baron's  ftory  fince  your  feparation. — At  that  time  he 
loved  you  moft  fmcerely,  but  the  fear  of  his  rigid  mother 
prevented  the  fulfilment  of  his  vows.  The  war  recalled 
him  to  the  field,  where  he  was  feverely  wounded,  made 
a  prifoner,  and  for  a  whole  year  was  confined  to  his  bed, 
unable  to  write  to  you,  or  to  obtain  any  information  con- 
cerning you — Then  did  your  image  firft  begin  to  grow 
fainter  in  his  mind.  In  confequence  of  his  dangerous 
wounds,  he  was  carried  from  the  field  of  battle  to  a 
neighbouring  manfion,  the  owner  of  which  was  a  man 
of  rank  and  benevolence,  pofiefied  of  a  large  eftate, 
and  the  father  of  a  beautiful  daughter.  The  maiden 
was  particularly  pleafed  with  the  young  man,  fcarcely 
ever  left  his  bed-fide,  nurfed  him  like  a  filter,  and  filed 
tears  for  his  fufferings,  to  which  the  Baron's  heart  could 
not  be  infenfible.  Philanthropy  and  gratitude  knit  the 
bands,  which  death  tore  alunder  but  a  few  weeks  fince. 
Thus  was  the  remembrance  of  you  entirely  obliterated.  He 
exchanged  his  native  country  for  a  noble  refidence  in  Fran- 
conia  ;  he  became  a  hufband,  a  father,  and  employed 
himfelf  in  the  improvement  of  his  eftates — no  object 
that  he  beheld  reminded  him  of  you,  nor  could  any 
thing  revive  your  image  in  his  heart,  till  his  life  be- 
came imbittered  by  domcftic  feuds.  Too  late  he  dis- 
covered in  his  wife  a  proud,  imperious  woman,  a 
fpoiled  child  poflefiing  a  fpirit  of  contradiction,  and  per- 
tina«k>ufly  adhering  to  her  own  opinions.  She  feemed  to 
have  refcued  him  from  death,  merely  to  torment  him  to 

death 


68  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

death  herfelf.  Chance  at  that  time  conducted  me  to  his 
houfe — I  gained  his  friendfhip — J  became  the  inftru&or 
of  his  only  daughter,  and  was  foon  admitted  to  his  con- 
fidence.— Oh  how  often  has  he  with  anguifti  of  heart,  faid, 
"  This  woman  revenges  on  me  the  wrongs  of  my 
Wilhelmina." — How  often  has  he  curfed  the  wealth 
which  his  wife  brought  him,  and  in  fancy  enjoyed  a  lefs 
brilliant,  but  more  happy  lot,  in  your  arms.  When  at 
length  this  living  became  vacant,  and  he  offered  me  the 
cure,  the  firft  words  with  which  he  accompanied  the 
propofal  were,  "  my  Friend,  there  will  you  learn  what 
is  become  of  my  Wilhelmina." — Every  letter  that  I 
afterwards  received  from  him,  contained  this  exclamation 
— "  Still  no  tidings  of  my  Wilhelmina !" — Thefe  letters 
are  now  in  my  pofleffion — you  may  fee  them.  I  never 
was  able  to  difcover  the  place  of  your  abode — fate  pre- 
vented it — having  in  its  view  this  more  important  day. 

Wilhel.  You  have  afFedted  me  much — and  the  emotions 
which  I  feel  prefs  conviction  to  my  heart.  How  will  all 
this  end  ? — What  now  is  to  become  of  me  ? 

Pajlor.  The  Baron  did  not  indeed  fignify  to  me  his 
intentions  fhouldv  you  be  found,  but  your  wrongs  de- 
mand atonement,  and  I  know  but  of  one  way  in  which  it 
can  be  made. — Exalted  woman  I  If  your  flrength  will 
permit  you  to  accompany  me — my  carriage  waits — the 
road  is  fhort  and  eafy. 

Wilhel.  I  go  with  you  ? — Go  before  the  Baron  in  thefe 
rags  ? 

Pajlor.  And  wherefore  not  ? 

Wilhel.  Will  they  not  reproach  him  ? 

Pajlor.  Noble-minded  woman  !  — come  with  rue  then ; 
we  will  flop  at  my  houfe  ;  my  filler  will  quickly  furnifl* 
you  with  clothes. 

Wilhel.  But  fhall  I  find  my  Frederick  at  the  caftle  ? 

Pajlor.  Moft  certainly ! 

Wilhel.  {rifing.)  Well! — for  his  fake  I  will  fub- 
mit  to  this  arduous  tafk  ! — He  is  the  only  branch  on 
which  my  hopes  ftill  bloiTom — the  reft  are  all  withered, 
dead  ! — But  where  are  my  good  Hofl  and  Hoftefs,  that  I 
may  take  my  leave,  and  thank  them  ? 

Pajlor.  [takes  up  the  pur fe,  goes  to  the  door  and  calls.) 
Here,  Neighbour ! — John  f 

SCENE  IV, 


A    PLAY.  69 

SCENE  IV.     Enter  Cottager  and  his  Wife. 

Cottager.  Here  I  am  ! 

Wife .  Thank  God,  (he  is  upon  her  legs  once  more  ! 
1  am  heartily  glad  of  it. 

Pajior.  My  good  friends,  I  will  take  this  woman  with 
me — fhe  will  have  better  accommodations. 

Cottager.  Yes,  indeed  !— fhe  is  but  badly  off  here\ 

"Wife.  We  were  glad  to  do  the  beft  we  could  for  her, 
but  we  could  do  but  lbrrily  after  all. 

Pajior.  You  have  a£ted  like  worthy  people — -take  that 
as  a  reward  for  your  kindnefs  !  [Offers  thepurfe  to  the  Cot- 
tager, who  puts  his  hands  before  him,  plays  with  his  fingers 
in  his  waijicoat,  looks  at  the  money ,  and  [hakes  his  head.) 
Will  you  not  take  it?  {Offers  it  to  the  wife ;  Jhe  plays 
with  her  apron,  looks  at  it  with  half-averted  eyes,  and 
/hakes  her  head.)    What  is  your  objection? 

Cottager.  Pray  don't  take  it  amifs,  good  Sir  9  I  can't 
think  of  being  paid  for  doing  my  duty. 

Wife,  {looking  up  to  heaven)  There  we  look  for  our' 
reward. 

Pajior.  [laying  a  hand  on  the  Jhoulder  of  each,  much 
affecled)  And  there  you  will  be  rewarded — Heaven  blefs 
you  both ! 

Wilhel.  You  will  not  refufe  my  thanks? 

Cottager.  You  are  kindly  welcome. 

Wife.   Yes,  you  are  heartily  welcome. 

Wilhel.  Farewell,  kind  people  ! — (She  Jhakes  them  both 
by  the  hand.) 

Cottager.  Farewell,  farewell! — I  hope  you'll  foon  be 
better. 

Wife.  And  if  you  ever  come  this  way,  pray  call  in: 

Pajior.  God  preferve  you  !  {Offers  his  arm  to  Wilhel- 
mina,  who  takes  hold  of  it,  wipes  the  tears  from  her  eyes, 
and  fupports  herfelfby  a  flick  in  the  other  hand.) 

Cottager.  Adieu,  good  Paftor !  [Pulls  off  his  hat,  and 
makes  many  f craping  s  with  his  foot.) 

Wife.  And  I  thank  you  kindly  for  this  vifit. 

Both.  And  we  hope  you'll  come  again  foon.  (They  go 
to  the  door  with  the  Pajior  and  Wilhelmina.) 

Cottager,  (taking  his  wife  by  the  hand)  Well,  Bet, 
what  think  you  ?  How  fhall  we  fleep  to-night  ? 

Wife,  [prejfing  his  hand)  As  found  as  tops.     [Exeunt. 

K  SCENE 


7©  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

SCENE  V.    A  Room  in  the  Cajlle. 
The  Baron  fits  on  afofha,  exhaujied  by  various  emotions: 
Frederick.  Jiands  by,  bending  over  him,  and  prejfing 
ane  of  the  Baron 's  hands  between  his. 

Baron.  So,  you  have  really  feen  fervice — fmelt  gun- 
powder— I'd  lay  my  life,  young  man,  that  as  Frederick  von 
Wildenhain,  you  had  been  fpoiled  both  by  father  and  mo- 
ther j  but  as  Frederick  Boettcher,  you  are  grown  to  be  a 
brave  fellow.  Thou  haft  hitherto  been  expofed  to  hardfhips 
and  dangers — thy  youthful  path  has  not  been  ftrewed 
with  rofes ! — Well,  well,  Frederick,  it  fhall  be  otherwife 
now — the  future  fhall  reward  thee  for  the  paft.  The 
opprobium  of  thy  birth  fhall  be  removed — Indeed  it  fhall. 
I  will  publicly  acknowledge  thee  as>my  only  fon,  and  as 
heir  to  my  eftates  ! — What  fay'ft  thou  to  this  ? 

Fred.  And  my  mother  ? 

Baron.  Oh,  fear  not  that  fhe  fhall  ftarve! Thou 

can'ft  not  fuppofe  thy  father  will  do  things  by  halves. 
Knoweft  thou  not  that  Wildenhain  is  one  of  the  beft 
eftates  in  this  country,  and  only  a  mile  from  hence  lies 
Wellendorf,  alio  a  little  eftate  of  mine  ?  Befides,  through 
my  wife,  God  reft  her  foul !  I  have  three  large  manors 
in  Franconia. 

Fred.  But  my  mother  ? 

Baron.  I  was  going  to  fay,  that  your  mother  fhall 
have  her  choice  of  an  abode.  If  fhe  does  not  like  Fran- 
conia, fhe  may  remain  at  Wellendorf.  T  here  is  a  neat 
houfe,  neither  too  large  nor  too  fmall — a  pretty  garden, 
and  in  a  delightful  country — in  fliort,  a  paradife  in  mi- 
niature. There  fhall  fhe  want  for  nothing — there  fhall 
a  happy  old  age  fmooth  the  furrows  which  a  youth  of 
forrow  has  made  in  her  cheeks. 

Fred.  [Jiarting  back)  How! 

Baron.  Yes,  indeed ! — And  you  know,  Frederick,  as 
the  diftance  is  not  great,  in  the  morning,  fhould  we  be 
inclined  to  make  your  mother  a  vifit,  'tis  only  to  faddle 
the  horfes,  and  we  can  be  there  in  an  hour. 

Fred.  Indeed ! — And  by  what  name  fhall  my  mother 
fee  called  ? 

Baron,  (corifufed)  How  ? 
•  Fred.  Is  fhe  to  be  considered  as  your  houfekeeper,  or 
your  miftrefs  ? 

Baron. 


A    PLAY.  ?i 

Baron.  Fool! 

Fred.  I  underftand  you  ! — and  will  withdraw  myfelF, 
my  father,  that  you  may  have  time  to  confider  of  your 
refolution ;  only  I  allure  you,  by  all  that  is  moft  dear,  moft 
facred  to  me,  (nor  can  any  thing  make  my  determination) 
that  my  fate  is  infeparably  united  to  my  mother's — it  muft. 
be  Wilhelmina  von  Wiidenhain,  and  Frederick  von 
Wildenhain,  or  Wilhelmina  Boettcher  and  Frederick 
Boettcher.  [Exit, 

Baron.  So! — What  would  he  then? — Surely  he  does 
not  mean  thatl  mould  marry  his  mother  ? — Young  man ! 
young  man  !  thou  muft  not  prefume  to  prefcribe  laws  to 
thy  father ! — I  thought  I  had  arranged  every  thing  ad- 
mirably well — I  was  as  happy  as  a  king — I  had  relieved 
my  conicience  of  a  burden,  and  was  recovering  my  breath, 
then  comes  this  fellow  and  rolls  another  great  ftone  in  the 
path  over  which  I  muft  ftumble.  Well,  well,  friend  Con- 
fcience,  God  be  thanked,  thou  and  I  are  friends  again. — 
Hey !  how's  this  ?  What  am  I  to  underftand  ? — Thou  art 
ftlent — or  rather  feemeft  to  murmur  a  little ! 

SCENE  VI.     Enter  the  Pastor. 

Baron.  You  are  come  in  happy  time,  my  friend ;  my 
confcience  and  I  have  commenced  a  fuit,  and  fuch  fuits 
properly  belong  to  your  jurifdiclion. 

Pajior.  Your  confcience  is  in  the  right. 

Baron.  Hey,  hey,  Mr.  Judge,  not  fo  partial  if  you 
pleafe  ! — you  know  not  yet  what  the  queftion  is. 

Pajior.  Confcience  is  always  in  the  right,  for  it  never 
fpeaks  but  when  it  is  in  the  right. 

Baron.  Well, — but  I  am  not  yet  certain  whether  it 
fpeaks,  or  is  filent,  only  in  fuch  cafes  perfons  of  your 
profeffion  have  quicker  ears  than  ght  own.  Liften  then, 
a  few  words  will  ftate  the  cafe. — I  have  found  my  fon, 
(Clapping  bis  hand  on  his  Jhsulder)  a  fine,  noble  youth, 
good  Paftor!   full   of  fire  as   a  Frenchman,  proud  as  an 

Englifhman,  and  full  of  honour  as  a  German. Be  this 

as  it  may,  I  mean  to  remove  the  opprobrium  of  his  ille- 
gitimacy.— Am  I  not  right  in  this  ? 

Paftor.  Perfectly  right  ' 

Baron.  And  his  mother  {hall,  in  her  old  age, lead  an  afflu- 
ent and  happy  life.  I  will  give  htr  my  eftate  of  Wellen- 
florf,  the  .  u  ay  fJbc  live,  form  it  according  to  her  tafte, 
K  2  grow 


72  THE  NATURAL  SON. 

grow  young   again  in  her  fon,    revive    in   her   grand- 
children.-—Am  I  not  right  in  this? 
Pq/ior.   No. 

Baron.  {Starting  back.)  No ! — What  then fhould  I  do  ? 
Pajior.  Marry  her  ! 
Baron.  How !  — Marry  her  ? 

Pajior.    Baron  Wildenhain  is  a  man  who  never  a&s 
without  fufficient  reafon.— 1  ftand  here  as  the  advocate  of 
your  confcience,  and  requeft  to  know  upon  what  grounds 
you  now  proceed— Then  (hall  you  hear  what  I  hare  to  fay. 
Baron.  Would  you  have  me  marry  a  beggar  ? 
Pajior.     {after  a  paufe)    Is  that  all  I 
Baron,  {confujed)     No,— I  have  further  grounds  :— 
much  further  f 
Pajior.  May  I  requeft  to  know  them  ? 
Baron,  (/till  much  confufed)      I  am  a  Nobleman. 
Pajior.  What  more  I 
Baron.  People  will  point  their  fingers  at  me. 

Pajior.  Proceed. — 

Baron.  My  relations  will  look  afkance  at  me. 

Pajior.  Well. 

Baron.  And—  -and-— {very  haji'ily)  plague  take  it,  I  can 
recollect  nothing  more  ! 

Pajior.  Now,  then,  it  is  my  turn  to  fpeak.  But  before  I 
begin,  let  me  put  a  few  queftions  to  you  :  Did  Wilhelmina, 
through  levity  or  coquetry,  lay  berfelf  open  to  feduction. 
Baron.  No,  no,  fhe  was  always  a  modeft,  prudent  girl. 
Pajior.    Did  it  coft  you  much  trouble  to  fubdue  her 
virtue. 

Baron.   {Jhortly)  Yes. 

Pajior.  Did  you  notpromife  her  marriage  ?   {the  Baron 
hefitates^  the  Pajior  ajks  again   more  earnejily)      Did  you 
not  promife  her  marriage  ? 
Baron.  Yes  ! 

Pajior.  And  called  God  to  witnefs  your  promife  ? 
Baron.   Yes ! 

Pajior.  And  pledged  your  honour  for  its  performance  ? 
Baron,  {impatiently)  The  devil ! — Yes  ! 
Pajior •;  Well  then,  my  Lord, — God  was  your  witnefs — 
God,  who  faw  you  at  that  moment,  and  who  fees  you 
now. — Your  honour  was  your  pledge,  which  you  muft 
redeem,  if  you  ate  indeed  a  man  of  honour.  I  now  ftand 
before  you. imprefTed  with  the  dignity  of  my  fublime  vocation^ 
and  dare  fpeak  to  you  as  to  the  loweft  of  your  peafants  ; 

my 


A   PLAY.  73 

Kiy  duty  requires  it,  and  I  will  fulfil  my  duty,  even  at  the 
hazard  of  your  friendfhip.  Did  you,  as  a  thoughtlefs 
youth,  who  lives  only  for  the  prefent  moment,  feduce  an 
innocent  girl  without  thinking  on  the  confequences  ;  but, 
in  maturer  years,  repenting  of  your  youthful  follies,  have 
you  to  the  utmoft  of  your  power  repaired  your  faults, 
then  are  you  indeed  a  man  deferving  the  efteem  of  the  ho- 
neft  and  the  virtuous. — But---has  the  voluptuous  youth, 
through  wicked  fnares,  involved  a  guiltlefs  creature  in  mi- 
fery,  and  deprived  a  maiden  of  her  virtue,  her  happinefs,  to 
fatisfy  the  paflion  of  a  moment  ?  did  he  pledge  his  word 
of  honour  in  intoxication,  and  offer  up  his  confeience  as 
a  facrifice  to  his  deilres,  and  believes  he  that  all  is  to 
be  atoned  by  a  handful  of  gold,  of  which  chance  alone 
makes  him  the  poffeffor. — Oh,  does  not  fuch  an  one 
deferve Pardon  my  warmth,  my  lord !  it  might  in- 
jure a  good  caufe,  were  it  not  here  moft.  natural. — Fare- 
well the  good  old  days  of  chivalry.  The  virtues  of  our 
anceftors,  their  high  fenfe  of  honour,  their  reverence  for 
female  delicacy,  are  buried  in  one  common  grave  ;  no- 
thing now  remains  but  the  moft  trivial  or  the  woiff  part,  of 
thofe  times,  their  titles,  and  their  lingle  combats.  A  victory 
over  innocence  is,  in  thefe  days,  confidered  as  a  de-:d  of  he- 
roifm,  of  which  the  conqueror  vaunts  over  his  bottle,  while 
the  poor  object  of  feduction,  drowned  in  her  tears, curfes  the 
deftroyer  of  her  honour  and  peace  of  mind,  and  perhaps 
harbours  the  horrid  thought  of  being:  herfelf'the  murderer 
of  the  infant  fhe  bears.  1  repeat,  then,  my  Lord,  that  you 
ought  to  keep  your  word,  even  though  vou  were  a  prince  ! 
A  prince  may  indeed  be  releafed  by  the  flate  from  its 
performance,  but  never  can  be  acquitted  by  his  own 
confeience  ! — Have  you  not  reafon  then  to  thank  God, 
that  you  are  not  a  prince  ?  that  it  is  in  your  power  to 
purchafe  repofe  of  heart,  that  higheft  of  ail  treafures,  at 
fo  cheap  a  price  ?— The  refolution  to  marry  Wiihel- 
mina  is  not  even  a  merit,  for  this  union  will  increafe  your 
own  happinefs.  'Tis  pity  indeed  that  it  coifs  you  no 
facrifice,  that  your  whole  fortune  is  not  at  ftake ;  then 
might  you  well  come  forth,  and  fay,  do  I  not  act  nobly? 
2  marry  Wilhelmina  ! — But  now,  fince  Wilhelmina 
brings  you  fuch  a  dowry,  greater  than  any  princefs  could 
beftow — repofe  to  your  confeience,  and  a  fon  (o  worthy 
pf  your  affection. — Now  may  you  well  exclaim — Willi 
ine  joy,  my  friend  !  I  marry  Wilhelmina ! 

Baron, 


74  THE  NATURAL  SON; 

Baron.  [During  this  f pee ch  he  has  appeared  extremely 
agitated,  now  walking  backwards  and  forwards,  then 
faufing — one  moment  tejlifying  indignation,  the  next  the 
mojl  affecling  emotions — at  length  when  the  Pajior  has 
done  /peaking,  he  approaches  him  with  open  ar?ns,  preJJ'es 
him  to  his  bofom,  and  exclaims)  My  Friend  !  wifh  me 
joy,  I  marry  Wilhelmina  ! ! ! 

Pajior.  [returning  his  embrace.)  I  moft  fincerely  wifh 
you  joy ! 

Baron.  Where  is  fhe  ? — have  you  feen  her  ? 

Pajior.  She  is  in  your  ftudy.  To  avoid  obfervation  I 
conducted  her  in  through  the  garden. 

Baron.  Well  then,  this  mail  be  the  wedding  day  ! — 
You,  my  Friend,  fhall  give  us  your  blefling  this  very 
evening. 

Pajior.  Oh  no !  not  fo  haftily — not  fo  privately.  The 
whole  village  was  witnefs  to  Wilhelmina's  fname — it 
muft  alfo  be  witnefs  to  the  reftoration  of  her  honour. 
Three  Sundays  fucceffively  muft  the  banns  be  publifhed  j 
toe  you  content  that  it  mail  be  fo  ? 

Baron.  I  am  content. 

Pajior.  And  then  will  we  folemnize  a  happy  nuptial 
feaft,  and  the  whole  village  mail  unite  in  jubilee  on  the 
occafion.     Are  you  fatisfied  ? 

Baron.  Perfectly  ! 

Pa/lor.  Is  the  fuit  now  decided  ? — is  your  confeience 
eafy  ? 

Baron.  Completely  fo — I  wifh  only  that  the  firft  inter- 
view were  over.  I  feel  the  fame  {hame  in  appearing  be- 
fore her  whom  I  have  injured,  as  a  thief  before  the  man 
he  has  robbed. 

Pa/lor.  Becalm! — Wilhelmina's  heart  is  your  judge. 

Baron.  And  then — Wherefore  mould  I  not  confefs  it? 
prejudices  are  like  old  Wounds  !  when  the  weather 
changes  they  ftill  fmart. — I — I  cannot  help  feeling  fome- 
what  afhamed  when  I  think  that  all  muft  be  known  to  my 
daughter — to  the  count — to  all  my  domeftics.  I  would 
it  were  already  over — till  it  is,  1  will  not  fee  Wilhel- 
mina, that  when  we  meet,  nothing  may  remain  but  joy 
— but  tranfport ! — Frank  !  [calls  to  a  Hunt/man  who  en- 
ters)  Where  are  my  daughter  and  the  count  ? 

Huntfman.  In  the  dining-room,  my  Lord. 

Baron.  Defire  them  to  come  hither.  [Exit  Huntjman, 
Remain  here  with  me,  good  Paftor  !  that  the  Coxccmb 
with  his  privy-chamber  airs,  may  not  difconcert  me.     I 

{hall 


A  PLAY.  7S 

(hall  fpeak  my  mind  to  him  clearly  and  concifely,  and 
when  that  is  done,  let  his  horfes  be  put  to  the  carriage, 
and  he  may  go  with  his  pommade  to  the  devil. 

SCENE  VII.  Enter  Amelia  and  the  Count. 

Count.  Nous  voila  a  vos  ordresy  mon  Colonel!  we  have 
taken  a  mod  delicieufe  promenade.  Wildenhain  is  an 
earthly  Paradife,  and  pofTefles  an  Eve,  who  refembles  the 
Mother  of  all  mankind — only  il  manquoit  un  Adam  who* 
might  take  with  extafies  from  her  hand  even  the  Apple  of 
death  itfelf! — But  now  he  is  found,  cet  Adam! — he  is 
found  ! 

Baron.  Who  is  found  ? — Frederick,  but  not  Adam! 

Count.  Frederick  !  —  Who  is  this  Frederick  I 

Baron.  My  fon  ! — my  only  Son  ! 

Count.  Comment?  your  Lord/hip's  fon  ? — Mon  Pere 
informed  me  that  you  had  only  this  daughter. 

Baron.  Your  Pere  could  not  know  that  I  had  a  fon,  for 
I  knew  it  myfelf  but  a  few  minutes  ago. 

Count.  Vou%  parlez  des  enigmes. 

Baron.  In  fhort,  the  young  man  who  attacked  us  on 
the  highway  to  day — You  may  remember  it  well,  as  you 
ran  away  fo  faft. 

Count.  I  have  aconfufed  remembrance  of  it.     But 

Baron.  Well,  he  is  my  fon  ! 

Count.  He? — how  is  it  peilible  to  believe  this? 

Baron.  Yes,  he  !  [afide  to  the  P  aft  or)  Speak  for  me, 
I  am  afhamed  before  that  coxcomb. 

Paftor.  A  man  like  you  abafhed  before  fuch  an  animal ) 

Baron.  He  is  my  natural  fon.-— But  what  of  that — be- 
fore the  expiration  of  many  weeks,  I  mall  marry  his  mo- 
ther, and  whoever  fhall  dare  to  fneer  at  it,  fhail  be  properly 
chaftifed.  Yes,  yes,  Amelia,  look  up  my  child,  you  have,, 
found  a  brother. 

Amelia,  [with  extacy)  Are  you  not  joking  ? — may  I 
believe  it  ? 

Count.  And  may  one  afk  the  name  of  his  Mother  ?— - 
Is  fhe  of  Family  ? 

Baron.  She  is-— good  Paftor,  tell  him  what  fhe  is! 

Paftor.  A  beggar. 

Count,  [laughing)   Vouz  badinez  ! 

Paftor.  Her  name,  if  you  wifh  to  know  it,  Wilhelmina 
Boettcher. 

Count.    Von  Boettcher  ?   I  never  heard  of  the  family. 

Baron. 


7*  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

Baron.  She  belongs  to  the  family  of  honeft  people,  and 
that  is  a  damn'd  fmall  one. 

Count.  Quite  a  Mefalliance  then  ? 

Pa/lor.  Generofity  and  integrity,  unite  tbemfelves  with 
love  and  conftancy. — Call  that  a  Mefalliance  if  you  pleafe. 

Count.  It  muft  be  acknowledged,  that  one  ought  to  be 
un  CEdipe,  in  order  to  develope  all  thefe  riddles.  Un  fils 
nature!! — a  la  bonne  heure^  mon  Colonel! — Why  I  have 
two.  There  muft  be  moments  in  a  man's  life,  when  if  a 
pretty  girl  fall  in  his  way — fuch  things  happen  every 
day.  But  mon  dieu!  one  never  troubles  one's  head  with 
fuch  beings — unlefs  to  put  them  to  fome  trade  perhaps, 
and  fo  make  them  ufeful  in  the  world.  Mine  are  both 
to  be  mzdefrifeurs. 

Baron.  And  mine  mall  be  a  nobleman — and  inherit  the 
eftates  of  Wildenhain  and  Wellendorf. 

Count.  Me  voila  ftupefait ! — Moft  charming  young 
lady,  I  muft  plead  your  cauie — they  are  au  point  de  vous 
ecrafer. 

Amelia.  Do  not  give  yourfelf  that  trouble. 

Count.   La fille  unique  I— -JJ unique  heritiere. 

Amelia.  11  ?ne  refte  P  amour  de  mon  pere  ! 

Baron.  Bravo,  Amelia! — bravo! — Come  hither,  and 
let  me  give  you  a  kifs  !  {Amelia  files  into  his  arms)  Count, 
you  will  do  me  a  favour,  if  you  will  take  yourfelf  away. 
A  fcene  may,  perhaps,  pafs  here,  from  which  you  will 
derive  no  fatisfa£tion. 

Count.  De  tout  mon  cosur! — At  prefent,  if  I  miftake 
not,  we  have  clair  de  luney  and  I  (hall  be  enabled  this 
very  evening  to  return  into  the  town. 

Baron.  As  you  pleafe. 

Count.  A  dire  vrai,  men  Colonel!  I  came  not  hither  to 
feek  avoleur  de  grand  chemin  as  my  brother-in-law,  nor  a 
Gueufe  as  my  ftep-mother.   Henri!  Henri!      [Skips  out. 

SCENE  VIII.  The  Baron,  Amelia,  and  the  Pastor. 

Baron,  [ftill  clafping  Amelia  in  his  arms)  Ah,  I  breathe 
more  freely ! — And  now  a  word  with  you,  my  Amelia — 
Twenty  years  ago,  your  father  was  guilty  of  a  lapfe — 
feduced  a  poor  girl,  and  gave  exiftence  to  a  child,  who 
till  this  day  has  wandered  about  the  world  in  meannefs 
and  poverty.  The  circumftance  has  prelled  upon  my 
mind  like  a  rock  of  granite— You  may  remember  how 
many  an  evening  I  have  fpent  in  gloom  and  deep  de- 
jection 


A  PLAY.  77 

je&ion— ^with  my  eyes  fixed  as  I  fat  iri  my  arm-chair 
fmoking  my  pipe — not  hearing  you  when  you  fpoke,  not 
fmiling  when  you  carefled  me — then  was  it  that  my  con- 
fidence upbraided  me—that  all  my  wealth,  my  rank,  nor 
even  you,  my  child,  could  procure  me  the  repofe  which 
a  fpotlefs  mind  alone  can  feel.  Now  I  have  found  both  wife 
and  fonj  and  this  worthy  man,  (pointing  to  the  Paftor) 
as  well  as  this,  (pointing  to  bis  heart)  both  tell  me  'tis  my 
duty  publicly  to  acknowledge  them  as  fuch.  What  think 
you  ? 
•     Amelia,  (carejfing  him.)  My  Father  need  not  afk  tkat. 

Baron .  Will  not  the  lofs  you  muft  experience,  coft  you 
©ne  figh  ?  Will  a  father's  repofe  pay  you  for  all? 

Amelia.  What  lofs  ? 

Baron.  You  were  confidered  as  my  only  heirefs. 

Amelia,  (tenderly  reproving  him.)  Oh  my  Father  ! 

Baron.  You  lofe  two  fine  eftates. 

Amelia.  But  a  Brother's  love  will  amply  repay  them. 

Baron.  And  mine!   (prejfing  her  eagerly  to  his  bofom.) 

Pajlor.   (turning  a  fide.)   Oh  why  not  mine  alfo ! 

Baron,  (to  the  Pajlor.)  My  friend,  for  a  victory  over 
one  prejudice,  I  have  to  thank  you ! — for  a  victory  over  a 
fecond,  1  muft  thank  myfelf! — A  man  like  you,  the 
teacher,  and  the  image  of  virtue,  raifes  his  profeffion  to 
one  of  the  nobleft  that  the  world  can  boaft.  Were  all 
your  brethren  like  yourfelf,  chriftianity  might  well  be 
proud  of  them! — you  are  a  noble  man — I  am  only  a 
Nobleman — or,  if  I  am  now  likely  to  become  more, 
it  is  to  you  I  fhall  be  indebted  for  the  change.  I  am  in- 
deed very  much  your  debtor — Amelia,  will  you  pay  for 
me  ?  ( Amelia  looks  at  her  Father  doubtfully  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, then  lets  fall  her  hands,  turns  to  the  Pajlor,  and 
flies  into  his  arms.) 

Pajlor.  (in  the  utmoft  ajloni foment.)  My  God! — my 
Lord  Baron. 

Baron.  Silence,  filence !  Not  a  word. 

Amelia,  (kijfmg  him)  Silence,  filence!  You,  indeed, 
love  me !  ( The  Pa/lor  loo-fens  himfelffrom  her  arms,  bur/Is 
into  tears,  attempts  to  fpeak,  but  is  unable — he  goes  up  to 
the  Baron,  takes  his  hand,  and  is  about  prejfing  it  to  his 
month,  when  the  Baron  withdraws  it,  find  prejjes  him  in 
his  arms.) 

Amelia.  Oh.  I  am  fo  happy  ! 

L  Baron. 


78  THE  NATURAL  SON: 

Baron,  {withdrazving  his  arms  from  the  Pajior)—* 
Enough,  enough  ! — Oh,  I  could  cry  like  a  child  ! — Suffer 
me,  fuffer  me  to  compofe  myfelf  for  a  few  moments — I 
have  yet  another  fcene  to  come,  more  heart-affedting  than 
even  this. — Now,  deareft  Frederick,  in  a  few  minutes 
all  fhall  be  accomplifhed,  and  the  laft  rays  of  the  declining 
fun  mail  beam  upon  the  happieft  group  in  Nature's  wide- 
extended  kingdom. — Where  is  Wilhelmina? 

Pajior.  I  will  fetch  her. 

Baron.  Stop! — my  mind  is  agitated! — my  heart  f® 
throbs  ! — one  moment  to  recover  myfelf.  {He  walks 
backwards  and  forwards ,  breathes  with  difficulty r,  and  cajis 
his  eyes  frequently  towards  the  door  of  the  adjoining  room.) 
That  way  will  me  come — that  was  my  mother's  cham- 
ber— thence  have  I  often  feen  her  come — have  feafted  on 
her  fweet  fmile — how  can  I  bear  now  to  fee  her  darkened 
forrow-worn  countenance  ?— Frederick  muft  plead  for  me 
-—Where  is  my  Frederick  I  {calls)  Frank!  [Hunt/man 
enters)  Where  is  my  fon? 

Huntfman.  In  his  room. 

Baron.  Defire  him  to  come  hither!  {to  the  Pajior) 
Now  ! — my  heart  beats  eagerly  !  Hafte  !  Hafte! — conduct 
her  in !  ( The  Pajior  goes  out  at  the  fide-door-— the  Baron 
turns  towards  it,  but  Jl arts  back  fomejieps,  luhile  all  his  fea- 
tures betray  the  greateji  agitation). 

SCENE  IX.  Enter  the  Pastor,  conducing  in  Wil- 
helmina— the  Baron  catches  her  fpcechlefs  in  his 
arms—Jhe  almoji faints.  The  Baron  and  Pastor 
place  her  in  a  chair  \  the  Baron  kneels  before  her,  with 
one  arm  round  her  waiji,  and  her  handprefj'ed  in  the  other. 

Baron.  Wilhelmina  !  know  you  not  my  voice  ? 

Wilhel.  {tenderly  and  faintly)  Wildenhain! 

Baron.   Can  you  forgive  me  ? 

Wilhel.  I  forgive  you  freely ! 

Fred,  {enters  haftily)  My  mother's  voice! — Oh,  mo- 
ther!— father!  {He  throws  himfelf  on  his  knees  by  tie 
0t her  fide  of  his  mother— jhe  bends  tenderly  over  both — the 
Paftor  ftands  with  his  eyes  gratefully  turned  towards 
heaven — Amelia  leans  on  his  Jhoulder,  and  wipes  the  tears 
from  her  eyes). 

The  curtain  falls. 

END  OF  THE  PLAY. 


SKETCH 

OF   THE 

LIFE    AND    WRITINGS 

OF  » 

KOTZEBUE; 

Extracted  principally  from  a  Paper  in  the  Monthly 

Magazine  of  Augujl  lafl. 

By  Dr.  WILLICH,  Pbyfician  to  the  Saxon  Embajfy. 


K.OTZEBUE  ftands  equally  high  in  the  lift  of  Ger- 
man literati,  confidered  both  as  a  dramatic  writer,  and  as 
a  writer  of  novels  and  romances.  In  the  former  line  he 
is  juftly  allowed  to  rank  among  the  moft  celebrated  names 
which  the  prefent  times  can  boaft,  and  not  to  be  inferior 
in  excellence  to  Schiller,  Schroder,  Wieland,  or  Klop- 
ftock. 

He  is  a  native  of  Weimar  in  Saxony,  a  fmall  but 
highly-polifhed  city,  which  has  frequently  been  called 
'*  Paris  in  miniature"  He  was  educated  under  the  care 
and  tuition  of  the  late  profeflbr  Mufaeus  *  of  Weimar,  of 
whom  he  foon  became  a  favourite  pupil,  and  from  whom 
he  imbibed  an  early  attachment  to  the  Mufes.  This  tafte 
he  farther  cultivated  by  his  unremitting  attention  to  the 
dramatic  performances  at  his  native  town,  which  were 
then  in  great  repute  on  account  of  the  refined  tafte  and 
correct  judgment  of  the  actors  and  audience.  Kotze» 
BUe's  decided   predilection  for  the  drama,  in  theory  as 

*  The  name  of  Musteus  is  never  mentioned  in  Germany 
but  with  pleafure  and  refpeft.  His  "  Popular  Tales  of  the 
Germans"  were  tranflated  into  Englifh,  about  feven  or  eight 
years  fince;  and  although  the  fimplicity  and  humour  of  Mu- 
iaeus's  fpirit  are  not  fully  transfufed  into  the  tranflation,  yet 
every  candid  reader  muft  allow  that  the  work  poffeffes  uncom- 
mon merit,  and  will  confider  it  as  an  ample  teftimony  of  the 
author's  talents  and  ingenuity. 


80       Sketch  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Kotzebue. 

well  as  in  practice,  is  obvious  from  feveral  paflages  aUudT 
ing  to  this  fubje&  in  his  own  works  :  yet  it  is  certain  that 
he  never  performed  on  any  public  ftage,  but  that  all  his 
attempts  as  an  actor  were  confined  to  private  theatres 
eftablifhed  among  feleit  parties  of  literary  friends.  Thus 
he  gained  the  double  advantage  of  at  once  gratifying  his 
inclinations  by  indulging  himfelf  in  his  favourite  amufe- 
ment,  and  at  the  fame  time  of  exhibiting  his  dramatic 
compofitions  to  a  contracted  circle  of  candid  and  difcerning 
critics,  and  thereby  obtaining  a  juft  decifion  on  their  me- 
rits before  he  ventured  to  prefent  them  to  the  public. 

Kotzebue  was  educated  for  the  law,  which  he  prac- 
tifed  for  a  fucceffion  of  years  in  various  eminent  ftations, 
till  he  was  appointed  president  of  the  high  college  of 
juftice  in  the  Ruffian  province  of  Livonia.  While  in 
this  fituation,  he  appears,  in  conjunction  with  other 
friends,  to  have  eftablifhed  a  private  theatre  at  Revel,  in 
which  fome  of  his  pieces  were  firft  performed ;  that  be- 
fore us  being  one  of  the  number.  The  majority  of  his 
dramatic  works  were,  indeed,  written  during  the  time 
of  his  refidence  in  Livonia,  as  well  as  many  of  his  mif- 
cellaneous  compofitions  in  the  department  of  the  Belles- 
Let  tres. 

That  his  writings  fliould  be  fo  multifarious  is  the  more 
furprizing,  as  his  Teifure  time  muft  till  latterly  have  been 
very  inconfiderable ;  fince,  during  the  period  that  he  held 
the  diftinguifhed  office  above-mentioned,  the  variety  and 
importance  of  his  other  avocations  muft  have  required 
nearly  the  whole  of  his  attention.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, for  the  Mufes,  and  particularly  thofe  of  the  Ger- 
man ftage,  he  met  with  a  number  of  invidious  opponents 
in  Livonia,  who  magnified  every  trifling  foible  of  his 
private  conduct  into  a  crime  of  the  firft  magnitude,  and 
perfecuted  him  with  fuch  unrelenting  malignity,  that  he 
thought  proper  to  retire  from  his  fpiendid  office  of  ftate, 
and  devote  the  remainder  of  his  life  to  a  more  grateful 
public.  Hence  he  betook  himfelf  entirely  to  literary 
purfuits ;  and,  having  quitted  the  Ruffian  dominions,  he 
repaired  to  the  court  of  Vienna,  where  he  very  foon  ob- 
tained the  appointment  of  Poet-laureat  to  the  Emperor^ 
and  Drama  tifi  to  the  Imperial  Theatre ;  in  which  fituation 
his  merits  and  talents  now  meet  with  their  juft  reward,  in 
the  very  high  degree  of  public  efteem  in  which  they  are 
held,  and  which  they  fo  amply  deferve. 


Sketch  of  the  Life  and  IPritings  of  Kotzebue.       8 1 

It  is  unneceflary  here  to  detail  the  complicated  intrigues 
carried  on  under  the  late  Emprefs  of  Ruffia  in  every  pro, 
vince  of  her  extenfive  empire,  and  the  frequent  perfec- 
tions which  foreigners  promoted  to  office  fuftained  from 
the  femi-barbarous  natives.  Let  it  fuffice  to  obferve,  that 
they  too  often  fucceeded  in  their  nefarious  defigns  againft  . 
thofe  aliens  whom  they  hated,  both  on  account  of  the  fu- 
periority  of  their  talents,  and  their  abhorrence  of  Ruffian 
floth  and  drunkennefs.  Kotzebue  was  one  of  the 
many  objects  of  perfecution  in  Ruffia,  although  his  moral 
character  may  fairly  be  concluded  to  have  been  unex- 
ceptionable, as  it  is  fcarcely  credible  that  the  Emperor  of 
Germany  would  otherwife  have  conferred  upon  him  fuch 
diftinguifhed  marks  of  his  favour.  It  is  probable  that  one 
principal  caufe  of  his  being  obliged  to  leave  the  Ruffian 
dominions,  was  the  difapprobation  he  drew  upon  hirnfelf 
on  account  of  his  celebrated  work,  called  "  Count  Ben- 
jowjky,  or  the  Confpiracy  of  Kamfckatka"  which  contains 
many  private  anecdotes  relative  to  the  cruelties  pra&ifed 
by  order  of  the  Czarina  towards  her  opprefled  and  en- 
flaved  fubje<Sls. 

The  merits  of  our  author  in  the  wide  field  of  the 
drama  are  now  much  known,  and  begin  to  be  duly  ap- 
preciated in  this  country,  through  thofe  of  his  productions 
which  have  already  been  tranflated  into  the  Englifh  lan- 
guage. It  is  to  be  regretted,  however,  that  German 
tranflations  often  appear  in  a  very  mutilated  and  meta- 
morphofed  ftate  before  the  Englifh  public ;  fince,  on  this 
account,  it  is  not  very  eafy  juftly  to  afcertain  the  due  and 
relative  merits  of  either  the  author  or  tranflator.  Of 
about  thirty  dramatic  pieces,  of  various  merit,  publifhed 
by  Kotzebue,  four  had  appeared  in  an  Englifh  drefs 
prior  to  the  work  now  before  us :  "  Mifantbropy  and 
Repentance" — "  2 he  Negro  Slaves''- — Count  Benjowjky" — 
and  "  The  Indians  in  England*."  The  firft  of  thefe, 
under  the  title  of  "  The  Stranger"  was  performed  with 
great  applaufe  (though  with  very  great  alterations)  at 
Drury-Lane  theatre  laft  winter,  and  for  a  confiderable 
part  of  the  feafon  attracted  brilliant  and  crouded  audi- 

*  Since  the  firft  edition  of  the  prefent  work  was  publifhed, 
a  tranflation  of  another  of  Kotzebue's  plays,  "  Adelaide  <von 
Wulfingen"  by  Mr.  Thomson,  the  tranflator  of  "  The 
$tr anger  "  has  been  advertifed. 

fnces, 


$2        Sketch  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of  Kotzebue. 

ences.  "  The  Natural  Son"  under  the  title  of  "  Lovers9 
Vows"  promifes  to  be  an  equally  great  favourite  at 
Covent-Garden  theatre  during  the  enfuing  winter. 

The  fuccefs  of  thefe  pieces  holds  forth  great  encourage- 
ment to  tranflate  others  of  Kotzeeue's  dramatic  works, 
which  would  doubtlefs  prove  equally  interefting  to  an 
Englifh  audience.  That  more  of  thefe  admirable  pro- 
ductions have  not  hitherto  been  brought  forwards  to 
public  notice,  may  be  afcribed  partly  to  the  great  dif- 
ference which  has  been  fuppofed  to  fubfift  between  the 
national  tafte  and  manners  of  the  Englifh  and  thofe  of 
the  Germans,  particularly  with  regard  to  their  dramatic 
compofitions ;  and  partly  to  a  certain  marked  peculiarity 
in  whatever  comes  from  the  pen  of  Kotzebue,  which 
charadterifes  and  diftinguifhes  his  productions  from  thofe 
of  all  other  modern  writers.  But  the  experiment  has 
been  made,  and  the  event  has  proved  this  idea  to  be  un- 
founded. 

All  Kotzebue 's  writings  fpeak  a  liberal  and  en- 
larged mind,  full  of  benevolence  and  philanthropy.  His 
knowledge  of  the  human  heart  and  its  fecret  meanders  is 
unqueftionably  great:  he  has  not  only  made  the  prevail- 
ing manners,  oddities,  and  vices  of  the  age,  but  alfo  man 
himfelf,  as  influenced  by  a  variety  of  ardent  paflions,  the 
fubjecl  of  his  minuteft  refearch.  Few  perfons  have  ever 
attained  to  his  excellence  in  delineating  whimfical  and 
impaflioned  characters ;  and  in  fcenes  drawn  from  private 
and  domeftic  life,  he  eminently  excels  his  cotemporary 
rivals  both  in  the  unaffected  delicacy  of  the  fentiments  he 
conveys,  and  the  freedom  and  precilion  with  which  he  in- 
troduces them.  His  language,  if  not  remarkably  brilliant, 
is  yet  generally  correct,  and  dignified ;  his  comic  fcenes 
abound  with  genuine  wit  and  humour,  untinctured  with 
the  vulgarity  into  which  writers  in  that  line  are  too  apt 
to  deviate;  and  his  pathetic  fcenes  are  no  lefsdiftinguifhed 
for  thofe  delicate  touches  of  nature  which  appeal  in  the 
moft  forcible  manner  to  the  heart.  His  plans  are  formed 
with  great  art,  and  developed  for  the  moft  part  in  an  un-* 
expected,  yet  probable  and  fuccefsful  manner. 

To  the  morality  of  the  work  now  before  us,  as  well  as 
to  that  of  "  Mifanthropy  and  Repentance"  objections  have 
been  made  as  not  prefenting  fufficient  discouragement 
againft  a  lapfe  from  virtue  in  the  female  fex;  fince,  in 
both  jnftances,  the  heroines,  notwithstanding  their  paft 

tranf- 


Sketch  of  the  Life  and  Writings  of '  Kot&ebue.      83 

tranfgreffions,  are  finally  reftored  to  their  ftation  in  fo- 
ciety.  But  this  objection  does  not  feem  well-founded, 
and  to  be  made  rather  from  taking  only  a  fuperficial  glance 
over  the  furface  of  the  fubje£r,  than  from  diving  into  its 
inmoft  receffes.  Surely  in  neither  cafe  is  the  fate  of  the 
offender  fo  alluring  as  to  offer  any  attraction  to  others 
to  follow  their  fteps ;  on  the  contrary,  the  fufferings  en- 
dured by  both  in  confequence  of  their  refpe£tive  faults, 
hold  out  a  forcible  warning  to  beware  of  the  errors  which 
led  to  fuch  mifery.  Neither  does  their  reftoration  at 
laft  feem  a  violation  of  that  ftridT:  juftice  which  their 
offences  demanded,  fince  to  teach  the  tranfgreffor  that  no 
length  of  fuffering,  and  feverity  of  repentance,  can  atone 
for  fuch  a  lapfe,  muft  tend  to  difcourage  every  attempt  t© 
reformation,  inftead  of  exciting  to  all  poffible  endeavours 
for  its  attainment.  The  great  caufe  of  virtue  feems  beft 
fupported  by  painting,  in  forcible  colours,  the  inevitable 
mifery  attendant  upon  guilt,  yet  at  the  fame  time  holding 
out  every  encouragement  that  can  be  offered,  to  thofe 
who  have  unfortunately  fwerved  from  their  duty,  to  feek 
by  the  moft  ftrenuous  efforts  to  regain  the  height  they 
have  loft.  In  this  point  of  view  the  morality  of  thefe 
pieces  will  appear  unexceptionable ;  or,  if  any  objection 
is  to  be  made  againft  it,  it  mould  rather  feem  to  be  on  a 
different  ground.  That  the  fufferings  ofWiLHELMiNA 
in  "  The  Natural  Son"  are  more  fevere  and  more  pro- 
tracted than  thofe  of  Eulalia  in  "  Mifanthropy  and 
Repentance  •"  whereas  the  crime  of  the  latter,  as  a  mar- 
ried woman  deferting  her  hufband  and  children  for  an- 
other man,  is  beyond  comparifon  greater  than  that  of  the 
former. 

Only  one  of  Kotzebue's  romances,  it  is  believed, 
has  yet  appeared  in  an  Englifh  garb,  "  Ildegerte  Queen 
of  Norway  "  tranflated  alfo  by  Mr.  Thomson.  In  this 
the  author  entirely  quits  the  path  of  nature,  in  tracing  the 
meanders  of  which  he  is  fo  eminently  fuccefsful,  and  de- 
viates into  that  of  extravagant  imagination  where  he  does 
not  appear  equally  happy.  Still  this  romance,  if  not  pof- 
fefling  a  like  degree  of  interefl:  with  fome  other  of  his 
works,  as  a  memorial  of  the  extent  and  variety  of  his 
talents,  is  well  worthy  of  notice.  His  more  fimple  tales, 
however,  claim,  and  would  probably  find,  a  much  greater 
degree  of  public  attention  and  admiration. 

FINIS. 


trxxjmi'AZs  Y  to  the 
CULRT  of  the  EMPEROR  of  CHIN  A,  in  the  Years 
1 794  and  1795;  (subsequent  to  that  of  the  Earl  of  Ma- 
cartney.) Containing  a  Description  of  several  Parts  of 
the  Chinese  Empire,  unknown  to  Europeans  ;  taken 
fVcm  the  Journal  of  Andre  Everard  Van  Braam, 
Chief  in  the  Direction  of  that  Company,  and  Second  in 
the  Embassy.  Translated  from  the  original  of  M.  L.  E. 
Moreau  De  Saint  Mery  ;  with  a'correct  Chart  of 
the  Route.  •■  — 

On  the  First  cf  hlov  ember  was  published, 
To  be  continued  Monthly,  Price    is.  6d.  each. 

Accurate  Representations  of  the 

Fashions  of  London  and  Paris, 

In  three  beautifully  coloured  Copper  Plates : 
Containing    several    Figures    in   the   actually  prevailing 
Dresses  of  each  Month;  expressly  designed  for  the  Use 
of  Milliners,  Dreffers,  and  Private  Families. 

On  the  l$th  Day  of  November  will  be  fniblijhed) 
In  one  large  Volume  Octavo,  Price  8s.  6d.  in  Boards, 

Public  Characters  of  1798  : 

Confifting  of  copious  and  interefling  biographical  Anec- 
dotes of  about  -one"  Hundred  of  the  moft  diftin- 
guifhed  public  Characters  of  the  prcient  Period,  Natives 
of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  written  with  Accuracy 
and  Candour,  and  in  a  Spirit  equally  remote  from 
Calumny  or  Panegyric. 

A  NEW  AND- IMPORTANT' SCHOOL  BOOK. 
On  Dec.  \ft  <vcill  be  published,  in  l  zmo.  Price  \s.  6d.  bound. 

The  Britijh  Nepos,  or  ToulFs  Mirror. 

Being  feledl:  Lives  of  all  the  illuftrious  Britons  who  have 
been  diltinguifhed  for  their  Talents,  Virtues,  or 
remarkable  Progrefs  in  Life,  written  purpofely  for  the 
Ufe  of  Schools,  and  carefully  adapted  to  the  Capa- 
cities and  Situations  of  Britifii  Youth. 

By  WILLIAM  MAVOR,  LL.  D. 

Vicar  of  Hurley,,  in  Berkfhire,  and  Chaplain  to  the  Right 

Hon.  the  Earl  of  Dumfries. 

*#*  Specimen  Sheets  of  this  Worfc  may  be  had  of  any  Bookfelier. 


L  006  311  956  4 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000  079  572    4 


niversity  of  Califor 

Southern  Regional 

Library  Facility