University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

An Apartment in Stolberg Castle.
Enter Baron Stolberg and Agatha.
BARON.
Well, Agatha, how fares your mistress now?

AGATHA.
Please your good lordship, she is much recover'd,
Thanks to Saint Bridget for it, and the saints
Who sav'd her precious life. Now blessings on her!
Would your good lordship think it? When I wish'd her
To take a posset of my own preparing,
And try to sleep an hour or so, in order
To quiet and compose her troubled spirits,
As I'm a sinner, 'stead of heeding me,
She bad me bring her robe—your lordship knows it—
The white and silver which your lordship gave her—
It does become her mainly, that's the truth on't—

BARON.
I am right glad to hear it. 'Tis a sign
She has not suffer'd from her accident.

AGATHA.
No, the good saints be prais'd, I'll warrant me.
For my part I'd have sworn, to look at her,
Instead of running risks—I vow it makes me
Shudder whene'er I think on't—she had met
With something to amuse her. 'Stead of moping,
And looking sad, and sighing, as, poor thing!
She has done of late, I know not why I'm sure,
She has got such a fresh colour in her cheeks,
Which comes and goes so prettily, and her eyes
So sparkle—But I vow I had forgot—
I've such a memory!—My lady charg'd me
To pay her humble duty to your lordship,
And ask admittance to your lordship's presence.

BARON.
Why truly, Agatha, thou hast the knack
Of expeditiously obeying orders.
Try if thou can'st as nimbly hie thee back,
And certify my niece I wish to see her.
No ceremony, pray thee—I dispense
With courtesies—there—get thee gone, and do it.
[Exit Agatha.
Thank heav'n, she has not suffer'd!—I have plac'd
My single stake of hope on this dear child,
And, if I lose her, I must lose my all.
Well! I have match'd her to my heart's content:
The Count indeed has rather the advantage
In point of years; had he been somewhat younger
It had not been amiss; she might perhaps
Have lik'd him better; and, it must be own'd
He has a few particularities,
A kind of cold formality about him,
Not captivating. To speak truth of him,
He is the coolest bridegroom—So, my Ida!
Enter Ida.
Tell me, my dearest, how was't you escap'd?

IDA.
Oh, sir! the mere idea still appals me.
When from his cover by the hounds arous'd
The boar rush'd forth, my courser starting mock'd
My feeble force, and with the light'ning's speed
Bore me across the plain, and up the steep,
Which with precipitous descent o'erhangs
The farther wood. Death, cloath'd in tenfold horrors,
Seem'd seated on it's brow, prepar'd to seize me;
And doubtless I had perish'd, had not heav'n
In mercy sent a guardian angel down—

BARON.
Egad! your history commences well.
No wonder you escap'd. Perhaps, however,
We may attribute your deliverance
To means less supernatural. But go on.
I wish to hear some more of this good angel;
Who knows but he may prove some old acquaintance.
What did he look like? Did you notice him?

IDA.
His garb betoken'd him a peasant swain,
But how unlike the rustics who surround us!
In form, activity and grace he seem'd
The model of what fabling poets sing
Of swains in Arcady. His auburn hair
In wanton ringlets play'd across his brow,
The rose of health bloom'd on his ruddy cheek,
From his dark eyes an emanation beam'd
Of more than mortal radiance—

BARON.
On my word,
If your description flatter not, he was
Something worth looking at. I know not where
Among our hinds to find his parallel.

IDA.
Oh, sir! indeed I do not flatter him;
He's all I tell you. Judge then what I though him,
When, heedless of all risk, he forward rush'd,
And, on the precipice's dizz'ning ridge,
Whence at the moment headlong fell my steed,
He caught me in his succouring arms and sav'd me.

BARON.
He was indeed a gallant youth.—Go on.

IDA.
Terror had lock'd my senses in a swoon;
But soon as they return'd, I felt myself
Safely reposing on a mossy bank,
While, at respectful distance, my preserver
Knelt, as if rapt in sacred extacy,
His fine eyes fix'd on me, and his stretch'd hands
Rais'd as in silent gratitude to heav'n.
He spoke not, but methought his modest silence
Had more of eloquence than words could give.

BARON.
Why certainly, my love, there are occasions
When silence says the most.

IDA.
I thought so, sir:
But, when I spoke to him, and gave him thanks
For his most timely service, had you heard
With what ingenuous grace he answer'd me,
How gallantly he strove to under-rate
His own deservings, you'd have thought his life
Had all been past in courts, so dignified,
So polish'd were his manners and his phrase.
You'd have been charm'd with him: I'm sure you would.

BARON.
If he be such as you describe him, love,
I know not but I might. I long to learn
More of this gallant youth. What is his name?

IDA.
That, sir, I cannot tell you.

BARON.
No! Why not?

IDA.
I told him you'd be anxious to discover
Who had conferr'd such obligation on me—

BARON.
Most certainly.

IDA.
I therefore pray'd he would
Disclose himself.

BARON.
Well—what said he?

IDA.
He said
He could not.

BARON.
No?—Pray did he tell you why?

IDA.
He said he had a cause for keeping silence,
But what that cause was he declin'd to say.
'Twas something which I'm sure must trouble him,
For, when he mention'd it, he look'd so sad,
It griev'd me to behold him.

BARON.
It seems strange
A peasant should have mystery about him.

IDA.
From all he said, I could not but conjecture
He was not what his mean exterior shew'd.
There was an air of nobleness about him,
A grace and elegance—

BARON.
Odso! I have it.
Handsome he was, you say?

IDA.
Yes, very handsome.

BARON.
His mien and manners elegant, his phrases
Refin'd and polish'd? Ten to one, my girl,
He's some young nobleman, who, to avoid
The consequence of an affair of honour,
Has in a peasant's garb fled to these mountains.

IDA.
It is—it must be as you say.

BARON.
I've known
The very same thing happen; nay, when I
Wounded my foe Count Walstein in a duel,
I quitted Presburg for a time, and grew
A sojourner in lonely woods and forests.
But I had not the luck, like our young champion,
To succour damsels in distress, nor can I
Flatter myself I look'd like an Adonis.

IDA.
The more I think of it, the more I'm sure
You've guess'd him rightly.

BARON.
Child, I know the world.
A gentleman, disguise him as you will,
Must soon be known.
Enter Count Rodolph.
Oh, Count! I'm glad you're come.
I wish'd to see you.

RODOLPH.
With your lordship's leave,
I would inquire of lady Ida's health.
I hope, ma'am, you're recover'd, that your fright
Has not too much affected your poor nerves.

IDA.
My nerves are much indebted to your lordship.
I hope your own exertions to protect me
Have not much ruffled yours.

RODOLPH.
Exertions, madam?

IDA.
How gen'rous 'tis so quickly to forget
Your chivalrous behaviour.

RODOLPH.
Really, madam,
I—I—that is—pray what could I have done?

IDA.
I know a person who could tell you.

RODOLPH.
Aye?
Who is the gentleman?

BARON.
That's what we wish
Ourselves to learn. From her description of him,
There's ground to think him other than he seems.

RODOLPH.
The case of many others. Pray how seems he?

BARON.
A peasant swain.

RODOLPH.
I'm thankful to you, madam,
For your intended compliment.—A peasant
Instruct me? And in what, I beg to know.

IDA.
In gallantry, my lord; perhaps in more.

RODOLPH.
Your ladyship has a privilege to speak—
But really there's a harshness and a force
In what you're pleas'd to say—

BARON.
She's rather flurried
By her late accident; and 'tis no wonder
She strongly feels the services of one
To whom she is indebted for her life.
I was devising what we can do for him.

RODOLPH.
'Tis plain. There is but one way of repaying
Such obligations to such vulgar fellows.

IDA.
Such vulgar fellows!—Pray, my lord, what right
Have you to term him so?

RODOLPH.
Ma'am, I conceive
My phrase was quite correct. A boor, a clown,
Is, ever was, and ever will be class'd
Among the vulgar herd.

IDA
(aside).
Presumptuous coxcomb!
There's no enduring him.— To the Baron.)
—With your permission
I will withdraw.

RODOLPH.
What! is your ladyship
About to leave us? May I have the honour
Of your fair hand?

IDA.
My lord, I can dispense
With your attendance.

[Exit.
RODOLPH.
This is mighty strange!

BARON.
You must forgive th' effect of agitation.
She means no harm, believe me.

RODOLPH.
To refuse
My service!

BARON.
Psha! 'Twas nothing, I assure you.
We must pass over twenty things like this.

RODOLPH.
My lord, there's such a thing as etiquette.

BARON.
I'm mighty sorry for it—'tis a thing
Which might be well dispens'd with.

RODOLPH.
How, my lord?

BARON.
Come, come—nay, never mind this small fracas.
Let us walk through th' apartments, and inspect
How far our preparations are advanc'd.

[Exeunt.