University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Court-yard of Stolberg Castle.
Enter Housdorff and Huntsmen.
HOUSDORFF.
Come on! O'er yonder eastern cliff the dawn
Spreads it's first beams—'tis time we were abroad.
Sound your loud bugles, let the battlements
Of Stolberg Castle ring with your acclaim,
'Till ev'ry drowsy inmate start from slumber,
To meet the morn upon the mountain top!

(The Huntsmen sound.
Enter Baron Stolberg.
BARON.
Welcome, my gallant friends! Why this shews well.
What! thou here, Housdorff! Still alert as ever?

HOUSDORFF.
Aye, my good lord; though time has thinn'd my hair,
And over what remains has spread his snow,
I still am heart-whole: let the merry horn
Give but the note of preparation,
And Housdorff still is found among the first.

BARON.
That's bravely said. Thy heartiness, old man,
Makes me forget my age, and think myself
Young, as when first thine hand lac'd on my cuirass,
To meet the Turk who menac'd our destruction.
Those were brave days; but they are gone, and now
Life's autumn creeps upon me, my sere leaves
Begin to drop apace, and nought remains
To cheer my closing scene, but the fond hope
Of my lov'd Ida's future happiness.

HOUSDORFF.
That seems beyond a doubt. Train'd up by you
With more than father's care—

BARON.
Hold, my good friend;
That is a string which jars whene'er 'tis touch'd.
I was indeed a father; these moist eyes
Once look'd upon a son; these feeble arms
Held out my heir to my surrounding vassals,
Their future leader—

HOUSDORFF.
Blisters on my tongue,
For thus renewing recollections
So hostile to your peace! Yet, sooth to say,
He was a lovely boy.

BARON.
He was my pride:
But that was humbled to the dust. These walls,
Those wide domains, which from a splendid race
Of gallant ancestors devolv'd on me,
Will never own the sway of my descendants;
My very name must perish—

HOUSDORFF.
Nay, my lord,
From the alliance you're about to form
Between Count Rodolph and your lovely niece
It long may live.

BARON.
I have no other hope.
But truce with these reflections. Mark! the sun
Climbs o'er yon eastern hill, and mocks our slowness.
Let your loud bugles once more hail the day,
And call our ling'ring bridegroom from his couch.
(The Huntsmen sound their bugles, and exeunt with Housdorff).
Enter Ida.
My Ida! welcome. Why, my girl, thou look'st
Like Dian's self, when on Taygetus' brow
She led her sportive train to chase the deer
That browz'd on it's green summits. By my faith,
Lord Rodolph does thee wrong, my lovely girl,
To be thus tardy, when his ev'ry moment,
His ev'ry thought, should be ingross'd by thee.

IDA.
Nay, my good lord, you tax him much too highly.
Your humble Ida has no right to claim
Th' exclusive homage which, long e'er he knew her,
He had devoted to a worthier object.

BARON.
What's that you say? A worthier object?

IDA.
Aye,
One whose perfections he with pride confesses,
On whom he doats, on whose deserts his tongue
Grows eloquent—

BARON.
Indeed! Who is this rival?

IDA.
And don't you really know? Can't you discover,
'Tis my lord Rodolph's self?

BARON.
Hey?—how?—his self?
Well, thou'rt a merry girl—yet, on my life,
I thought thou wast in earnest.

IDA.
So I am:
Look at him—hear him speak—at home, abroad,
To whom are his attentions paid?—Himself!
Whose teeth, whose shape, whose elegance and taste
Doth he e'er deign to notice, but his own?
Whose repartees does he repeat? His own!
Whose ease does he consult? His own, his own!
At once his idol and his idol's priest,
At his own shrine he offers sacrifice,
With purer adoration than to heav'n.

BARON.
No more of this, I pray. It passes jest.
He is a nobleman of high desert,
Much favour'd by his prince, whom I have chosen
To join with thee in all my rich succession.
I have no son, my love, and would adopt him
To comfort my old age, and share thy task
Of filial tenderness.

IDA.
I would my heart
Could ratify the vow my tongue must utter.

BARON.
Why what is this? The match is excellent.

IDA.
I cannot bring myself to like him, sir;
There is a something indescribable,
At which my heart revolts whene'er I think
I am to call him husband.

BARON.
Here's a turn!

IDA.
I do beseech you, sir, compel me not—

BARON.
Refuse a nobleman like him!—I love you,
You know I do—

IDA.
If you did love me, sir,
You'd not condemn me thus to misery.

BARON.
Was the like ever heard? Heav'n grant me patience!
I tell you he's a fitting match—But hush!
See where the Count approaches.
Enter Count Rodolph.
Why, my lord,
You're tardy this fine morning. Heard you not
Our merry bugles summon you a field,
To try the covers, ere the early dew
Had left the tainted grass?

RODOLPH.
Why yes, my lord,
I heard them, quite as much as I desir'd.
If this be your idea of amusement,
To let a braying post-horn interrupt
One's morning slumbers, I protest that I
Would rather be excus'd from sharing it.
'Tis strangely gothic!

BARON.
As your lordship pleases—
There's no accounting for these diff'rences
In gentlemen's opinions. But the chace
Has ever been esteem'd war's truest emblem,
The school in which the youthful soldier learns
The rudiments of that sublime profession
Which leads him on to fame.

RODOLPH.
So much the worse.
It is a bad apprenticeship, my lord,
To a worse trade.

BARON.
What can your lordship mean?
I'm at a loss to comprehend—Why now,
You are yourself a soldier. Pray how come
Your theory and practice thus at variance?

RODOLPH.
There are some things, my lord, which all who bear
A certain rank in life are forc'd to do.
No gentleman, who values reputation,
Can decline serving. 'Tis as much the fashion,
As the pelisse or boot.

BARON.
Is it indeed?
'Tis lucky that the mode takes such a turn.
But come, my lord—methinks you might as well—
That is, if fashion don't prohibit it—
Take some small notice of your future bride.

RODOLPH.
My lady Ida! I protest I did not
See you before. Who could expect you here?
And in this garb too, Amazonian quite,
And arm'd as if for battle.

IDA.
Aye, my lord,
Equipp'd as suits a huntress. Follow me,
And I'll engage to shew you some diversion.

RODOLPH.
Follow you, ma'am? I vow I'm petrified.
A lady of your sort thus to unite
With low plebeians in their barb'rous sports!—
Nay, ma'm, I'm serious. Give me leave to tell you,
Lord Rodolph's bride—

IDA.
And give me leave, my lord,
To tell you, that, as I'm not yet your bride,
You have no right to chide me. When I am,
Humanity and sense should teach you better.
I ask your pardon if I make too free,
But long indulgence here perhaps has spoilt me.
I am a strange wild girl, but I may learn,
Provided my instructor pleases me.

BARON.
Aye, I'll be sworn thou wilt.—But come—we lose
Our time. By this, our scouts have driv'n the wood.
Conduct your bride, my lord. Our steeds are ready.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

Interior of the Banditti's Cavern. At the farther end, a Stair descending from a Trap-door.
Enter Finck, Gortz, and another.
FINCK
(throwing down a bundle).
So—lie thou there.—Come, cast your burthens down—
Our trade grows hardly worth the following.
One might, for any reasonable hope
Of profit, turn an honest man and work.

GORTZ.
Why truly, master Finck, considering
The wheel and gallows stare us in the face,
Our gains are of the smallest. I remember
When, in a morning's ramble through the forest,
A gentleman might easily bring home
A decent booty—half a dozen purses,
A watch or so—

FINCK.
I tell thee, master Gortz,
The public's in confed'racy to cheat us.
But let 'em look to it—I know a trick
Or two to make us even.

Enter Arnold.
ARNOLD.
What! so soon
Return'd? I look'd not for you these two hours.
Where did you leave your comrades?

FINCK.
When we came
To the old oak, where the two roads branch off,
The morning broke. Myself, with Gortz and Carl,
Agreed to take the western range; but, spite
Of all our trouble, we could meet with nothing
But a poor pedlar and a scurvy priest,
Who hardly paid our pains in stripping them.
If all they had will bring us in five ducats,
I'll suffer the strappado.—There—look at it—

(A bugle from without.
ARNOLD.
Hark! 'tis our comrades' signal.

FINCK.
They come back too?

Swartz and other Banditti descend.
ARNOLD.
You're welcome, gentlemen. What news do ye bring?

SWARTZ.
The worst that gentlemen like us can bring.
We've had our labour for our pains.

ARNOLD.
How so?

SWARTZ.
The devil must have ow'd us an old grudge,
And paid it off to-day with interest.
All seem'd to promise us a fair campaign;
The morn was fine and clear, the roads were good,
And passengers in plenty might be look'd for.
We rode on in high spirits, when at distance
We saw a mighty troop, and heard the horns
And shouts of hunters. Suddenly we halted,
And Hugo singly rode to reconnoitre.
They prov'd the Baron Stolberg and his suite.
He treats some nobles with a hunting match
Here in the forest. This being known, 'twas clear
We had no bus'ness there; so we came back.

ARNOLD.
Where's Herman?

SWARTZ.
Far enough ere this, I warrant.
Instead of turning homewards, he preferr'd
To make one in the chace.

ARNOLD.
To join the chace?
The very dress he wore would cause discov'ry.

SWARTZ.
I guess'd you'd say so; but he had a trick
To pass unnotic'd 'mong 'em. We had chanc'd
To meet, ere broke the day, a peasant youth,
Drest in his gayest suit, as he inform'd us,
To meet his bride at the next parish church.
We let him go to keep his assignation,
After we'd stript him of his finery.
I laugh whene'er I think on't.

ARNOLD.
Well—proceed.

SWARTZ.
When Herman took a fancy to remain,
I counsell'd him to doff his uniform,
And take the bridegroom's suit. No sooner said
Than done. Egad! the change became him well,
And look'd more natural for a lad like him,
Than our buff jerkin.

FINCK.
True—for a young fellow
Brought up to th' trade, and born as 'twere among us,
I never met his equal for the lack
Of all that's needful for our noble calling.

ARNOLD.
Nay, Finck, I pray you speak not of him thus.
Remember he's my brother, and a youth
Of high and rare endowments.

FINCK.
Noble captain,
I meant no harm; but, by Saint Anthony,
He bears no likeness to the family.
Why now, there was your father—he was captain
When first I join'd the troop. A bolder fellow
No troop in Hungary could boast. And then
As for yourself, whom, on his death, we chose
To be our leader, we have no objections
To make against you.

ARNOLD.
No?

FINCK.
No, none to speak of.
When you were private in the troop, you took
Your fair proportion of the toil and danger,
And now you're captain, why you do your duty,
And keep up discipline. But as for Herman,
He may be well enough perhaps for courage,
But, truly, my young sir is pitiful,
And feels compunctions—

ARNOLD.
Nay, sir—

FINCK.
If a fellow
Resist us, or refuse to give his purse,
When by the laws of war we're warranted
To knock him on the head, he'll let him go,
And preach against the sinfulness of murder.
Your father should have made a priest of him,
For he can ne'er do credit to our order.

ARNOLD.
Give o'er these taunts—'tis sign you know him not,
Nor can appreciate merit such as his.
Nay, silence, sir! no man shall dare asperse
His character, while my hand wields a sword.

SWARTZ.
I pray you, noble captain, be appeas'd.
(To Finck)
Must it be ever so?— (to Arnold)
—What say you, captain,
Shall we adjourn to th' refectory? The keen air
Has giv'n me appetite.

FINCK.
Your pardon, captain.

ARNOLD.
No more.—Come, gentlemen, a gen'rous glass
Will make you think less of your disappointment.
(To Finck)
Your hand—in a full brimmer you shall pledge me
To Herman's pleasant chace and safe return.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

The Forest.
Enter Baron Stolberg, Count Rodolph, Housdorff, and Hunters.
HOUSDORFF.
This way, my lords—your horses are at hand,
Ready to mount if wanted.

BARON.
Are you sure
The lady Ida is securely plac'd?
She's mounted on a courser of high spirit,
And, when the game is started, he may take
Some little liberties.

Enter a Huntsman.
HUNTSMAN.
My lord, all's ready—
We have dislodg'd a boar from yonder cover—
The hounds are now at bay.

BARON.
Set forward then!
Come on, my lord, we'll shew you glorious sport!

[Exeunt.

SCENE IV.

Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Herman.
HERMAN.
Thus far auspiciously I've held my course,
Thanks to this borrow'd garb, whose honest shew
Is more in unison with Herman's feelings
Than that to which harsh fate has destin'd him.
Thank heav'n! I've gain'd a temporary freedom,
Can view the glorious sun, without a blush
To think myself unworthy of his beams.
Now may my cherish'd wish be gratified.
I've read of knights and deeds of martial prowess,
'Till my whole soul was fir'd: now may I see
Their vaunted worth exemplified in him,
Who o'er these precincts holds his princely sway.
Where art thou, gallant Stolberg! Vainly still
I've track'd thee by the distant bugle's sound.
Oh that propitious fortune had but made me
The meanest vassal who fills up thy train!
Then from thy bright example might my soul
Have caught a kindred feeling, and aspir'd
To emulate the glory which inflames it.—
Hark! hark! again the peal begins—and now
It louder grows, mix'd with the cheering cry
Of men and dogs.—What's that?—A piercing shriek
As if of sudden anguish!—There again—
Immortal pow'rs! what see I?—A young female,
With hair disshevell'd, fruitlessly attempting
To rein a fiery steed, who hurries her
Tow'rds yon precipitous and fatal gulph—
Aid me, ye pow'rs! I fly to succour her!

[Exit.

SCENE V.

Another Part of the Forest.
Enter Herman bearing Ida.
HERMAN.
She breathes! she lives! oh! for some friendly spring,
Whose freshness may restore suspended life!—
See where one trickles from the rock!—Pure liquid!
Thus on a purer form I sprinkle thee.
She moves—again the circulating blood
Revisits her pale cheeks.—Bright excellence!
For surely charms like thine ne'er met the glance
Of wond'ring mortal—while suspended yet
Thy vital pow'rs, while thou canst not behold
And chide my fond presumption, let me kneel,
And pay thee bounden adoration.

[He kneels.
IDA.
Ah me! Where am I?—Who art thou, young stranger,
And wherefore kneel'st thou?

HERMAN.
Lady, I am one
By far too humble to boast other merit,
Than that of having sav'd thee from destruction.

IDA.
Oh! was it thou?—The soul-appalling scene
Now rushes on my mem'ry. I had perish'd,
But for thy timely aid. Tell me thy name.
The Baron Stolberg has a heart to feel
The merits of his niece's brave preserver.

HERMAN.
The Baron Stolberg! Art thou then that Ida,
Whose beauties form the theme of ev'ry tongue?
Thou must! none else can arrogate resemblance
To nature's primest work!—Forgive me, madam,
If I presume too far. My humble wish
Soars not beyond the hope that I may live
In thy remembrance: more befits not him,
Who, though he dare to gaze on thy perfection,
Feels conscious of his own unworthiness.

IDA.
Thy mien, thy bearing, ev'ry word, proclaim
Thou art not what thou seem'st. A peasant's son
Cannot inherit sentiments like thine.
I pray thee tell me who thou art? I ask not
From curiosity, but from a wish
To know the name of one, whose high desert
I've had such cause to appreciate.

HERMAN.
Noble lady,
I cannot speak my name or my condition.
I pray thee ask not why.—There is a cause
Too forcible—

IDA.
If there be such a cause,
Whate'er my wish to know you, I respect it
Too much to press upon you; but I trust
A time may come—

HERMAN.
Never, I fear!

IDA.
Why so?
If the cause spring not from disgrace or guilt,
Time may remove it. That, your modest valour,
And your ingenuous countenance forbid
E'en to suppose.

HERMAN.
Oh spare, in pity spare me!
I must not—cannot—I beseech your pardon—
I mean not to offend—

IDA.
Indeed you do not.
I am indebted to you, sir, far more
Than words can ever pay; promise me then
You will not always thus conceal yourself.
When in due time you may reveal your name,
Honour, I pray, our castle with your presence.
Meantime, sir, from my finger take this ring;
Wear it as a pledge of Ida's gratitude,
And, when you look upon it, think of her.

HERMAN.
From Ida's hand a pledge! 'Fore heav'n! I swear
I'll wear it ever as a sacred charm
To guide me on to honour. Yes, fair maid!
I will obey thee. When I dare approach
Thy blest abode, I shall not need concealment.
But who are these approaching?

IDA.
They are friends,
Doubtless in search of me.

HERMAN.
You then are safe.
I may not stay to meet them. Gracious lady!
If ever thy remembrance light upon me,
Let pity for my fortunes mingle with it.
Farewell! may angels guard thee!

[Exit.
IDA.
Gallant youth!
How sweetly, but how mournfully he spoke!
I must know more of him—

Enter Housdorff and Hunters.
HOUSDORFF.
Thank heav'n, you're found!
And safe I hope, and well.

IDA.
I am. But say,
Where is my uncle?

HOUSDORFF.
He is near at hand.
He was exceedingly alarm'd. The Count—

IDA.
Did he attempt to succour me?

HOUSDORFF.
No, ma'am,
He's yonder with my lord, but he bad us
Set out in search of you.

IDA.
I thank him for't.
Could not a spark of gallant feeling touch
That heart, insensible to all but self?
It was not thus my brave deliv'rer acted.
Heav'ns, what a contrast!

HOUSDORFF.
Will it please you, madam,
To join my lord? He anxiously expects you.

IDA.
He's always kind.—I'm ready.—Shew the way.

[Exeunt.