University of Virginia Library

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.