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A peasant. Caution were best, old man - Thou art Dun. 'Tis Heaven, not I, decides upon your guilt. The Knight is great and powerful. [a stranger, | A harmless youth is traced within your power, Ser.

Let it be so. Sleeps in your Ranger's house-his friend at midnight Callid on by Heaven to stand forth an avenger, Is spirited away. Then lights are seen, I will not blench for fear of mortal man.

And groans are heard, and corpses come ashore Have I not seen that when that innocent

Mangled with daggers, while (to Phil.) your dagger Had placed her hands upon the murder'd body,

wears
His gaping wounds,' that erst were soak’d with brine, The sanguine livery of recent slaughter :
Burst forth with blood as ruddy as the cloud Here, too, the body of a murder'd victim,
Which now the sun doth rise on?

(Whom none but you had interest to remove,) Peas. What of that?

Bleeds on a child's approach, because the daughter
Ser. Nothing that can affect the innocent child, Of one the abettor of the wicked deed.
But murder's guilt attaching to her father,

All this, and other proofs corroborative,
Since the blood musters in the victim's veins Call on us briefly to pronounce the doom ·
At the approach of what holds lease from him We have in charge to utter.
Of all that parents can transmit to children.

Auch. If my house perish, Heaven's will be done!
And here comes one to whom I'll vouch the circum- I wish not to survive it; but, O Philip,
stance.

Would one could pay the ransom for us both!

Phil. Father, 'tis fitter that we both should die, The EARL OF DUNBAR enters with Soldiers and others,

Leaving no heir behind.-The piety having AUCHINDRANE and Pullip prisoners.

Of a bless'd saint, the moral of an anchorite, Dun. Fetter the young ruffian and his trait'rous Could not atone thy dark hypocrisy, father!

Or the wild profligacy I have practised.

[They are made secure. Ruin'd our house, and shatter'd be our towers, Auch. 'Twas a lord spokeit-I have known a knight, And with them end the curse our sins have merited!" Sir George of Home, who had not dared to say so.

[Exeunt.

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ADVERTISEMENT.

the characters of the unhappy son and mother : but great

objections appeared to this proposal. There was danger This attempt at dramatic composition was executed that the main spring of the story,—the binding engagements nearly thirty years since, when the magnificent works of formed by members of the secret tribunal,-might not be Goethe and Schiller were for the first time made known to sufficiently felt by an English audience, to whom the nature the British public, and received, as many now alive must of that singularly mysterious institution was unknown from remember, with universal enthusiasm. What we admire early association. There was also, according to Mr. Kemwe usually attempt to imitate; and the author, not trusting ble's experienced opinion, 100 much blood, loo much of the to his own efforts, borrowed the substance of the story and dire catastrophe of Tom Thumb, when all die on the stage. a part of the diction from a dramatic romance called "Der It was besides esteemed perilous to place the fifth act and Heilige Vehmé" (the Secret Tribunal ), wbich fills the sixth the parade and show of the secret conclave, at the mercy volume of the “Sagen den Vorzeit" (Tales of Antiquity), of underlings and sceneshisters, who, by a ridiculous moby Beit Weber. The drama must be termed rather a rifa- tion, gesture, or accent, might turn what should be grave cimento of the original tban a translation, since the whole into farce. is compressed, and the incidents and dialogue occasionally The author, or rather the translator, willingly acquiesced much varied. The imitator is ignorant of the real name of in this reasoning, and never afterwards made any attempt his ingenious contemporary, and has been informed that of 10 gain the honour of the buskin. The German taste also, Beit Weber is fictitious.

caricatured by a number of imitators who, incapable of The late Mr. John Kemble at one time had some desire copying the sublimity of the great masters of the school, supto bring out the play at Drury-Lane, then adorned by him-plied its place by extravagance and bombast, fell into disself and his matchless sister, who were to have supported / repute, and received a coup de grâce from the joint efforts

[NS.-" His unblooded wounds," etc.)

than that of Halidon Hill;' but noble as the effort was, it was [“ The poet, in his play of Auchindrane, displayed real tragic eclipsed so much by his splendid romances, that the public still power, and soothed all those who cried out before for a more direct complained that he had not done his best, and that his genius story; and less of the retrospective. Several of the scenes are was not dramatic."-ALLAN CUNNINGHAM- Alhenæum, 1411 Dec., conceived and executed with all the powers of the best parts of 1833.) • Waverley.' The verse, too, is more rough, natural, and nervous,

MEN.

of the late lamented Mr. Canning and Mr. Frere. The ef- deric, and their father must lie here like a wormfect of their singularly happy piece of ridicule called “The eaten manuscript in a convent library! Out upon Rovers," a mock play which appeared in the Anti-Jacobin, it! Out upon it! Is it not hard that a warrior, who was, that the German school, with its beauties and its de- has travelled so many leagues to display the cross on Sects, passed completely out of fashion, and the following the walls of Zion, should be now unable to lift a scenes were consigned to neglect and obscurity. Very lately, however, the writer chanced to look them over with

spear before his own castle gate! feelings very different from those of the adventurous period

Isa. Dear husband, your anxiety retards your reof his literary life during which they had been written, and covery. yet with such as perhaps a reformed libertine might regard Rud. May be so; but no less than your silence the illegitimate production of an early amour. There is and melancholy! Here have I sate this month, and something to be ashamed of, certainly; but, after all, pa- more, since that cursed fall! Neither hunting, nor ternal vanity whispers that the child has á resemblance to feasting, nor lance-breaking for me! And my sons the father.

--George enters cold and reserved, as if he had the To this it need only be added, that there are in existence so many manuscript copies of the following play, that if it weight of the empire on his shoulders, utters by sylshould not find its way to the public sooner, it is certain to lables a cold “How is it with you?” and shuts himdo so when the author can no more have any opportunity self up for days in his solitary chamber-Henry, my of correcting the press, and consequently at greater disad- cheerful Henryvantage than at present. Being of too small a size or con Isa. Surely, he at leastsequence for a separate publication, the piece is sent as a Rud. Even he forsakes me, and skips up the tower contribution to the Keepsake, where its demerits may be staircase like lightning to join your fair ward, Gerhidden amid the beauties of more valuable articles."

trude, on the battlements. I cannot blame him; for, ABBOSTFORD, 1st April, 1829.

by my knightly faith, were I in his place, I think

even these bruised bones would hardly keep me from DRAMATIS PERSON.

her side. Still, however, here I must sit alone.

Isa. Not alone, dear husband. Heaven knows

what I would do to soften your confinement. RUDIGER, Baron of Aspen, an old German warrior.

Rud. Tell me not of that, lady. When I first knew GEORGE OP ASPEN,

sons to Rudiger. RENRY OF ASPEN,

thee, Isabella, the fair maid of Arnheim was the joy RODERIC, Count of Maltingen, chief of a department of the Invisible Tri of her companions, and breathed life wherever she

bunal, and the hereditary enemy of the family of Aspen. WILLIAM, Baron of Wolfstein, ally of Count Roderic.

came. Thy father married thee to Arnolf of EbersBERTRAM OF EBERSDORF, brother lo the former husband of the Baroness dorf-not much with thy will, 'tis true-(she hides of Aspen, disguised as a minstrel.

her face.) Nay-forgive me, Isabella—but that is over

- he died, and the ties between us, which thy marfollowers of the House of Aspen. REYNOLD,

riage had broken, were renewed—but the sunshine CONRAD, Page of Honour to Henry of Aspen, MARTIN, Squire to George of Aspen.

of my Isabella's light heart returned no more. HUGO, Squire to Count Roderic.

Isa. (weeping.) Beloved Rudiger, you search my PETER, an ancient domestic of Rudiger. FATHER LUDOVIC, Chaplain to Rudiger.

very soul! Why will you recall past times-days of

spring that can never return? Do I not love thee WOMEN.

more than ever wife loved husband ? ISABELLA, formerly married 10 Arnolf of Ebersdorf, now wife of Rudiger.

Rud. (stretches out his arms-she embraces him.) GERTRUDE, Isabella's niece, betrothed to Henry.

And therefore art thou ever my beloved Isabella. Soldiers, Judges of the Invisible Tribunal, etc. etc.

But still, is it not true? Has not thy cheerfulness Scene.-The Castle of Ebersdorf in Bavaria, the ruins of Griefenhaus, and the adjacent country.

vanished since thou hast become Lady of Aspen ?
Dost thou repent of thy love to Rudiger ?

Isa. Alas! no! never! never!
THE HOUSE OF ASPEN.

Rud. Then why dost thou herd with monks and priests, and leave thy old knight alone, when, for the

first time in his stormy life, he has rested for weeks ACT I.

within the walls of his castle? Hast thou committed

a crime from which Rudiger's love cannot absolve SCENE I.

thee? An ancient Gothic chamber in the castle of Ebersdorf. Spears, Isa. O many! many! crossbows, and arms, with the horns of buffaloes and of deer,

Rud. Then be this kiss thy penance. And tell me, are hung round the wall. An antique buffel with beukers and stone botlles.

Isabella, hast thou not founded a convent, and en

dowed it with the best of thy late husband's lands? RudigER, Baron of Aspen, and his lady, ISABELLA, are

Ay, and with a vineyard which I could bave prized discovered sitting at a large oaken table.

as well as the sleek monks. Dost thou not daily Rud. A plague upon that roan horse! Had he not distribute alms to twenty pilgrims? Dost thou not stumbled with me at the ford after our last skirmish, cause ten masses to be sung each night for the reI had been now with my sons. And yonder the boys | pose of thy late husband's soul ? are, hardly three miles off, battling with Count Ro Isa. It will not know repose.

DUKE OP BAVARIA,
WICKERD,

Rud. Well, well-God's peace be with Arnolf of | Lady, the spirit of the Seven Sleepers is upon him,
Ebersdorf; the mention of him makes thee ever sad, So ho! not mounted yet? Reynold!
though so many years have passed since his death.
Isa. But at present, dear husband, have I not the

Enter REYNOLD. most just cause for anxiety? Are not Henry and Rey. Here! here! A devil choke thy bawling! George, our beloved sons, at this very moment per

think’st thou old Reynold is not as ready for a skirhaps engaged in doubtful contest with our hereditary | mish as thou ? foe, Count Roderic of Maltingen?

Wic. Nay, nay: I did but jest; but, by my sooth, Rud. Now, there lies the difference : you sorrow

it were a shamie should our yougsters have yoked that they are in danger, I that I cannot share it with

with Count Roderic before we greybeards come. them.-Hark! I hear horses' feet on the drawbridge,

Rey. Heaven forefend! Our troopers are but sadGo to the window, Isabella.

dling their horses; five minutes more, and we are in Isa. (at the window.) It is Wickerd, your squire.

our stirrups, and then let Count Roderic sit fast. Rud. Then shall we have tidings of George and

Wic. A plague on him! he has ever lain hard on the Henry. (Enter WICKERD.) How now, Wickerd ? skirts of our noble master. Have you come to blows yet ?

Rey. Especially since he was refused the hand of Wic. Not yet, noble sir.

our lady's niece, the pretty Lady Gertrude. Rud. Not yet ?-shame on the boys' dallying

Wic. Ay, marry! would nothing less serve the fox what wait they for?

of Maltingen than the lovely lamb of our young BaWic. The foe is strongly posted, sir knight, upon

ron Henry! By my sooth, Reynold, when I look the Wolfshill, near the ruins of Griefenhaus; there

upon these two lovers, they make me full twenty fore your noble son, George of Aspen, greets you

years younger; and when I meet the man that would well, and requests twenty more men-at-arms, and, divide them— I say nothing—but let him look to it. after they have joined him, he hopes, with the aid of

Rey. And how fare our young lords? St. Theodore, to send you news of victory.

Wic. Each well in bis humour.-Baron George Rud. (attempts to rise hastily.) Saddle my black

stern and cold, according to his wont, and his brother barb; I will head them myself. (Sits down.) A mur

as cheerful as ever. rain on that stumbling roan! I had forgot my dis

Rey. Well !—Baron Henry for me. located bones. Call Reynold, Wickerd, and bid him

Wic. Yet George saved thy life. take all whom he can spare from defence of the castle

Rey. True-with as much indifference as if he had -(WICKERD is going)--and ho! Wickerd, carry been snatching a chestnut out of the fire. Now Baron with you my black barb, and bid George charge upon Henry wept for my danger and my wounds. Therehim. (Exit WICKERD.) Now see, Isabella, if I dis- fore George shall ever command my life, but Henry regard the boy's safety; I send him the best horse ever knight bestrode. When we lay before Ascalon,

Wic. Nay, Baron George shows his gloomy spirit indeed, I had a bright bay Persian-Thou dost not

even by the choice of a favourite.

Rey. Ay,--Martin, formerly the squire of Arnolf Isa. Forgive me, dear husband; are not our sons

of Ebersdorf, his mother's first husband.-I marvel in danger! Will not our sins be visited upon them? he could not have fitted himself with an attendant Is not their present situation

from among the faithful followers of his worthy faRud. Situation? I know it well : as fair a field for ther, whom Arnolf and his adherents used to hate open fight as I ever hunted over : see here—makes

as the devil bates holy water. But Martin is a good lines on the table) —here is the ancient castle of Grie- soldier, and has stood toughly by George in many a fenhaus in ruins, here the Wolfshill; and here the hard brunt. marsh on the right.

Wic. The knave is sturdy enough, but so sulky Isa. The marsh of Griefenhaus !

withal—I have seen, brother Reynold, that when MarRud. Yes; by that the boys must pass.

tin showed his moody visage at the banquet, our noble Isa. Pass there! (Apart.) Avenging Heaven! thy mistress has dropped the wine she was raising to her hand is upon us!

(Erit hastily.

lips, and exchanged her smiles for a ghastly frown, Rud. Whither now? Whither now? She is

gone.

as if sorrow went by sympathy, as kissing goes by Thus it goes. Peter ! Peter! (Enter PETER.) Help favour. me to the gallery, that I may see them on horseback.

Rey. His appearance reminds her of her first hus. (Exit, leaning on PETER.

band, and thou hast well seen that makes her ever sad.

Wic. Dost thou marvel at that? She was married The inner court of the castle of Ebersdorf; a quadrangle, sur

to Arnolf by a species of force, and they say that rounded with Gothic buildings; troopers, followers of before his death he compelled her to swear never to Rudiger, pass and repass in haste, as is preparing for espouse Rrıdiger. The priests will not absolve her an cucursion. WICKERD comes forward.

for the breach of that vow, and therefore she is

troubled in mind. For, d'ye mark me, ReynoldWic. What, ho! Reynold! Reynold !--By our

(Bugle sounds.

my love.

heed me.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

Rey. A truce to your preaching! To horse! and Rud. Art thou a German? a blessing on our arms !

Ber. Yes, noble sir; and of this province. Wic. St. George grant it!

Rud. Sing me a song of battle. (Exeunt.

(BERTRAM sings to the harp. Rud. Thanks, minstrel : well sung and lustily.

What sayst thou, Isabella ? The gallery of the castle, terminating in a large balcony com

Isa. I marked him not. manding a distant prospect.-Voices, bugle-horns, kellle Rud. Nay, in sooth you are too anxious. Cheer drums, trampling of horses, elc., are heard without. up. And thou, too, my lovely Gertrude : in a few RUDIGER, leaning on PETER, looks from the balcony.

hours thy Henry shall return, and twine his laurels GERTRUDE and ISABELLA are near him.

into a garland for thy hair. He fights for thee, and

he must conquer. Rud. There they go at length-look, Isabella! look,

Ger. Alas! must blood be spilled for a silly maiden? my pretty Gertrude—these are the iron-banded war

Rud. Surely: for what should knights break lances riors who shall tell Roderic what it will cost him to

but for honour and ladies' love-ba, minstrel ? force thee from my protection—(Flourish wilhout,

Ber. So please you—also to punish crimes. RUDIGER stretches his arms from the balcony.) Go,

Rud. Out upon it! wouldst have us executioners, my children, and God's blessing with you. Look at

minstrel ? Such work would disgrace our blades. my black barb, Gertrude. That horse shall let day

We leave malefactors to the Secret Tribunal. light in through a phalanx, were it twenty pikes Isa. Merciful God! Thou hast spoken a word, deep. Shame on it that I cannot mount him! Seest

Rudiger, of dreadful import. thou how fierce old Reynold looks ?

Ger. They say that, unknown and invisible themGer. I can hardly know my friends in their armour. selves, these awful judges are ever present with the (The bugles and kettle-drums are heard

guilty ; that the past and the present misdeeds, the as at a greater distance.

secrets of the confessional, nay, the very thoughts Rud. Now I could tell every one of their names,

of the heart, are before them; that their doom is as even at this distance; ay, and were they covered, as

sure as that of fate, the means and executioners unI have seen them, with dust and blood. He on the

known. dapple-grey is Wickerd—a hardy fellow, but some

Rud. They say true—the secrets of that associawhat given to prating. That is young Conrad who

tion, and the names of those who compose it, are as gallops so fast, page to thy Henry, my girl.

inscrutable as the grave : we only know that it has [Bugles, etc., at a greater distance still.

taken deep root, and spread its branches wide. I sit Ger. Heaven guard them. Alas! the voice of war

down each day in my hall, nor know I how many that calls the blood into your cheeks chills and freezes

of

these secret judges may surround me, all bound by mine. Rud. Say not so. It is glorious, my girl, glorious !

the most solemn vow to avenge guilt. Once, and See how their armour glistens as they wind round yon

but once, a knight, at the earnest request and enbill! how their spears glimmer amid the long train of

quiries of the emperor, hinted that he belonged to

the society : the next morning he was found slain in dust. Hark! you can still hear the faint notes of their trumpets-(Bugles very faint.)—And Rudiger, this label="Thus do the invisible judges punish

a forest: the poniard was left in the wound, and bore old Rudiger with the iron arm, as the crusaders used

treachery." to call me, must remain behind with the priests and

Ger. Gracious! aunt, you grow pale. the women. Well! well!-(Sings.)

Isa. A slight indisposition only. " It was a knight to battle rode,

Rud. And what of it all? We know our hearts And as his war-horse he bestrode."

are open to our Creator : shall we fear any earthly Fill me a bowl of wine, Gertrude; and do thou, Pe inspection? Come to the battlements; there we shall ter, call the minstrel who came hither last night. soonest descry the return of our warriors. (Sings.)

(Exit RUDIGER, with GERTRUDE and PETER. “Off rode the horseman, dash, sa, sa!

Isa. Minstrel, send the chaplain bither. (Exil Ber-And stroked his whiskers, tra, la, la."

TRAM.) Gracious Heaven! the guileless innocence of (PETER goes out.—RUDIGER sits down, and Ger- my niece, the manly honesty of my upright-hearted TRUDE helps him with wine.) Thanks, my love. It Rudiger, become daily tortures to me. While he tastes ever best from thy hand. Isabella, here is was engaged in active and stormy exploits, fear for glory and victory to our boys.—(Drinks.)—Wilt thou his safety, joy when he returned to his castle, enabled not pledge me?

me to disguise my inward anguish from others. But Isa. To their safety, and God grant it!-(Drinks.) from myself-Judges of blood, that lie concealed in

noontide as in midnight, who boast to avenge the Enter BERTRAM as a minstrel, with a Boy bearing his

hidden guilt, and to penetrate the recesses of the harp.-Also PETER.

human breast, how blind is your penetration, how Rud. Thy name, minstrel?

vain your dagger and your cord, compared to the Ber. Minhold, so please you.

conscience of the sinner!

out

SCENE I.

Enter FATHER LUDOVIC.

Isa. True, true (recollecting herself); pardon my Lud. Peace be with you, lady!

warmth, good father, I was thinking of the cuckoo Isa. It is not with me: it is thy office to bring it. that grows too big for the nest of the sparrow, and

Lud. And the cause is the absence of the young strang les its fostermother. Do no such birds roost knights?

in convent walls? Isa. Their absence and their danger.

Lud. Lady, I understand you not. Lud. Daughter, thy hand has been stretched out Isa. Well then, say to the baron, that I have disin bounty to the sick and to the needy. Thou hast missed long ago all the attendants of the man of not denied a shelter to the weary, nor a tear to the whom thou hast spoken, and that I wish to bave none afflicted. Trust in their prayers, and in those of the of them beneath my roof. holy convent thou hast founded; peradventure they Lud. (inquisitively.) Except Martin? will bring back thy children to thy bosom.

Isa. (sharply.) Except Martin! who saved the life Isa. Thy brethren cannot pray for me or mine. of my son George? Do as I command thee. Their vow binds them to pray night and day for an

(Exit. other—to supplicate, without ceasing, the Eternal

Manet LUDOVIC. Mercy for the soul of one who—Oh, only Heaven Lud. Ever the same-stern and peremptory to knows how much he needs their prayer!

others as rigorous to herself; haughty even to me, Lud. Unbounded is the mercy of Heaven. The to whom, in another mood, she has knelt for absolusoul of thy former husband

tion, and whose knees she has bathed in tears. I *Isa. I charge thee, priest, mention not the word.

cannot fathom her. The unnatural zeal with which (Apart.) Wretch that I am, the meanest menial in she performs her dreadful penances cannot be relimy train has power to goad me to madness!

gion, for shrewdly I guess she believes not in their Lud. Hearken to me, daughter; thy crime against blessed efficacy. Well for her that she is the founArnolf of Ebersdorf cannot bear in the eye of Heaven

dress of our convent, otherwise we might not have so deep a dye of guilt.

erred in denouncing her as a heretic! Isa. Repeat that once more; say once again that

(Exit. it cannol—cannot bear so deep a dye. Prove to me that ages of the bitterest penance, that tears of the dearest blood, can erase such guilt. Prove but that

ACT II. to me, and I will build thee an abbey which shall put to shame the fairest fane in Christendom.

A woodland prospect.-Through a long avenue, half grown Lud. Nay, nay, daughter, your conscience is over

up by brambles, are discerned in the background the ruins tender. Supposing that, under dread of the stern

of the ancient castle of Griefenhaus.- The distant noise of Arnolf, you swore never to marry your present hus battle is heard during this scene. band, still the exacting such an oath was unlawful,

Enter GEORGE OF ASPEN, armed with a battle-axe in his and the breach of it venia).

hand, as from horseback. He supports Martin, and Isa. (resuming her composure.) Be it so, good

brings him forward. father; I yield to thy better reasons. And now tell me, has thy pious care achieved the task I intrusted Geo. Lay thee down here, old friend. The eneto thee?

iny's horsemen will bardly take their way among Lud. Of superintending the erection of thy new these brambles, through which I have dragged thee. hospital for pilgrims ? I bave, noble lady: and last Mar. Oh, do not leave me! leave me not an innight the minstrel now in the castle lodged there. stant! My moments are now but few, and I would

Isa. Wherefore came he then to the castle? profit by them.
Lud. Reynold brought the commands of the baron. Geo. Martin, you forget yourself and me-I must

Isa. Whence comes he, and what is his tale? back to the field. When he sung before Rudiger, I thought that long Mar. (attempts to rise.) Then drag me back thither before I had heard such tones—seen such a face. also; I cannot die but in your presence-1 dare not

Lud. It is possible you may have seen bim, lady, be alone. Stay, to give peace to my parting soul. for be boasts to have been known to Arnolf of Ebers Geo. I am no priest, Martin. (Going.) dorf, and to have lived formerly in this castle. He Mar. (raising himself with great pain.) Baron enquires much after Martin, Arnolf's squire. George of Aspen, I saved thy life in battle : for that

Isa. Go, Ludovic-go quick, good father, seek him good deed, hear me but one moment. out, give him this purse, and bid him leave the castle, Geo. I hear thee, my poor friend. (Returning.) and speed him on his way.

Mar. But come close-very close. See'st thou, Lud. May I ask why, noble lady?

sir knight-this wound I bore for thee—and thisIsa. Thou art inquisitive, priest: I honour the and this—dost thou not remember? servants of God, but I foster not the prying spirit Geo. I do. of a monk. Begone!

Mar. I have served thee since thou wast a child; Lud. But the baron, lady, will expect a reason why served thee faithfully—was never from thy side I dismiss his guest?

Geo. Thou hast.

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