A peasant. Caution were best, old man-Thou art The Knight is great and powerful. [a stranger, Ser. Let it be so. Call'd on by Heaven to stand forth an avenger, I will not blench for fear of mortal man. Have I not seen that when that innocent Had placed her hands upon the murder'd body, His gaping wounds, that erst were soak'd with brine, Burst forth with blood as ruddy as the cloud Which now the sun doth rise on?

Peas. What of that?

Ser. Nothing that can affect the innocent child,
But murder's guilt attaching to her father,
Since the blood musters in the victim's veins
At the approach of what holds lease from him
Of all that parents can transmit to children.

And here comes one to whom I'll vouch the circum

stance.

The EARL OF DUNBAR enters with Soldiers and others, having AUCHINDRANE and PHILIP prisoners.

Dun. Fetter the young ruffian and his trait'rous father!

[They are made secure. Auch. 'Twas a lord spoke it-I have known a knight, Sir George of Home, who had not dared to say so.

Dun. 'Tis Heaven, not I, decides upon your guilt A harmless youth is traced within your power, Sleeps in your Ranger's house-his friend at midnight Is spirited away. Then lights are seen,

And groans are heard, and corpses come ashore Mangled with daggers, while (to Phil.) your dagger

wears

The sanguine livery of recent slaughter:
Here, too, the body of a murder'd victim,
(Whom none but you had interest to remove,)
Bleeds on a child's approach, because the daughter
Of one the abettor of the wicked deed.
All this, and other proofs corroborative,
Call on us briefly to pronounce the doom
We have in charge to utter.

Auch. If my house perish, Heaven's will be done!
I wish not to survive it; but, O Philip,
Would one could pay the ransom for us both!

Phil. Father, 'tis fitter that we both should die,
Leaving no heir behind.-The piety
Of a bless'd saint, the moral of an anchorite,
Could not atone thy dark hypocrisy,

Or the wild profligacy I have practised.
Ruin'd our house, and shatter'd be our towers,
And with them end the curse our sins have merited!*
[Exeunt.

ADVERTISEMENT.

This attempt at dramatic composition was executed nearly thirty years since, when the magnificent works of

Goethe and Schiller were for the first time made known to the British public, and received, as many now alive must remember, with universal enthusiasm. What we admire we usually attempt to imitate; and the author, not trusting to his own efforts, borrowed the substance of the story and a part of the diction from a dramatic romance called "Der Heilige Vehmé" (the Secret Tribunal), which fills the sixth volume of the "Sagen den Vorzeit" (Tales of Antiquity), by Beit Weber. The drama must be termed rather a rifacimento of the original than a translation, since the whole is compressed, and the incidents and dialogue occasionally much varied. The imitator is ignorant of the real name of his ingenious contemporary, and has been informed that of

Beit Weber is fictitious.

The late Mr. John Kemble at one time had some desire to bring out the play at Drury-Lane, then adorned by himself and his matchless sister, who were to have supported

I

2

[MS.-"His unblooded wounds," etc.]

the characters of the unhappy son and mother: but great objections appeared to this proposal. There was danger that the main spring of the story,-the binding engagements formed by members of the secret tribunal,-might not be sufficiently felt by an English audience, to whom the nature of that singularly mysterious institution was unknown from early association. There was also, according to Mr. Kemble's experienced opinion, too much blood, too much of the dire catastrophe of Tom Thumb, when all die on the stage. It was besides esteemed perilous to place the fifth act and the parade and show of the secret conclave, at the mercy of underlings and sceneshifters, who, by a ridiculous motion, gesture, or accent, might turn what should be grave into farce.

The author, or rather the translator, willingly acquiesced in this reasoning, and never afterwards made any attempt to gain the honour of the buskin. The German taste also, caricatured by a number of imitators who, incapable of copying the sublimity of the great masters of the school, supplied its place by extravagance and bombast, fell into disrepute, and received a coup de grâce from the joint efforts

complained that he had not done his best, and that his genius was not dramatic."—ALLAN CUNNINGHAM—Athenæum, 14th Dec., 1833.]

of the late lamented Mr. Canning and Mr. Frere. The effect of their singularly happy piece of ridicule called "The Rovers," a mock play which appeared in the Anti-Jacobin, was, that the German school, with its beauties and its defects, passed completely out of fashion, and the following scenes were consigned to neglect and obscurity. Very lately, however, the writer chanced to look them over with feelings very different from those of the adventurous period of his literary life during which they had been written, and yet with such as perhaps a reformed libertine might regard the illegitimate production of an early amour. There is something to be ashamed of, certainly; but, after all, paresemblance to ternal vanity whispers that the child has

the father.

To this it need only be added, that there are in existence

deric, and their father must lie here like a wormeaten manuscript in a convent library! Out upon it! Out upon it! Is it not hard that a warrior, who has travelled so many leagues to display the cross on the walls of Zion, should be now unable to lift a spear before his own castle gate!

Isa. Dear husband, your anxiety retards your recovery.

Rud. May be so; but no less than your silence and and melancholy! Here have I sate this month, more, since that cursed fall! Neither hunting, nor feasting, nor lance-breaking for me! And my sons --George enters cold and reserved, as if he had the

should not find its way to the public sooner, it is certain to do so when the author can no more have any opportunity of correcting the press, and consequently at greater disadvantage than at present. Being of too small a size or consequence for a separate publication, the piece is sent as a contribution to the Keepsake, where its demerits may be hidden amid the beauties of more valuable articles.. ABBOSTFORD, 1st April, 1829.

lables a cold" How is it with you?" and shuts himself up for days in his solitary chamber-Henry, my cheerful Henry

Isa. Surely, he at least

Rud. Even he forsakes me, and skips up the tower staircase like lightning to join your fair ward, Gertrude, on the battlements. I cannot blame him; for, by my knightly faith, were I in his place, I think even these bruised bones would hardly keep me from her side. Still, however, here I must sit alone.

Isa. Not alone, dear husband. Heaven knows what I would do to soften your confinement.

Rud. Tell me not of that, lady. When I first knew thee, Isabella, the fair maid of Arnheim was the joy of her companions, and breathed life wherever she came. Thy father married thee to Arnolf of Ebersdorf-not much with thy will, 'tis true-(she hides her face.) Nay-forgive me, Isabella—but that is over -he died, and the ties between us, which thy marriage had broken, were renewed-but the sunshine of my Isabella's light heart returned no more.

Isa. (weeping.) Beloved Rudiger, you search my very soul! Why will you recall past times-days of spring that can never return? Do I not love thee more than ever wife loved husband?

Rud. (stretches out his arms-she embraces him.) And therefore art thou ever my beloved Isabella. But still, is it not true? Has not thy cheerfulness vanished since thou hast become Lady of Aspen? Dost thou repent of thy love to Rudiger?

Isa. Alas! no! never! never!

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 within the walls of his castle? Hast thou committed a crime from which Rudiger's love cannot absolve thee?

Rud. Well, well-God's peace be with Arnolf of Ebersdorf; the mention of him makes thee ever sad, though so many years have passed since his death.

Isa. But at present, dear husband, have I not the most just cause for anxiety? Are not Henry and George, our beloved sons, at this very moment perhaps engaged in doubtful contest with our hereditary foe, Count Roderic of Maltingen?

Rud. Now, there lies the difference you sorrow that they are in danger, I that I cannot share it with them.-Hark! I hear horses' feet on the drawbridge, Go to the window, Isabella.

Isa. (at the window.) It is Wickerd, your squire. Rud. Then shall we have tidings of George and Henry. (Enter WICKERD.) How now, Wickerd? Have you come to blows yet?

Wic. Not yet, noble sir.

Rud. Not yet?-shame on the boys' dallyingwhat wait they for?

Wic. The foe is strongly posted, sir knight, upon the Wolfshill, near the ruins of Griefenhaus; therefore your noble son, George of Aspen, greets you well, and requests twenty more men-at-arms, and, after they have joined him, he hopes, with the aid of St. Theodore, to send you news of victory.

Rud. (attempts to rise hastily.) Saddle my black barb; I will head them myself. (Sits down.) A murrain on that stumbling roan! I had forgot my dislocated bones. Call Reynold, Wickerd, and bid him take all whom he can spare from defence of the castle —(WICKERD is going)---and ho! Wickerd, carry with you my black barb, and bid George charge upon him. (Exit WICKERD.) Now see, Isabella, if I disregard the boy's safety; I send him the best horse ever knight bestrode. When we lay before Ascalon, indeed, I had a bright bay Persian-Thou dost not heed me.

Isa. Forgive me, dear husband; are not our sons in danger! Will not our sins be visited upon them? Is not their present situation——

Rud. Situation? I know it well: as fair a field for open fight as I ever hunted over: see here-(makes lines on the table)—here is the ancient castle of Griefenhaus in ruins, here the Wolfshill; and here the marsh on the right.

Isa. The marsh of Griefenhaus!

Rud. Yes; by that the boys must pass. Isa. Pass there! (Apart.) Avenging Heaven! thy hand is upon us! [Exit hastily.

Rud. Whither now? Whither now? She is gone. Thus it goes. Peter! Peter! (Enter PETER.) Help me to the gallery, that I may see them on horseback. [Exit, leaning on PETER.

Lady, the spirit of the Seven Sleepers is upon him— So ho! not mounted yet? Reynold!

Enter REYNOLD.

Rey. Here! here! A devil choke thy bawling! think'st thou old Reynold is not as ready for a skirmish as thou?

Wic. Nay, nay: I did but jest; but, by my sooth, it were a shame should our yougsters have yoked with Count Roderic before we greybeards come.

Rey. Heaven forefend! Our troopers are but saddling their horses; five minutes more, and we are in our stirrups, and then let Count Roderic sit fast.

Wic. A plague on him! he has ever lain hard on the skirts of our noble master.

Rey. Especially since he was refused the hand of our lady's niece, the pretty Lady Gertrude.

Wic. Ay, marry! would nothing less serve the fox of Maltingen than the lovely lamb of our young Baron Henry! By my sooth, Reynold, when I look upon these two lovers, they make me full twenty years younger; and when I meet the man that would divide them-I say nothing-but let him look to it.

Rey. And how fare our young lords?

Wic. Each well in his humour.-Baron George stern and cold, according to his wont, and his brother as cheerful as ever.

Rey. Well!-Baron Henry for me.
Wic. Yet George saved thy life.

Rey. True-with as much indifference as if he had been snatching a chestnut out of the fire. Now Baron Henry wept for my danger and my wounds. Therefore George shall ever command my life, but Henry my love.

Wie. Nay, Baron George shows his gloomy spirit even by the choice of a favourite.

Rey. Ay,-Martin, formerly the squire of Arnolf of Ebersdorf, his mother's first husband.-I marvel he could not have fitted himself with an attendant from among the faithful followers of his worthy father, whom Arnolf and his adherents used to hate as the devil hates holy water. But Martin is a good soldier, and has stood toughly by George in many a hard brunt.

Wic. The knave is sturdy enough, but so sulky withal-I have seen, brother Reynold, that when Martin showed his moody visage at the banquet, our noble mistress has dropped the wine she was raising to her lips, and exchanged her smiles for a ghastly frown, favour. as if sorrow went by sympathy, as kissing goes by

Rey. His appearance reminds her of her first husband, and thou hast well seen that makes her ever sad.

Wic. Dost thou marvel at that? She was married to Arnolf by a species of force, and they say that before his death he compelled her to swear never to espouse Rudiger. The priests will not absolve her for the breach of that vow, and therefore she is troubled in mind. For, d'ye mark me, Reynold—— [Bugle sounds.

RUDIGER, leaning on PETER, looks from the balcony. GERTRUDE and ISABELLA are near him.

Rud. There they go at length-look, Isabella! look, my pretty Gertrude-these are the iron-handed warriors who shall tell Roderic what it will cost him to force thee from my protection-(Flourish without, RUDIGER stretches his arms from the balcony.) Go, my children, and God's blessing with you. Look at my black barb, Gertrude. That horse shall let daylight in through a phalanx, were it twenty pikes deep. Shame on it that I cannot mount him! Seest thou how fierce old Reynold looks?

Ger. I can hardly know my friends in their armour. [The bugles and kettle-drums are heard as at a greater distance.

Rud. Now I could tell every one of their names, even at this distance; ay, and were they covered, as I have seen them, with dust and blood. He on the dapple-grey is Wickerd-a hardy fellow, but somewhat given to prating. That is young Conrad who gallops so fast, page to thy Henry, my girl.

[Bugles, etc., at a greater distance still. Ger. Heaven guard them. Alas! the voice of war that calls the blood into your cheeks chills and freezes mine.

yon

Rud. Say not so. It is glorious, my girl, glorious! See how their armour glistens as they wind round hill! how their spears glimmer amid the long train of dust. Hark! you can still hear the faint notes of their trumpets—(Bugles very faint.)—And Rudiger, old Rudiger with the iron arm, as the crusaders used to call me, must remain behind with the priests and the women. Well! well! (Sings.)

"It was a knight to battle rode,

And as his war-horse he bestrode."

Fill me a bowl of wine, Gertrude; and do thou, Peter, call the minstrel who came hither last night. (Sings.)

"Off rode the horseman, dash, sa, sa!

And stroked his whiskers, tra, la, la.”—

(PETER goes out.-RUDIGER sits down, and GERTRUDE helps him with wine.) Thanks, my love. It tastes ever best from thy hand. Isabella, here is glory and victory to our boys.-(Drinks.)-Wilt thou not pledge me?

Isa. To their safety, and God grant it!-(Drinks.) Enter BERTRAM as a minstrel, with a Boy bearing his harp. Also PETER.

Rud. Thy name, minstrel?
Ber. Minhold, so please you.

Rud. Art thou a German?
Ber. Yes, noble sir; and of this province.
Rud. Sing me a song of battle.

[BERTRAM, sings to the harp. Rud. Thanks, minstrel: well sung and lustily. What sayst thou, Isabella?

Isa. I marked him not.

Rud. Nay, in sooth you are too anxious. Cheer up. And thou, too, my lovely Gertrude in a few hours thy Henry shall return, and twine his laurels into a garland for thy hair. He fights for thee, and he must conquer.

Ger. Alas! must blood be spilled for a silly maiden? Rud. Surely for what should knights break lances but for honour and ladies' love-ha, minstrel ?

Ber. So please you-also to punish crimes.

Rud. Out upon it! wouldst have us executioners, minstrel? Such work would disgrace our blades. We leave malefactors to the Secret Tribunal.

Isa. Merciful God! Thou hast spoken a word, Rudiger, of dreadful import.

Ger. They say that, unknown and invisible themselves, these awful judges are ever present with the guilty; that the past and the present misdeeds, the secrets of the confessional, nay, the very thoughts of the heart, are before them; that their doom is as sure as that of fate, the means and executioners unknown.

Rud. They say true-the secrets of that association, and the names of those who compose it, are as inscrutable as the grave: we only know that it has taken deep root, and spread its branches wide. I sit down each day in my hall, nor know I how many of these secret judges may surround me, all bound by but once, a knight, at the earnest request and enthe most solemn vow to avenge guilt. Once, and quiries of the emperor, hinted that he belonged to the society: the next morning he was found slain in this label "Thus do the invisible judges punish a forest: the poniard was left in the wound, and bore treachery."

Ger. Gracious! aunt, you grow pale.
Isa. A slight indisposition only.

Rud. And what of it all? We know our hearts are open to our Creator: shall we fear any earthly inspection? Come to the battlements; there we shall soonest descry the return of our warriors.

[Exit RUDIGER, with GERTRUDE and PETER. Isa. Minstrel, send the chaplain hither. (Exit BERTRAM.) Gracious Heaven! the guileless innocence of my niece, the manly honesty of my upright-hearted Rudiger, become daily tortures to me. While he was engaged in active and stormy exploits, fear for his safety, joy when he returned to his castle, enabled me to disguise my inward anguish from others. But from myself Judges of blood, that lie concealed in noontide as in midnight, who boast to avenge the hidden guilt, and to penetrate the recesses of the human breast, how blind is your penetration, how vain your dagger and your cord, compared to the conscience of the sinner!

Enter FATHER LUDOVIC.

Lud. Peace be with you, lady! Isa. It is not with me: it is thy office to bring it. Lud. And the cause is the absence of the young knights?

Isa. Their absence and their danger.

Lud. Daughter, thy hand has been stretched out in bounty to the sick and to the needy. Thou hast not denied a shelter to the weary, nor a tear to the afflicted. Trust in their prayers, and in those of the holy convent thou hast founded; peradventure they will bring back thy children to thy bosom.

Isa. Thy brethren cannot pray for me or mine. Their vow binds them to pray night and day for another-to supplicate, without ceasing, the Eternal Mercy for the soul of one who-Oh, only Heaven knows how much he needs their prayer!

Lud. Unbounded is the mercy of Heaven. The soul of thy former husband

Isa. I charge thee, priest, mention not the word. (Apart.) Wretch that I am, the meanest menial in my train has power to goad me to madness!

Lud. Hearken to me, daughter; thy crime against Arnolf of Ebersdorf cannot bear in the eye of Heaven so deep a dye of guilt.

Isa. Repeat that once more; say once again that it cannot-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 to me, and I will build thee an abbey which shall put to shame the fairest fane in Christendom.

Lud. Nay, nay, daughter, your conscience is over tender. Supposing that, under dread of the stern Arnolf, you swore never to marry your present husband, still the exacting such an oath was unlawful, and the breach of it venial.

Isa. (resuming her composure.) Be it so, good father; I yield to thy better reasons. And now tell me, has thy pious care achieved the task I intrusted to thee?

Lud. Of superintending the erection of thy new hospital for pilgrims? I have, noble lady and last night the minstrel now in the castle lodged there. Isa. Wherefore came he then to the castle? Lud. Reynold brought the commands of the baron. Isa. Whence comes he, and what is his tale? When he sung before Rudiger, I thought that long before I had heard such tones-seen such a face.

Lud. It is possible you may have seen him, lady, for he boasts to have been known to Arnolf of Ebersdorf, and to have lived formerly in this castle. He enquires much after Martin, Arnolf's squire.

Isa. Go, Ludovic-go quick, good father, seek him out, give him this purse, and bid him leave the castle, and speed him on his way.

Lud. May I ask why, noble lady?

Isa. Thou art inquisitive, priest: I honour the servants of God, but I foster not the prying spirit of a monk. Begone!

Isa. True, true (recollecting herself); pardon my warmth, good father, I was thinking of the cuckoo that grows too big for the nest of the sparrow, and strangles its fostermother. Do no such birds roost in convent walls?

Lud. Lady, I understand you not.

Isa. Well then, say to the baron, that I have dismissed long ago all the attendants of the man of whom thou hast spoken, and that I wish to have none of them beneath my roof.

Lud. (inquisitively.) Except Martin?

Isa. (sharply.) Except Martin! who saved the life of my son George? Do as I command thee.

Manet LUDOVIC.

[Exit.

I

Lud. Ever the same-stern and peremptory to others as rigorous to herself; haughty even to me, to whom, in another mood, she has knelt for absolution, and whose knees she has bathed in tears. cannot fathom her. The unnatural zeal with which she performs her dreadful penances cannot be religion, for shrewdly I guess she believes not in their blessed efficacy. Well for her that she is the foundress of our convent, otherwise we might not have erred in denouncing her as a heretic!

ACT II.

SCENE 1.

[Exit.

A woodland prospect.-Through a long avenue, half grown up by brambles, are discerned in the background the ruins of the ancient castle of Griefenhaus.-The distant noise of battle is heard during this scene.

Enter GEORGE OF ASPEN, armed with a battle-axe in his hand, as from horseback. He supports MARTIN, and brings him forward.

Geo. Lay thee down here, old friend. The eneiny's horsemen will hardly take their way among these brambles, through which I have dragged thee.

Mar. Oh, do not leave me! leave me not an instant! My moments are now but few, and I would profit by them.

Geo. Martin, you forget yourself and me—I must back to the field.

Mar. (attempts to rise.) Then drag me back thither also; I cannot die but in your presence-I dare not be alone. Stay, to give peace to my parting soul. Geo. I am no priest, Martin. (Going.) Mar. (raising himself with great pain.) Baron George of Aspen, I saved thy life in battle for that good deed, hear me but one moment.

Geo. I hear thee, my poor friend.
Mar. But come close-very close.

:

(Returning.) See'st thou,

sir knight-this wound I bore for thee-and thisand this-dost thou not remember?

Geo. I do.

I dismiss his guest?

Geo. Thou hast.