PREFACE.

It would appear like affectation to offer an apology for any scenes or passages omitted or added, in this play, different from the original: its reception has given me confidence to suppose what I have done is right; for Kotzebue’s “Child of Love” in Germany, was never more attractive than “Lovers’ Vows” has been in England.

I could trouble my reader with many pages to disclose the motives which induced me to alter, with the exception of a few common-place sentences only, the characters of Count Cassel, Amelia, and Verdun the Butler—I could explain why the part of the Count, as in the original, would inevitably have condemned the whole Play,—I could inform my reader why I have pourtrayed the Baron in many particulars different from the German author, and carefully prepared the audience for the grand effect of the last scene in the fourth act, by totally changing his conduct towards his son as a robber—why I gave sentences of a humourous kind to the parts of the two Cottagers—why I was compelled, on many occasions, to compress the matter of a speech of three or four pages into one of three or four lines—and why, in no one instance, I would suffer my respect for Kotzebue to interfere with my profound respect for the judgment of a British audience. But I flatter myself such a vindication is not requisite to the enlightened reader, who, I trust, on comparing this drama

with the original, will at once see all my motives—and the dull admirer of mere verbal translation, it would be vain to endeavour to inspire with taste by instruction.

Wholly unacquainted with the German language, a literal translation of the “Child of Love” was given to me by the manager of Covent Garden Theatre to be fitted, as my opinion should direct, for his stage. This translation, tedious and vapid as most literal translations are, had the peculiar disadvantage of having been put into our language by a German—of course it came to me in broken English. It was no slight misfortune to have an example of bad grammar, false metaphors and similes, with all the usual errors of feminine diction, placed before a female writer. But if, disdaining the construction of sentences,—the precise decorum of the cold grammarian,—she has caught the spirit of her author,—if, in every altered scene,—still adhering to the nice propriety of his meaning, and still keeping in view his great catastrophe,—she has agitated her audience with all the various passions he depicted, the rigid criticism of the closet will be but a slender abatement of the pleasure resulting from the sanction of an applauding theatre.

It has not been one of the least gratifications I have received from the success of this play, that the original German, from which it is taken, was printed in the year 1791; and yet, that during all the period which has intervened, no person of talents or literary knowledge (though there are in this country many of that description, who profess to search for German dramas) has thought it worth employment to make a translation of the work. I can only account for such an apparent neglect of Kotzebue’s “Child of Love,” by the consideration of its original unfitness for an English stage, and the difficulty of making it otherwise—a difficulty which once appeared so formidable, that I seriously thought I must have declined it even after I had proceeded some length in the undertaking.

Independently of objections to the character of the Count, the dangerous insignificance of the Butler, in the original, embarrassed me much. I found, if he was retained in the Dramatis Personæ, something more must be supplied than the author had assigned him: I suggested the verses I have introduced; but not being blessed with the Butler’s happy art of rhyming, I am indebted for them, except the seventh and eleventh stanzas in the first of his poetic stories, to the author of the prologue.

The part of Amelia has been a very particular object of my solicitude and alteration: the same situations which the author gave her remain, but almost all the dialogue of the character I have changed: the forward and unequivocal manner in which she announces her affection to her lover, in the original, would have been revolting to an English audience: the passion of love, represented on the stage, is certain to be insipid or disgusting, unless it creates smiles or tears: Amelia’s love, by Kotzebue, is indelicately blunt, and yet void of mirth or sadness: I have endeavoured to attach the attention and sympathy of the audience by whimsical insinuations, rather than coarse abruptness—the same woman, I conceive, whom the author drew, with the self-same sentiments, but with manners adapted to the English rather than the German taste; and if the favour in which this character is held by the audience, together with every sentence and incident which I have presumed to introduce in the play, may be offered as the criterion of my skill, I am

sufficiently rewarded for the task I have performed.

In stating the foregoing circumstances relating to this production, I hope not to be suspected of arrogating to my own exertions only, the popularity which has attended “The Child of Love,” under the title of “Lovers’ Vows,”—the exertions of every performer engaged in the play deservedly claim a share in its success; and I must sincerely thank them for the high importance of their aid.

PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. MURRAY.

Poets have oft’ declared, in doleful strain, That o’er dramatic tracks they beat in vain, Hopeless that novelty will spring to sight; For life and nature are exhausted quite. Though plaints like these have rung from age to age, Too kind are writers to desert the stage; And if they, fruitless, search for unknown prey, At least they dress old game a novel way; But such lamentings should be heard no more, For modern taste turns Nature out of door; Who ne’er again her former sway will boast, Till, to complete her works, she starts a ghost. If such the mode, what can we hope to-night, Who rashly dare approach without a sprite? No dreadful cavern, no midnight scream, No rosin flames, nor e’en one flitting gleam. Nought of the charms so potent to invite The monstrous charms of terrible delight. Our present theme the German Muse supplies, But rather aims to soften than surprise. Yet, with her woes she strives some smiles to blend, Intent as well to cheer as to amend: On her own native soil she knows the art To charm the fancy, and to touch the heart.

If, then, she mirth and pathos can express, Though less engaging in an English dress, Let her from British hearts no peril fear, But, as a STRANGER*, find a welcome here.

* Hamlet.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A high road, a town at a distance—A small inn on one side of the road—A cottage on the other.

The LANDLORD of the inn leads AGATHA by the hand out of his house.

LANDLORD. No, no! no room for you any longer—It is the fair to-day in the next village; as great a fair as any in the German dominions. The country people with their wives and children take up every corner we have.

AGATHA. You will turn a poor sick woman out of doors who has spent her last farthing in your house.

LANDLORD. For that very reason; because she has spent her last farthing.

AGATHA. I can work.

LANDLORD. You can hardly move your hands.

AGATHA. My strength will come again.

LANDLORD. Then you may come again.

AGATHA. What am I to do? Where shall I go?

LANDLORD. It is fine weather—you may go any where.

AGATHA. Who will give me a morsel of bread to satisfy my hunger?

LANDLORD. Sick people eat but little.

AGATHA. Hard, unfeeling man, have pity.

LANDLORD. When times are hard, pity is too expensive for a poor man. Ask alms of the different people that go by.

AGATHA. Beg! I would rather starve.

LANDLORD. You may beg and starve too. What a fine lady you are! Many an honest woman has been obliged to beg. Why should not you? [Agatha sits down upon a large stone under a tree.] For instance, here comes somebody; and I will teach you how to begin. [A Countryman, with working tools, crosses the road.] Good day, neighbour Nicholas.

COUNTRYMAN Good day. [Stops.]

LANDLORD. Won’t you give a trifle to this poor woman? [Countryman takes no notice, but walks off.] That would not do—the poor man has nothing himself but what he gets by hard labour. Here comes a rich farmer; perhaps he will give you something.

Enter FARMER.

LANDLORD. Good morning to you, Sir. Under yon tree sits a poor woman in distress, who is in need of your charity.

FARMER. Is she not ashamed of herself? Why don’t she work?

LANDLORD. She has had a fever.—If you would but pay for one dinner—

FARMER. The harvest has been indifferent, and my cattle and sheep have suffered distemper. [Exit.

LANDLORD. My fat, smiling face was not made for begging: you’ll have more luck with your thin, sour one—so, I’ll leave you to yourself. [Exit.

[Agatha rises and comes forward.]

AGATHA. Oh Providence! thou hast till this hour protected me, and hast given me fortitude not to despair. Receive my humble thanks, and restore me to health, for the sake of my poor son, the innocent cause of my sufferings, and yet my only comfort. [kneeling] Oh, grant that I may see him once more! See him improved in strength of mind and body; and that by thy gracious mercy he may never be visited with afflictions great as mine. [After a pause] Protect his father too, merciful Providence, and pardon his crime of perjury to me! Here, in the face of heaven (supposing my end approaching, and that I can but a few days longer struggle with want and sorrow), here, I solemnly forgive my seducer for all the ills, the accumulated evils which his allurements, his deceit, and cruelty, have for twenty years past drawn upon me.

Enter a COUNTRY GIRL with a basket.

AGATHA. [near fainting]. My dear child, if you could spare me a trifle—

GIRL. I have not a farthing in the world—But I am going to market to sell my eggs, and as I come back I’ll give you three-pence—And I’ll be back as soon as ever I can. [Exit.

AGATHA. There was a time when I was as happy as this country girl, and as willing to assist the poor in distress. [Retires to the tree and sits down.]

Enter FREDERICK—He is dressed in a German soldier’s uniform, has a knapsack on his shoulders, appears in high spirits, and stops at the door of the inn.

FREDERICK. Halt! Stand at ease! It is a very hot day—A draught of good wine will not be amiss. But first let me consult my purse. [Takes out a couple of pieces of money, which he turns about in his hand.] This will do for a breakfast—the other remains for my dinner; and in the evening I shall be home. [Calls out] Ha! Halloo! Landlord! [Takes notice of Agatha, who is leaning against the tree.] Who is that? A poor sick woman! She don’t beg; but her appearance makes me think she is in want. Must one always wait to give till one is asked? Shall I go without my breakfast now, or lose my dinner? The first I think is best. Ay, I don’t want a breakfast, for dinner time will soon be here. To do good satisfies both hunger and thirst. [Going towards her with the money in his hand.] Take this, good woman.

[She stretches her hand for the gift, looks steadfastly at him, and cries out with astonishment and joy.]

AGATHA. Frederick!

FREDERICK. Mother! [With astonishment and grief.] Mother! For God’s sake what is this! How is this! And why do I find my mother thus? Speak!

AGATHA. I cannot speak, dear son! [Rising and embracing him.] My dear Frederick! The joy is too great—I was not prepared—

FREDERICK. Dear mother, compose yourself: [leans her head against his breast] now, then, be comforted. How she trembles! She is fainting.

AGATHA. I am so weak, and my head so giddy—I had nothing to eat all yesterday.

FREDERICK. Good heavens! Here is my little money, take it all! Oh mother! mother! [Runs to the inn]. Landlord! Landlord! [knocking violently at the door.]

LANDLORD. What is the matter?

FREDERICK. A bottle of wine—quick, quick!

LANDLORD. [surprised]. A bottle of wine! For who?

FREDERICK. For me. Why do you ask? Why don’t you make haste?

LANDLORD. Well, well, Mr. soldier: but can you pay for it?

FREDERICK. Here is money—make haste, or I’ll break every window in your house.

LANDLORD. Patience! Patience! [goes off.

FREDERICK. [to Agatha]. You were hungry yesterday when I sat down to a comfortable dinner. You were hungry when I partook of a good supper. Oh! Why is so much bitter mixed with the joy of my return?

AGATHA. Be patient, my dear Frederick. Since I see you, I am well. But I have been very ill: so ill, that I despaired of ever beholding you again.

FREDERICK. Ill, and I was not with you? I will, now, never leave you more. Look, mother, how tall and strong I am grown. These arms can now afford you support. They can, and shall, procure you subsistence.

[Landlord coming out of the house with a small pitcher.]

LANDLORD. Here is wine—a most delicious nectar. [Aside.] It is only Rhenish; but it will pass for the best old Hock.

FREDERICK. [impatiently snatching the pitcher]. Give it me.

LANDLORD. No, no—the money first. One shilling and two-pence, if you please.

[Frederick gives him money.]

FREDERICK. This is all I have.—Here, here, mother.

[While she drinks Landlord counts the money.]

LANDLORD. Three halfpence too short! However, one must be charitable. [Exit Landlord.

AGATHA. I thank you, my dear Frederick—Wine revives me—Wine from the hand of my son gives me almost a new life.

FREDERICK. Don’t speak too much, mother.—Take your time.

AGATHA. Tell me, dear child, how you have passed the five years since you left me.

FREDERICK. Both good and bad, mother. To day plenty—to-morrow not so much—And sometimes nothing at all.

AGATHA. You have not written to me this long while.

FREDERICK. Dear mother, consider the great distance I was from you!—And then, in the time of war, how often letters miscarry.—Besides——

AGATHA. No matter now I see you. But have you obtained your discharge?

FREDERICK. Oh, no, mother—I have leave of absence only for two months; and that for a particular reason. But I will not quit you so soon, now I find you are in want of my assistance.

AGATHA. No, no, Frederick; your visit will make me so well, that I shall in a very short time recover strength to work again; and you must return to your regiment when your furlough is expired. But you told me leave of absence was granted you for a particular reason.—What reason?

FREDERICK. When I left you five years ago, you gave me every thing you could afford, and all you thought would be necessary for me. But one trifle you forgot, which was, the certificate of my birth from the church-book.—You know in this country there is nothing to be done without it. At the time of parting from you, I little thought it could be of that consequence to me which I have since found it would have been. Once I became tired of a soldier’s life, and in the hope I should obtain my discharge, offered myself to a master to learn a profession; but his question was, “Where is your certificate from the church-book of the parish in which you were born?” It vexed me that I had not it to produce, for my comrades laughed at my disappointment. My captain behaved kinder, for he gave me leave to come home to fetch it—and you see, mother, here I am.

[During his speech Agatha is confused and agitated.

AGATHA. So, you are come for the purpose of fetching your certificate from the church-book.

FREDERICK. Yes, mother.

AGATHA. Oh! oh!

FREDERICK. What is the matter? [She bursts into tears.] For heaven’s sake, mother, tell me what’s the matter?

AGATHA. You have no certificate.

FREDERICK. No!

AGATHA. No.—The laws of Germany excluded you from being registered at your birth—for—you are a natural son!

FREDERICK. [starts—after a pause]. So!—And who is my father?

AGATHA. Oh Frederick, your wild looks are daggers to my heart. Another time.

FREDERICK. [endeavouring to conceal his emotion]. No, no—I am still your son—and you are still my mother. Only tell me, who is my father?

AGATHA. When we parted five years ago, you were too young to be intrusted with a secret of so much importance.—But the time is come when I can, in confidence, open my heart, and unload that burthen with which it has been long oppressed. And yet, to reveal my errors to my child, and sue for his mild judgment on my conduct——

FREDERICK. You have nothing to sue for; only explain this mystery.

AGATHA. I will, I will. But—my tongue is locked with remorse and shame. You must not look at me.

FREDERICK. Not look at you! Cursed be that son who could find his mother guilty, although the world should call her so.

AGATHA. Then listen to me, and take notice of that village, [pointing] of that castle, and of that church. In that village I was born—in that church I was baptized. My parents were poor, but reputable farmers.—The lady of that castle and estate requested them to let me live with her, and she would provide for me through life. They resigned me; and at the age of fourteen I went to my patroness. She took pleasure to instruct me in all kinds of female literature and accomplishments, and three happy years had passed under protection, when her only son, who was an officer in the Saxon service, obtained permission to come home. I had never seen him before—he was a handsome young man—in my eyes a prodigy; for he talked of love, and promised me marriage. He was the first man who had ever spoken to me on such a subject.—His flattery made me vain, and his repeated vows—Don’t look at me, dear Frederick!—I can say no more. [Frederick with his eyes cast down, takes her hand, and puts it to his heart.] Oh! oh! my son! I was intoxicated by the fervent caresses of a

young, inexperienced, capricious man, and did not recover from the delirium till it was too late.

FREDERICK. [after a pause]. Go on.—Let me know more of my father.

AGATHA. When the time drew near that I could no longer conceal my guilt and shame, my seducer prevailed upon me not to expose him to the resentment of his mother. He renewed his former promises of marriage at her death;—on which relying, I gave him my word to be secret—and I have to this hour buried his name deep in my heart.

FREDERICK. Proceed, proceed! give me full information—I will have courage to hear it all. [Greatly agitated.]

AGATHA. His leave of absence expired, he returned to his regiment, depending on my promise, and well assured of my esteem. As soon as my situation became known, I was questioned, and received many severe reproaches: but I refused to confess who was my undoer; and for that obstinacy was turned from the castle.—I went to my parents; but their door was shut against me. My mother, indeed, wept as she bade me quit her sight for ever; but my father wished increased affliction might befall me.

FREDERICK. [weeping]. Be quick with your narrative, or you’ll break my heart.