The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Götz Von Berlichingen With the Iron Hand. a Drama.
• Dramatis PersonÆ
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: An Inn At Schwarzenberg In Franconia.
• Scene II.—: A Cottage In a Thick Forest.
• Scene III.—: An Apartment In Jaxthausen, the Castle of Goetz Von Berlichingen.
• Scene IV.—: The Bishop of Bamberg’s Palace.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Bamberg. a Hall.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen. a Hall In Goetz’s Castle.
• Scene III.—: The Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene IV.—: The Spessart.
• Scene V.—: The Bishop’s Palace. His Cabinet.
• Scene VI.—: Adelaide’s Apartment.
• Scene VII.—: An Ante-room.
• Scene VIII.—: The Spessart.
• Scene IX.—: Hall In the Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene X—: an Inn.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: A Garden At Augsburg.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene III.—: The Camp of the Party Sent to Execute the Imperial Mandate.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: Bamberg. Adelaide’s Chamber.
• Scene VI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene VII.—: A Wood On the Borders of a Morass.
• Scene VIII.—: Camp of the Imperialists.
• Scene IX.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene X.—: The Imperial Camp.
• Scene XI.—: Mountains and a Wood.
• Scene XII.—: A Heath—on One Side an Eminence, With a Ruined Tower, On the Other the Forest.
• Scene XIII.—: The Camp.
• Scene XIV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XV.—: Camp.
• Scene XVI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XVII.—: The Kitchen.
• Scene XVIII.—: A Hall.
• Scene XIX.—: The Court of the Castle.
• Scene XX.: The Armory.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: An Inn In the City of Heilbronn
• Scene II.—: The Council-house At Heilbronn.
• Scene III.—: A Large Hall In the Council-house, Beset By Sickingen’s Troops.
• Scene IV.—: The Castle of Adelaide. Augsburg.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Village Plundered By the Insurgent Peasantry. Shrieks and Tumult.
• Scene II.—: Open Country. In the Distance Two Villages and an Abbey Are Burning.
• Scene III.—: A Hill and Prospect of the Country. In the Flat Scene a Mill. a Body of Horsemen.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: A Village.
• Scene VI.—: The Front of a Gypsy-hut In a Wild Forest.—night.—a Fire Before the Hut, At Which Are Seated the Mother of the Gypsies and a Girl.
• Scene VII.—: Inside the Hut.
• Scene VIII.—: Adelaide’s Bedchamber.
• Scene IX.—: Street Before the Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene X.—: An Apartment In Weislingen’s Castle.
• Scene XI.—: A Narrow Vault Dimly Illuminated. the Judges of the Secret Tribunal Discovered Seated, All Muffled In Black Cloaks.
• Scene XII.—: The Court of an Inn.
• Scene XIII.—: The Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene the Last. —: the Prison Garden.
• Iphigenia In Tauris a Drama
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: A Grove Before the Temple of Diana.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Torquato Tasso
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.: A Garden Adorned With Busts of the Epic Poets. to the Right a Bust of Virgil: to the Left, One of Ariosto.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: A Room.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: A Chamber.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Garden.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Clavigo
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Dwelling.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Dwelling.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s House.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Abode. Carlos, Alone.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: The Street Before the House of Guilbert. Night.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Stella. a Tragedy.
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Act II.
• Act III.
• Act IV.
• Act V.
• The Brother and Sister
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• A Tale.
• The Good Women.
• Reynard the Fox.
• Chapter I.: The Accusation.
• Chapter II.: The First Summons.
• Chapter III.: The Second Summons.
• Chapter IV.: The Trial.
• Chapter V.: The Pardon.
• Chapter VI.: The Relapse.
• Chapter VII.: The Outlawry.
• Chapter VIII.: The Journey.
• Chapter IX.: The Advocacy.
• Chapter X.: The Second Pardon.
• Chapter XI.: The Defiance.
• Chapter XII.: The Battle.

THE Brother AND Sister

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

William,a merchant.

Marian,his sister.

Fabricius.

Postman.

William.

(Seated at a desk with account books and papers.) Two new customers again this week! If one lifts his hand, there is always something happens; even if it’s little it counts up in the long run, and a small game gives its own pleasure, though the gain’s small, and little losses can be borne with equanimity. (EnterPostman.) What is it?

Postman.

A registered letter for twenty ducats, half paid.

William.

Good! Very good! Put it down on my account. (ExitPostman.) I didn’t want to keep saying all day long that I was expecting this. (Contemplating the letter.) Now I can pay Fabricius right off, and not abuse his kindness any longer. Yesterday he said to me: “I am coming round to see you to-morrow.” I was sorry to hear it. I knew that he wouldn’t dun me, and for that very reason his presence is a kind of double dun. (He opens the packet and counts.) In the good old times when I kept up a rather gayer establishment than this I couldn’t bear these silent creditors at all. Anyone who importunes me, who bores me, deserves nothing but the cold shoulder and all that that implies; while he who holds his peace touches my heart, and appeals to me in the most importunate way, since he puts it upon me to make his demand for him. (He piles money upon the table.) Good God! how I thank Thee that I am out of my trouble and on my feet again. (He takes up a book.) Thy blessing at retail or me who have wasted Thy gifts wholesale.—And so—can I express it?—Yet ’tis not for me that Thou art doing any more than I am doing for myself. If it were not for that dear good creature, should I be sitting here settling up losses? O Marian! If you only knew that he whom you call your brother is working for you with a very different heart, with very different hopes.—Maybe!—ah!—but it is cruel!—She loves me—certainly—but as a brother.—No! how absurd! This is unbelief, and that has never yet bred any good. Marian! I will be happy; and so shalt thou, Marian!

EnterMarian.

Marian.

What do you want, brother? You called me.

William.

No, I did not. Marian.

Marian.

Did something vex you that you conjured me out of the kitchen?

William.

It was spirits that you heard.

Marian.

Very well, William! Only I know your voice quite too well.

William.

Come, now, what are you doing out there?

Marian.

I’ve only been plucking a couple of pigeons, because Fabricius is going to take supper with us this evening.

William.

Perhaps he will.

Marian.

They’ll be done soon; you must not say anything about it till afterwards. I want him to teach me his new song.

William.

Do you like to study with him?

Marian.

He can sing lovely songs. And when afterwards you sit at table and your head nods, then I will begin. For I know that you laugh at me when I sing any of your favorite songs.

William.

Have you noticed that in me?

Marian.

Certainly; whoever failed to notice what you menfolks do? But if you don’t want me for anything, I’m off again; for I have still all sorts of things to do. Goodby.—Now give me just one kiss.

William.

If the pigeons are well roasted I will give you a kiss for dessert.

Marian.

It’s detestable that brothers should be so cross. If Fabricius or any other nice young man dared to steal a kiss they would jump over high walls for the chance, and that man there scorns the one that I want to give him.—Now I’m going to burn up the pigeons.

[Exit.

William.

The angel, the dear angel! How can I restrain myself from taking her into my arms and telling her everything?—Dost thou look down upon us from heaven, O lady, who didst give this treasure into my keeping?—Yes, those above know about us here, they know about us!—Charlotte, thou could’st not reward my love to thee more gloriously, more sacredly than by leaving thy daughter in my care. Thou gavest me all that I lacked, thou madest life dear to me. I loved her as thy child—and now! Yet it is as though I were deceived. Methinks I see thee again, methinks Fate has given thee back to me again with youth renewed, so that I now may remain and dwell with thee in union as in that first dream of life I was not allowed to do and had no right to do. O joy! joy! Give the whole measure of thy blessing, Father in heaven!

EnterFabricius.

Fabricius.

Good-evening.

William.

I am very happy, my dear Fabricius; everything good has come to me this evening. However, let us not speak of business now. There lie your three hundred dollars. Pocket ’em quick. My I. O. U. you can return to me at your convenience. And now let us have a little talk.

Fabricius.

If you need the money longer—

William.

If I need it again, well and good; I’m always deeply indebted to you. But now take it.—Listen! The memory of Charlotte came back to me again this evening with eternal freshness and life.

Fabricius.

That is a frequent occurrence.

William.

You ought to have known her. I tell you she was one of the most magnificent of creatures.

Fabricius.

She was a widow; how did you come to know her?

William.

So pure and stately. Yesterday I was reading over one of her letters. You are the only man who has ever known anything about it.

[Goes to the portfolio.

Fabricius.

(Aside.) If he would only spare me this time! I have heard the story so many, many times before. As a general thing I like to hear him tell it, for it always comes from his heart; but to-day I have quite different things on my mind, and yet I want to keep him in good humor.

William.

It was during the early days of our acquaintance. “The world will become dear to me again,” she wrote; “I had cut myself loose from it, but it will be dear to me again through you. My heart reproaches me; I feel that I am going to be a cause of sorrow to you and myself. Six months ago I was ready to die, and now I feel so no longer.”

Fabricius.

A lovely soul.

William.

The earth was not worthy of her. Fabricius, I’ve told you many times before that through her I became quite a different man. I cannot describe the pain that I felt when I looked back and saw how I had squandered my paternal inheritance. I could not offer her my hand, could not make her lot more endurable. I felt then for the first time the necessity to earn a suitable support; to extricate myself from the slothfulness in which I was drifting along day after day. I went to work—but what did that amount to?—I kept at work, and thus a wearisome year passed away; at last came a ray of hope; my pittance increased visibly—then she died.—I could not stay. You have no idea how I suffered. No longer could I behold the region where I had lived with her, or leave the sacred soil where she rested. She wrote me just before she died.

[Taking a letter from the portfolio.

Fabricius.

It is a splendid letter; you read it to me only a short time ago. Hark, William—

William.

I know it by heart, and yet I read it again and again. When I see her writing, the sheet on which her hand rested, it seems to me as if she were here again. She is still here. (The voice of a child crying is heard.) I wonder why Marian can’t be sensible! There, she’s got our neighbor’s youngster again; every day she comes romping round with him and disturbs me just at the wrong moment. (At the door.) Marian, be still with the child, or send him home if he’s naughty. We want to talk.

[He stands, full of emotion.

Fabricius.

You ought not to bring up these recollections so frequently.

William.

These are the very lines; these were the last that she wrote. The farewell sigh of the departing angel. (He folds the letter again.) You are right, it is sinful. How seldom are we worthy of recalling the bitter-sweet moments of our past lives!

Fabricius.

Your story always goes to my heart. You told me that she left a daughter, who shortly afterwards followed her mother. If she had only lived, you would have had at least something of hers, you would have had some interest through which your cares and your grief might have been appeased.

William.

(Turning eagerly to him.) Her daughter? It was an exquisite flower that she intrusted to me. What fate has done for me is beyond words to express. Fabricius—if I could only tell you all—

Fabricius.

If there is anything on thy heart—

William.

Why should I not?

Marian.

(Coming in with a little boy.) He wants to say good-night, brother. You must not scowl at him, nor at me either. You always say that you would like to be married and have lots of children. One couldn’t hold them in such a way that they would never cry and never disturb you.

William.

But they would be my own children.

Marian.

Maybe there would be a difference in that.

Fabricius.

Do you think so, Marian?

Marian.

It would be too lovely for anything. (She kneels before the child and kisses him.) I love little Christopher so dearly! If he were only my own!—He already knows his letters; I have been teaching him.

William.

And so you think that a child of your own at his age would know how to read?

Marian.

Why certainly! for all day long I wouldn’t do anything else but take him out to walk and teach him and feed him and dress him and everything else.

Fabricius.

And your husband?

Marian.

He would have to help; his love for him would be as great as mine. But Christopher has got to go home and wants to say good-night. (She leads him toWilliam.) Here! give your hand like a good little boy; that’s a nice boy!

Fabricius.

(Aside.) She is the loveliest creature; I must tell her my hopes!

Marian.

(Leading the child toFabricius.) Here! shake hands with this gentleman too!

William.

(Aside.) She shall be mine! I will—no! I do not deserve it! (ToMarian.) Marian, take the child away and entertain Fabricius till supper-time. I am going out for a little run: I’ve been sitting all day long. (ExitMarian.) Just one good full breath of the fresh air this lovely star-light night!—My heart is so full!—I shall be back directly

[Exit.

Fabricius.

Make an end to thy suspense, Master Fabricius! If thou bearest it any longer, the matter won’t be any nearer conclusion. Thou hast made up thy mind. Good! Admirable! Thou wilt still help her brother; and she—she does not love me as I love her, that’s certain. But it isn’t in her to love passionately; she isn’t that kind of a woman. Dear girl! She hasn’t the slightest idea that I feel anything else but friendship for her! O Marian, we shall get along famously! This opportunity is just what I should have wished it to be! I must explain to her my intentions! And if her heart does not scorn me—anyway, I am sure of her brother!

EnterMarian.

Fabricius.

Have you sent the little fellow home?

Marian.

I should love to have kept him here; but I know that my brother does not like him, and so I let him go. Many and many a time the little rascal has begged me to let him sleep here all night.

Fabricius.

But don’t you ever get tired of him?

Marian.

Oh, no, indeed! He is as wild as he can be the whole day, but when I go to put him to bed he is as good as a kitten! He’s a little flatterer, and he loves to kiss me; sometimes I can’t get him to sleep at all.

Fabricius.

(Half aside.) What a sweet nature!

Marian.

He loves me even better than his own mother.

Fabricius.

You are also a mother to him. (Marianstands lost in thought;Fabriciusgazes at her for some moments.) Does the name of mother make you sad?

Marian.

Not exactly sad; but I was thinking

Fabricius.

What were you thinking about, sweet Marian?

Marian.

I was thinking—oh, nothing, nothing. Sometimes it seems very strange to me.

Fabricius.

Haven’t you ever had any longings to—

Marian.

What were you going to ask?

Fabricius.

Can Fabricius presume so far?

Marian.

No, I have never had any longings, Fabricius. And if ever any such thought flashed through my head, it was gone in an instant. To leave my brother would be unendurable—impossible for me—no matter how attractive any other prospect might be.

Fabricius.

Now that is strange! If you lived near him in the same city, you wouldn’t call that leaving him, would you?

Marian.

Oh, never, never speak of such a thing! Who would keep house for him? Who would take care of him? Let a servant take my place? Or let him get married? No, indeed, that couldn’t be!

Fabricius.

Couldn’t he go and live with you? Mightn’t your husband be his friend? Couldn’t you three live together just as happily as now, even happier? Couldn’t your brother be in this way assisted in his perplexing business cares? Think what such a life might be!

Marian.

It can easily be imagined. And when I think about it, it is quite possible. But then again, it seems to me as though it would never come about.

Fabricius.

I don’t understand you.

Marian.

It is just so now. When I wake in the morning I listen to hear if my brother is up before me: if no one is stirring, quick as a flash I get out of bed and run to the kitchen and build a fire, so that the water is thoroughly heated, and then the maid comes down, and my brother has his coffee as soon as he opens his eyes!

Fabricius.

What an admirable housewife!

Marian.

And then I sit down and knit stockings for him, and keep very happy, and measure a dozen times to see if they are long enough yet and if they set well round the calf, and if the feet are not too short, until he sometimes actually gets vexed. It isn’t that I always want to be trying them on, but it seems to me that I must have something to do near him, as though he ought to see me at least once when he has been writing a couple of hours; he can’t be gloomy with me, for it always brightens him up to see me. I can read it by his eyes if he will not let me know any other way. Often I laugh in my sleeve, because he acts as though he were solemn or angry. He is wise, for if he didn’t I should plague him all day long.

Fabricius.

He is a lucky man.

Marian.

No, I am the lucky one. If I hadn’t him I shouldn’t know what to do in this world. I do everything for myself, however, and it seems to me as if I did everything for him, because even when I am working for myself I am always thinking of him.

Fabricius.

And now if you did everything for a husband, how absolutely happy he would be! How grateful he would be, and what a contented life you would lead!

Marian.

Many times I imagine it to myself, and tell myself a long story, as I sit and knit, or sew, how everything might be and would be! But when I come back to the reality, then I know that it will never come to pass.

Fabricius.

Why not?

Marian.

Where should I find a spouse who would like it if I said “I will love you!” but had to add to it “You cannot be dearer to me than my brother; I must take care of him just as I always have done.” Ah! you see it is impossible.

Fabricius.

You would after a while help your husband in the same way; you would transfer your love to him.

Marian.

Ah! there lies the trouble. Certainly, if love could be taken and exchanged like money, or if you could go to a different lord and master every quarter as servants do, it would be a different thing. But with a husband everything would have to become exactly as it already is here, and that could never be.

Fabricius.

That is a stumbling-block.

Marian.

I don’t know why it is; but when he sits at table and leans his head on his hand and looks down and seems full of anxiety, I could sit for hours and gaze at him. He is not handsome, I say to myself oftentimes, and yet I love to look at him. Of course I feel that it is on my account that he is anxious; the first glance that he gives me when he looks up tells me so, and that is a good deal.

Fabricius.

It’s everything, Marian. And a husband who would care for you—

Marian.

There is one thing more, and that’s moods. William also has his moods; but when he has them they do not trouble me: but in anybody else they would be unendurable. He easily loses his temper; oftentimes it pains me. If in such unhappy moments he repulses a kind, sympathetic, loving effort to cheer him, I confess it touches me, but only for an instant, and if I reprove him it is rather because he does not appreciate my love for him than because I love him the less.

Fabricius.

But suppose there were some one who, in spite of all that, were bold enough to offer you his hand.

Marian.

But there isn’t any such person! And even then the question would arise whether I should be equally daring.

Fabricius.

Why should you not?

Marian.

But there’s no such person.

Fabricius.

Marian, there is.

Marian.

Fabricius!

Fabricius.

You see him before you. Need I make a long defence? Shall I pour out before you what my heart has so long treasured? I love you. You have known it long. I offer you my hand: that you did not expect. Never did I see a maiden who so little as you realized the fact that she moved the hearts of those who see her. Marian, it is not a fiery, impulsive suitor who talks with you; I know you well; I have chosen you deliberately; my house is all in order: will you be mine? I have had many experiences in love, and more than once I have vowed to end my days as an old bachelor. But you have conquered me! Do not stand aloof from me! You know me. I am a friend of your brother; you cannot conceive of a parer union. Open your heart to me! Only one word, Marian!

Marian.

Dear Fabricius, only allow me a little time. I like you.

Fabricius.

Tell me that you love me. I will give your brother his own place; I will be a brother to him; together we will care for him. My property added to his will help him over many an anxious hour; he will gain fresh courage, he will—Marian, don’t let me have to persuade you!

[He seizes her hand.

Marian.

Fabricius, I never thought of such a thing. What an embarrassing dilemma you have brought me into.

Fabricius.

Just one word! may I hope?

Marian.

Speak with my brother!

Fabricius.

(Kneeling.) Angel! darling!

Marian.

(Silent for a moment.) Great heavens! What have I done!

[Exit.

Fabricius.

She is thine!—I can well afford to let the dear little thing caress her brother; that will soon cure itself when we come to get better acquainted, and he won’t lose anything by it. Ah, it does me good to be so in love again and to be loved again so luckily. It is a thing, however, for which one never really loses the taste. We will live together. If it had not been for that, long ago I should have enlarged somewhat the good man’s scrupulous economy. When I am his brother-in-law things will run smoother. He is becoming a regular hypochondriac with his everlasting reminiscences, doubts, business anxieties and mysteries. Everything will be lovely! He shall breathe freely again; the girl will get a husband—that’s no trifle—and I—I shall get a wife honorably—and that’s worth something.

EnterWilliam.

Fabricius.

Did you have a good walk?

William.

I went up along the market and Church Street and back again by the Bourse. It always gives me a wonderful sensation to walk through the city at night. After the toil of the day most men are at rest, but others are hurrying to their night-work, and thus the little wheels of trade are constantly revolving. I took special pleasure in an old cheesemonger who, with her spectacles on her nose, was laying one piece after another on the scales, by the light of a candle end, and trimming off the edges until the purchaser got the quantity she wanted.

Fabricius.

Every one has his own powers of observation. I think that there are few people on the street who would have stopped to gaze at an old cheese-woman and her glasses.

William.

In every one’s business gain is precious, and a small retail trade seems to me respectable since I know how costly a dollar is when it has to be earned a penny at a time. (He stands a few moments lost in thought.) I have had quite a wonderful experience since I have been out. So many things have come into my mind all at once and all in confusion—and that which troubled my heart to its deepest foundations.

[He stops in a brown study.

Fabricius.

(Aside.) I act like a fool. Just as soon as he comes in, the courage leaks out of my fingers’ ends to confess that I love Marian. Yet I must tell him what has happened. (ToWilliam.) William, tell me, do you want to move from here? You have too little room and the rent is high. Do you know of any other rooms?

William.

(Absently.) No!

Fabricius.

I thought perhaps we might both help each other. I have my father’s house and occupy only the upper floors; you might take possession of the lower rooms. You are not likely to get married yet awhile. You can use the court and the warerooms for your business and give me a nominal rent, and so it would help both of us.

William.

You are very kind. Truly, I have often thought of this plan after I have been to visit you and seen so much waste room, when I have to put up with such narrow quarters. But there are reasons—we must let it go; it is impossible.

Fabricius.

Why so?

William.

Supposing I were to marry immediately.

Fabricius.

That could be managed. You have plenty of room with your sister, and if you had a wife there would be no trouble.

William.

(Smiling.) And my sister?

Fabricius.

I would take her home with me, in that case. (Williamis silent.) And even if you didn’t. Let me speak frankly—I love Marian; let her be my wife!

William.

What?

Fabricius.

Why not? Say yes. Listen to me, brother. I love Marian. I have thought it over this long time. She only, you only can make me as happy as I can possibly be in this world. Give her to me! Give her to me!

William.

(In confusion.) You do not know what you are asking.

Fabricius.

Ah! How could I know? Must I tell you all my wants and what I should have if she became my wife and you my brother-in-law?

William.

(Losing his self-possession.) Never! never!

Fabricius.

What is the reason? I am sorry.—Your aversion!—If you are ever going to have a brother-in-law, as must come sooner or later, why not me?—Me whom you know, whom you love? At least I thought—

artist: max volkhart.

BROTHER AND SISTER.

william and fabricius

William.

Leave me!—I cannot understand it.

Fabricius.

I must tell you all. On you alone depends my fate. Her heart is inclined towards me. You must have seen that. She loves you better than she loves me, but I am content. She will come to love her husband better than her brother; I shall then stand in your place, you in mine, and we shall all be satisfied. I never in my life knew of a union which seemed to promise a more beautiful human relationship. (Williamspeechless.) To seal the holy compact, best friend, give me thy consent, thy sanction. Tell her that it rejoices you, that it makes you happy. I have her promise.

William.

Her promise!

Fabricius.

She gave it in a parting glance which said more than if she had stayed to speak it. Her embarrassment and her love, her willingness and her hesitation,—it was lovely!

William.

No! no!

Fabricius.

I do not understand you. I am sure that you have no prejudice against me, and yet why are you so opposed to me? Do not be! Do not set yourself against her happiness, against mine.—And I keep thinking that you will be happy with us. Do not refuse thy acquiescence, thy friendly acquiescence in my wishes! (Williamstill speechless, with contending emotions.) I cannot comprehend you—

William.

Marian? you want to marry her?

Fabricius.

What do you mean?

William.

And she wants you?

Fabricius.

She answered as becomes a modest maiden.

William.

Go! go!—Marian!—I suspected it, I foresaw it!

Fabricius.

Only tell me—

William.

What shall I tell you? It was this that lay on my mind this evening, like a thunder-cloud. The lightning flashed, it struck!—Take her!—take her!—My only treasure—my all! (Fabriciuslooks at him with astonishment.) Take her! And that you may know what you have taken from me—(Pause. He collects himself.) I have told you of Charlotte, the angel, who was snatched from my arms and who left me her image, her daughter.—And this daughter—I have deceived you—she is not dead; this daughter is Marian!—Marian is not my sister!

Fabricius.

I was not prepared for this revelation.

William.

This blow I ought to have expected from you!—Why did I not follow the dictates of my heart and shut my house to you as to every one else, in the first days when I came here? To you alone I granted entrance into this sanctuary, and you succeeded in lulling my suspicions by your kindness, your friendliness, your encouragement, your apparent coldness towards women. Just as I was, according to all appearances, her brother, so I considered your feeling for her a genuine brotherly one. And even if sometimes a suspicion arose in my mind, I put it away as ignoble, ascribed her affection for you to her angelic heart, which looks upon all the world with friendly glances. And you!—And she!

Fabricius.

It is not right for me to listen longer and I have nothing to say. So goodby!

[Exit.

William.

Yes, go!—You take all my happiness away with you! So undermined, so hopelessly destroyed are all my prospects—my nearest hopes—suddenly! All precipitated into the abyss—and with them the magic golden bridge that was to bear me over to the bliss of paradise!—and through him, the traitor who has so abused my frankness, my confidence! O William, William! Hast thou gone so far as to be unjust to thy good friend? What sin has he committed? O Fate, thy retribution weighs heavy upon me, and thou art just.—Why am I standing here? Why? Just at this moment? Forgive me! Have I not been punished for it? Forgive me! It is long I have suffered infinitely. I seemed to love you; I believed that I loved you; with inconsiderate amiability, courtesies, I shut fast your heart and brought you pain. Forgive me and let me go! Must I be so punished?—Must I lose Marian? the last hope of my life, the epitome of my solicitude. It cannot be! it cannot be!

[He is silent.

Marian.

(Approaching with embarrassment.) Brother.

William.

Ah!

Marian.

Dear brother, you must forgive me, I bother you about everything. You are vexed; I might have known it. I have done a piece of stupidity.—It is a most extraordinary thing to me.

William.

(Collecting his thoughts.) What is the matter, my girl?

Marian.

I wish that I could tell it to you. Everything is whirling about so in my head. Fabricius wants to marry me and I—

William.

(Half bitterly.) Speak it out, you gave him your promise.

Marian.

No, not for the world! Never will I marry him; I cannot marry him.

William.

How strange that sounds!

Marian.

Strange enough. You are very unkind, my brother; I should be glad to go away and wait a good long hour did not my heart oblige me to say first and last: I cannot marry Fabricius.

William.

(Standing up and takingMarianby the hand.) How so, Marian?

Marian.

He was here and he brought up so many reasons that I imagined that it would be possible. He was so importunate that without due consideration I told him to speak with you. He took this for yes, and in that very instant I felt that it could never be.

William.

He has spoken to me.

Marian.

I beg of you, with all my heart and soul, by all the love which I have for you, by all the love which you feel for me, set it right again, tell him!

William.

(Aside.) Merciful heavens!

Marian.

Do not be angry! He will not be angry either. We will live just as we have always lived. For I could not live with any one besides you. It has always been deep in my soul, and this accident has brought it out, brought it out with emphasis that I love no one besides you!

William.

Marian!

Marian.

Kindest brother, I cannot tell you what has passed through my heart during these last moments. It seemed to me very much as it did lately, when there was a fire in the market, and first there was smoke and steam over everything, until all at once the fire caught the roof and then at last the whole house was one flame. Do not let me go! Do not force me away from thee, my brother!

William.

But it cannot always remain as it is!

Marian.

That is the very thing that troubles me so! I will gladly promise you not to get married; I will always take care of you, always and always. A little distance up the street just such a brother and sister live together; I have often thought of it in fun: “If I should get as old and wrinkled—provided only we still lived together.”

William.

(Mastering his heart, half aside.) If I can withstand this, I will never again get into such a tight place.

Marian.

I know that you do not like it; of course you will marry in time, and I should always be sorry if I could not love her as well as I love you.—No one loves you as well as I; no one could love you so. (Williamessays to speak.) You are always so reserved; I always have it on my tongue’s end to tell you just how I feel and I do not dare. Thank God, this accident has unlocked my lips!

William.

Marian, say no more!

Marian.

You must not forbid me! Let me tell you all! Then I will go back to the kitchen and sit for days at a time at my work, seeing you only once in a while, as if to say: “Thou knowest my secret.” (Williamis speechless in the excess of his joy.) You might have known it long ago, you know how long, ever since our mother’s death, as I grew up out of childhood and was always with you. See! I feel more contented to be near you than gratified by your more than fraternal watchfulness. And gradually you so completely occupied my whole heart, my whole intellect, that now anything else would find it hard to get a resting-place. I know well that you have often laughed at me when I was reading novels: it happened once that I was reading “Julia Mandeville” and I asked if Henry, or whatever his name was, did not look like you. You laughed and I didn’t like it. So the next time I kept quiet. But I was perfectly in earnest about it; for whoever seemed to be the dearest, best men, they all looked to me like you. I saw you walking in the great gardens, and riding and travelling and fighting duels.

[She laughs at the remembrance.

William.

What pleases you?

Marian.

Because I must also confess that if a lady were very beautiful and very good and very much loved—and very much in love—it always seemed to be myself, except at the end when the disentanglement came and they got married after all the hindrances; but I am certainly a very impulsive, fond, talkative creature!

William.

Go on! (Aside.) I must drink the cup of joy to the dregs! God in heaven, keep me in my senses!

Marian.

Least of all could I endure it when I read of a couple of people loving each other, and finally finding out that they were relations, or were brother and sister. That “Miss Fanny” I could have burned alive! I cried so over it! It is such a pathetic story.

[She turns away and weeps bitterly.

William.

(Taking her to his heart with a flood of tears.) Marian! my Marian!

Marian.

William! no! no! never will I let thee go from me! Thou art mine! I will hold thee fast! I will not let thee go!

EnterFabricius.

Marian.

Ah, Fabricius, you come at the right time! My heart is full and strong, so that I can tell you all. I did not give any promise. Be our friend; but I can never marry you!

Fabricius.

(Cold and bitter.) I foresaw it, William! If you put all your weight on the scale, of course I should be found too light. I come back to put out of my heart what has no right there. I renounce all claims and perceive that things have already accommodated themselves! At least I am glad that I am the innocent cause of it.

William.

Be not petulant at this moment, and still more do not lose a sensation for which you would vainly seek in a pilgrimage around the world! Look at this creature—she is entirely mine—and yet she has not the slightest idea—

Fabricius.

(Half scornfully.) She does not know—

Marian.

What don’t I know?

William.

Could one tell a falsehood thus, Fabricius?

Fabricius.

(Touched.) She does not know?

William.

I assure you.

Fabricius.

Live for each other then! You are worthy of each other!

Marian.

What does this mean?

William.

(Taking her in his arms.) Thou art mine, Marian!

Marian.

Heavens! What does this mean? Can I give thee back this kiss! What a kiss that was, my brother!

William.

Not the kiss of a reserved, apparently cold brother, but the kiss of an eternally happy lover! (Kneeling.) Marian, thou art not my sister. Charlotte was thy mother, not mine.

Marian.

Thou! thou!

William.

Thy lover!—From this moment forth, thy husband, unless thou scornest me.

Marian.

Tell me how it all came about!

Fabricius.

Enjoy what God himself can only give once in a lifetime. Accept it, Marian, and ask no questions!—You will find time enough to make all explanations.

Marian.

(Looking at him.) No, it is impossible!

William.

My sweetheart, my wife!

Marian.

(In his arms.) William! it is impossible!

A TALE.

THE thick fog of an early autumnal morning obscured the extensive courts which surrounded the prince’s castle, but through the mists, which gradually dispersed, a stranger might observe a cavalcade of huntsmen, consisting of horse and foot, already engaged in their early preparations for the field. The active employments of the domestics were already discernible. These latter were engaged in lengthening and shortening stirrup-leathers, preparing the rifles and ammunition, and arranging the game-bags; whilst the dogs, impatient of restraint, threatened to break away from the slips by which they were held. Then the horses became restive, from their own high mettle, or excited by the spur of the rider, who could not resist the temptation to make a vain display of his prowess, even in the obscurity by which he was surrounded. The cavalcade awaited the arrival of the prince, who was detained a little too long by the tender endearments of his young wife.

Lately married, they thoroughly appreciated the happiness of their own congenial dispositions; both were lively and animated, and each shared with delight the pleasures and pursuits of the other. The prince’s father had already survived and enjoyed that period of life when one learns that all the members of a state should spend their time in diligent employments, and that every one should engage in some energetic occupation corresponding with his taste, and should by this means first acquire, and then enjoy, the fruits of his labor.

How far these maxims had proved successful might have been observed on this very day, for it was the anniversary of the great market in the town, a festival which might indeed be considered a species of fair. The prince had on the previous day conducted his wife on horseback through the busy scene, and had caused her to observe what a convenient exchange was carried on between the productions of the mountainous districts and those of the plain, and he took occasion then and there to direct her attention to the industrious character of his subjects.

But whilst the prince was entertaining himself and his courtiers almost exclusively with subjects of this nature, and was perpetually employed with his finance minister, his chief huntsman did not lose sight of his duty, and upon his representation it was impossible, during these favorable autumnal days, any longer to postpone the amusement of the chase, as the promised meeting had already been several times deferred, not only to his own mortification, but to that of many strangers who had arrived to take part in the sport.

The princess remained, reluctantly, at home. It had been determined to hunt over the distant mountains, and to disturb the peaceful inhabitants of the forests in those districts by an unexpected declaration of hostilities.

Upon taking his departure, the prince recommended his wife to seek amusement in equestrian exercise, under the conduct of her uncle Frederick; “and I commend you, moreover,” he said, “to the care of our trusty Honorio, who will act as your esquire, and pay you every attention:” and saying this as he descended the stairs, and gave the proper instructions to a comely youth who stood at hand, the prince quickly disappeared amid the crowd of assembled guests and followers.

The princess, who had continued waving her handkerchief to her husband as long as he remained in the court-yard, now retired to an apartment at the back of the castle, which showed an extensive prospect over the mountain, as the castle itself was situated on the brow of the hill, from which a view at once distant and varied opened in all directions. She found the telescope in the spot where it had been left on the previous evening, when they had amused themselves in surveying the landscape and the extent of mountain and forest amid which the lofty ruins of their ancestral castle were situated. It was a noble relic of ancient times, and shone out gloriously in the evening illumination. A grand but somewhat inadequate idea of its importance was conveyed by the large masses of light and shadow which now fell upon it. Moreover, by the aid of the telescope, the autumnal foliage was seen to lend an indescribable charm to the prospect, as it waved upon trees which had grown up amid the ruins, undisturbed and unmolested for countless years. But the princess soon turned the telescope in the direction of a dry and sandy plain beneath her, across which the hunting cavalcade was expected to bend its course. She patiently surveyed the spot, and was at length rewarded, as the clear magnifying power of the instrument enabled her delighted eyes to recognize the prince and his chief equerry. Upon this she once more waved her handkerchief as she observed, or rather fancied she observed, a momentary pause in the advance of the procession.

Her uncle Frederick was now announced, and he entered the apartment, accompanied by an artist, bearing a large portfolio under his arm.

“Dear cousin,” observed the worthy knight, addressing her, “we have brought some sketches of the ancestral castle for your inspection, to show how the old walls and battlements were calculated to afford defence and protection in stormy seasons and in years gone by, though they have tottered in some places, and in others have covered the plain with their ruins. Our efforts have been unceasing to render the place accessible, since few spots offer more beauty or sublimity to the eye of the astonished traveller.”

The prince continued, as he opened the portfolio containing the different views: “Here, as you ascend the hollow way, through the outer fortifications, you meet the principal tower, and a rock forbids all further progress. It is the firmest of the mountain range. A castle has been erected upon it, so constructed that it is difficult to say where the work of nature ceases and the aid of art begins. At a little distance, side-walls and buttresses have been raised, the whole forming a sort of terrace. The height is surrounded by a wood. For upwards of a century and a half, no sound of an axe has been heard within these precincts, and giant trunks of trees appear on all sides. Close to the very walls spring the glossy maple, the rough oak and the tall pine. They oppose our progress with their boughs and roots, and compel us to make a circuit to secure our advance. See how admirably our artist has sketched all this upon paper; how accurately he has represented the trees as they become entwined amid the masonry of the castle, and thrust their boughs through the opening in the walls. It is a solitude which possesses the indescribable charm of displaying the traces of human power long since passed away, contending with perpetual and still reviving nature.”

Opening a second picture, he continued his discourse: “What say you to this representation of the castle court, which has been rendered impassable for countless years by the falling of the principal tower? We endeavored to approach it from the side, and in order to form a convenient private road were compelled to blow up the old walls and vaults with gunpowder. But there was no necessity for similar operations within the castle walls. Here is a flat rocky surface which has been levelled by the hand of nature, through which, however, mighty trees have here and there been able to strike their roots. They have thriven well, and thrust their branches into the very galleries where the knights of old were wont to exercise, and have forced their way through doors and windows into vaulted halls, from which they are not likely now to be expelled, and whence we, at least, shall not remove them. They have become lords of the territory, and may remain so. Concealed beneath heaps of dried leaves we found a perfectly level floor, which probably cannot be equalled in the world.

“In ascending the steps which lead to the chief tower, it is remarkable to observe, in addition to all that we have mentioned above, how a maple tree has taken root on high, and has grown to a great size, so that in ascending to the highest turret to enjoy the prospect, it is difficult to pass. And here you may refresh yourself beneath the shade, for even at this elevation the tree of which we speak throws its shadows over all around.

“We feel much indebted to the talented artist who, in the course of several views, has brought thus the whole scenery as completely before us as if we had actually witnessed the original scene. He selected the most beautiful hours of the day and the most favorable season of the year for his task, to which he devoted many weeks incessantly. A small dwelling was erected for him and his assistant in a corner of the castle; you can scarcely imagine what a splendid view of the country, of the court, and of the ruins he there enjoyed. We intend these pictures to adorn our country-house, and every one who enjoys a view of our regular parterres, of our bowers and shady walks, will doubtless feel anxious to feed his imagination and his eyes with an actual inspection of these scenes, and so enjoy at once the old and the new, the firm and the pliant, the indestructible and the young, the perishable and the eternal.”

Honorio now entered and announced the arrival of the horses. The princess thereupon addressing her uncle, expressed a wish to ride up to the ruins and examine personally the subjects which he had so graphically described. “Ever since my arrival here,” she said, “this excursion has been intended, and I shall be delighted to accomplish what has been declared almost impracticable, and what the pictures show to be so difficult.”

“Not yet, my dear,” replied the prince; “these pictures only portray what the place will become; but many difficulties impede a commencement of the work.”

“But let us ride a little towards the mountain,” she rejoined, “if only to the beginning of the ascent; I have a great desire to-day to enjoy an extensive prospect.”

“Your desire shall be gratified,” answered the prince.

“But we will first direct our course through the town,” continued the lady, “and across the market-place, where a countless number of booths wear the appearance of a small town, or of an encampment. It seems as if all the wants and occupations of every family in the country were brought together and supplied in this one spot; for the attentive observer may behold here whatever man can produce or require. You would suppose that money was wholly unnecessary, and that business of every kind could be carried on by means of barter; and such in fact is the case. Since the prince directed my attention to this view yesterday, I have felt pleasure in observing the manner in which the inhabitants of the mountain and of the valley mutually comprehend each other, and how both so plainly speak their wants and their wishes in this place. The mountaineer, for example, has cut the timber of his forests into a thousand forms, and applied his iron to multifarious uses, while the inhabitant of the valley meets him with his various wares and merchandise, the very materials and object of which it is difficult to know or to conjecture.”

“I am aware,” observed the prince, “that my nephew devotes his attention wholly to these subjects, for at this particular season of the year he receives more than he expends; and this after all is the object and end of every national financier, and indeed of the pettiest household economist. But excuse me, my dear, I never ride with any pleasure through the market or the fair; obstacles impede one at every step, and my imagination continually recurs to that dreadful calamity which happened before my own eyes, when I witnessed the conflagration of as large a collection of merchandise as is accumulated here. I had scarcely—”

“Let us not lose our time,” said the princess, interrupting him, as her worthy uncle had more than once tortured her with a literal account of the very same misfortune. It had happened when he was upon a journey, and had retired fatigued to bed, in the best hotel of the town, which was situated in the marketplace. It was the season of the fair, and in the dead of the night he was awakened by screams and by the columns of fire which approached the hotel.

The princess hastened to mount her favorite palfrey, and led the way for her unwilling companion, when she rode through the front gate down the hill, in place of passing through the back gate up the mountain. But who could have felt unwilling to ride at her side or to follow wherever she led? And even Honorio had gladly abandoned the pleasure of his favorite amusement, the chase, in order to officiate as her devoted attendant.

As we have before observed, they could only ride through the market step by step, but the amusing observations of the princess rendered every pause delightful. “I must repeat my lesson of yesterday,” she remarked, “for necessity will try our patience.” And in truth the crowd pressed upon them in such a manner, that they could only continue their progress at a very slow pace. The people testified unbounded joy at beholding the young princess, and the complete satisfaction of many a smiling face evinced the pleasure of the people at finding that the first lady in the land was at once the most lovely and the most gracious.

Mingled together promiscuously were rude mountaineers who inhabited quiet cottages amongst bleak rocks and towering pine trees, lowlanders from the plains and meadows, and manufacturers from the neighboring small towns. After quietly surveying the motley crowd, the princess remarked to her companion that all the people she saw seemed to take delight in using more stuff for their garments than was necessary, whether it consisted of cloth, linen, ribbon or trimming. It seemed as if the wearers, both men and women, thought they would be the better if they looked a little larger.

“We must leave that matter to themselves,” answered the uncle; “every man must dispose of his superfluity as he pleases; well for those who spend it in mere ornament.”

The princess nodded her assent.

They had now arrived at a wide open square which led to one of the suburbs; they there perceived a number of small booths and stalls, and also a large wooden building from whence a most discordant howling issued. It was the feeding hour of the wild animals which were there enclosed for exhibition. The lion roared with that fearful voice with which he was accustomed to terrify both woods and wastes. The horses trembled, and no one could avoid observing how the monarch of the deserts made himself terrible in the tranquil circles of civilized life. Approaching nearer, they remarked the tawdry colossal pictures on which the beasts were painted in the brightest colors, intended to afford irresistible temptation to the busy citizen. The grim and fearful tiger was in the act of springing upon a negro to tear him to pieces. The lion stood in solemn majesty as if he saw no worthy prey before him. Other wonderful creatures in the same group presented inferior attractions.

“Upon our return,” said the princess, “we will alight and take a nearer inspection of these rare creatures.”

“Is it not extraordinary,” replied the prince, “that man takes pleasure in fearful excitements? The tiger, for instance, is lying quietly enough within his cage, and yet here the brute must be painted in the act of springing fiercely on a negro, in order that the public may believe that the same scene is to be witnessed within. Do not murder and death, fire and desolation, sufficiently abound, but that every mountebank must repeat such horrors? The worthy people like to be alarmed, that they may afterwards enjoy the delightful sensation of freedom and security.”

But whatever feelings of terror such frightful representations might have inspired, they disappeared when they reached the gate, and surveyed the cheerful prospects around. The road led down to a river, a narrow brook in truth, and only calculated to bear light skiffs, but destined afterwards, when swelled into a wider stream, to take another name, and to water distant lands. They then bent their course further through carefully cultivated fruit and pleasure gardens, in an orderly and populous neighborhood, until first a copse and then a wood received them as guests, and delighted their eyes with a limited but charming landscape. A green valley leading to the heights above, which had been lately mowed for the second time, and wore the appearance of velvet, having been watered copiously by a rich stream, now received them with a friendly welcome. They then bent their course to a higher and more open spot, which, upon issuing from the wood, they reached after a short ascent, and whence they obtained a distant view of the old castle, the object of their pilgrimage, which shone above the groups of trees, and assumed the appearance of a well-wooded rock. Behind them (for no one ever attained this height without turning to look round) they saw through occasional openings in the lofty trees the prince’s castle on the left, illuminated by the morning sun; the higher portion of the town obscured by a light cloudy mist, and on the right hand, the lower part through which the river flowed in many windings, with its meadows and its mills; whilst straight before them the country extended in a wide productive plain.

After they had satisfied their eyes with the landscape, or rather, as is often the case in surveying an extensive view from an eminence, when they had become desirous of a wider and less circumscribed prospect, they rode slowly along a broad and stony plain, where they saw the mighty ruin standing with its coronet of green, whilst its base was clad with trees of lesser height; and proceeding onwards they encountered the steepest and most impassable side of the ascent. It was defended by enormous rocks which had endured for ages; proof against the ravages of time, they were fast rooted in the earth and towered aloft. One part of the castle had fallen, and lay in huge fragments irregularly massed, and seemed to act as an insurmountable barrier, the mere attempt to overcome which is a delight to youth, as supple limbs ever find it a pleasure to undertake, to combat and to conquer. The princess seemed disposed to make the attempt; Honorio was at hand: her princely uncle assented, unwilling to acknowledge his want of agility. The horses were directed to wait for them under the trees, and it was intended they should make for a certain point where a large rock had been rendered smooth, and from which a prospect was beheld, which, though of the nature of a bird’s-eye view, was sufficiently picturesque.

It was midday; the sun had attained its highest altitude, and shed its clearest rays around; the princely castle in all its parts, battlements, wings, cupolas and towers presented a glorious appearance. The upper part of the town was seen in its full extent, the eye could even penetrate into parts of the lower town, and with the assistance of the telescope distinguish the market-place, and even the very booths. It was Honorio’s invariable custom to sling this indispensable instrument to his side. They took a view of the river, in its course and its descent, and of the sloping plain, and of the luxuriant country with its gentle undulations, and then of the numerous villages, for it had been from time immemorial a subject of contention how many could be counted from this spot.

Over the wide plain there reigned a calm stillness, such as is accustomed to rule at midday—an hour when, according to classical phraseology, the god Pan sleeps, and all nature is breathless, that his repose may be undisturbed.

“It is not the first time,” observed the princess, “that, standing upon an eminence which presents a wide extended view, I have thought how pure and peaceful is the look of holy nature, and the impression comes upon me that the world beneath must be free from strife and care; but returning to the dwellings of man, be they the cottage or the palace, be they wide or circumscribed, we find that there is in truth ever something to subdue, to struggle with, to quiet and allay.”

Honorio, in the meantime, had directed the telescope towards the town, and now exclaimed, “Look, look! the town is on fire in the market-place.”

They looked and saw a column of smoke arising, but the glare of daylight eclipsed the flames. “The fire increases,” they exclaimed, still looking through the instrument. The princess saw the calamity with the naked eye; from time to time they perceived a red flame ascending amid the smoke. Her uncle at length exclaimed, “Let us return; it is calamitous. I have always feared the recurrence of such a misfortune.”

They descended, and having reached the horses, the princess thus addressed her old relative, “Ride forward, sir, hastily with your attendant, but leave Honorio with me, and we will follow.”

Her uncle perceived the prudence and utility of this advice, and riding on as quickly as the nature of the ground would allow, descended to the open plain. The princess mounted her steed, upon which Honorio addressed her thus: “I pray your highness to ride slowly; the fire-engines are in the best order, both in the town and in the castle, there can surely be no mistake or error even in so unexpected an emergency. Here, however, the way is dangerous, and riding is insecure, from the small stones and the smooth grass, and, in addition, the fire will no doubt be extinguished before we reach the town.”

But the princess indulged no such hope; she saw the smoke ascend, and thought she perceived a flash of lightning and heard a thunder-clap, and her mind was filled with the frightful pictures of the conflagration which her uncle’s oft-repeated narrative had impressed upon her.

That calamity had indeed been dreadful, sudden and impressive enough to make one apprehensive for the repetition of a like misfortune. At midnight a fearful fire had broken out in the market-place, which was filled with booths and stalls, before the occupants of those temporary habitations had been roused from their deep slumber. The prince himself, after a weary day’s journey, had retired to rest, but rushing to the window perceived with dismay the flames which raged around on every side and approached the spot where he stood. The houses of the market-place, crimsoned with the reflection, appeared already to burn, and threatened every instant to burst out into a general conflagration. The fierce element raged irresistibly, the beams and rafters crackled, whilst countless pieces of consumed linen flew aloft, and the burnt and shapeless rags sported in the air and looked like foul demons revelling in their congenial element. With loud cries of distress, each individual endeavored to rescue what he could from the flames. Servants and assistants vied with their masters in their efforts to save the huge bales of goods already half consumed, to tear what still remained uninjured from the burning stalls, and to pack it away in chests, although they were even then compelled to abandon their labors and leave the whole to fall a prey to the conflagration. How many wished that the raging blaze would allow but a single moment’s respite, and pausing to consider the possibility of such a mercy, fell victims to their brief hesitation. Many buildings burned on one side, while the other side lay in obscure darkness. A few determined, self-willed characters bent themselves obstinately to the task of saving something from the flames, and suffered for their heroism. The whole scene of misery and devastation was renewed in the mind of the beautiful princess; her countenance was clouded, which had beamed so radiantly in the early morning; her eyes had lost their lustre, and even the beautiful woods and meadows around now looked sad and mournful.

Riding onwards she entered the sweet valley, but she felt uncheered by the refreshing coolness of the place. She had, however, not advanced far, before she observed an unusual appearance in the copse near the meadow where the sparkling brook which flowed through the adjacent country took its rise. She at once recognized a tiger couched in the attitude to spring, as she had seen him represented in the painting. The impression was fearful. “Fly! gracious lady,” cried Honorio, “fly at once!” She turned her horse to mount the steep hill which she had just descended, but her young attendant drew his pistol, and approaching the monster, fired; unfortunately he missed his mark, the tiger leaped aside, the horse started, and the terrified beast pursued his course and followed the princess. The latter urged her horse up the steep stony acclivity, forgetting for a moment that the pampered animal she rode was unused to such exertions. But urged by his impetuous rider the spirited steed made a new effort, till at length, stumbling at an inequality of the ground, after many attempts to recover his footing, he fell exhausted to the ground. The princess released herself from the saddle with great expertness and presence of mind, and brought her horse again to its feet. The tiger was in pursuit at a slow pace. The uneven ground and sharp stones appeared to retard his progress, though as Honorio approached, his speed and strength seemed to be renewed. They now came nearer to the spot where the princess stood by her horse, and Honorio, bending down, discharged a second pistol. This time he was successful and shot the monster through the head. The animal fell, and as he lay stretched upon the ground at full length, gave evidence of that might and terror, which was now reduced to a lifeless form. Honorio had leaped from his horse, and was now kneeling on the body of the huge brute. He had already put an end to his struggles, with the hunting knife which gleamed within his grasp. He looked even more handsome and active than the princess had ever seen him in list or tournament. Thus had he oftentimes driven his bullet through the head of the Turk in the riding-school, piercing his forehead under the turban, and, carried onward by his rapid courser, he had oftentimes struck the Moor’s head to the ground with his shining sabre. In all such knightly feats he was dexterous and successful, and here he had found an opportunity for putting his skill to the test.

“Despatch him quickly,” said the princess faintly, “I fear he may injure you with his claws.”

“There is no danger,” answered the youth, “he is dead enough, and I do not wish to spoil his skin—it shall ornament your sledge next winter.”

“Do not jest at such a time,” continued the princess; “such a moment calls forth every feeling of devotion that can fill the heart.”

“And I never felt more devout than now,” added Honorio, “and therefore are my thoughts cheerful; I only consider how this creature’s skin may serve your pleasure.”

“It would too often remind me of this dreadful moment,” she replied.

“And yet,” answered the youth, with burning cheek, “this triumph is more innocent than that in which the arms of the defeated are borne in proud procession before the conqueror.”

“I shall never forget your courage and skill,” rejoined the princess; “and let me add that you may during your whole life command the gratitude and favor of the prince. But rise, the monster is dead; rise, I say, and let us think what next is to be done.”

“Since I find myself now kneeling before you,” replied Honorio, “let me be assured of a grace, of a favor, which you can bestow upon me. I have oftentimes implored your princely husband for permission to set out upon my travels. He who dares aspire to the good fortune of becoming your guest, should have seen the world. Travellers flock hither from all quarters, and when the conversation turns on some town, or on some peculiar part of the globe, your guests are asked if they have never seen the same. No one can expect confidence who has not seen everything. We must instruct ourselves for the benefit of others.”

“Rise,” repeated the princess; “I can never consent to desire or request anything contrary to the wish of my husband; but, if I mistake not, the cause of your detention here has already been removed. It was the wish of your prince to mark how your character should ripen, and prove worthy of an independent nobleman, who might one day be required to assert his honor abroad, as you have done hitherto here at court, and I doubt not that your present deed of bravery will prove as good a passport as any youth can carry with him through the world.”

The princess had scarcely time to mark that, instead of an expression of youthful delight, a shade of grief now darkened his countenance, and, he could scarcely display his emotion, before a woman approached, climbing the mountain hastily, and leading a boy by the hand. Honorio had just risen from his kneeling posture and seemed lost in thought, when the woman advanced with piercing cries, and immediately flung herself upon the lifeless body of the tiger. Her conduct, no less than her gaudy and peculiar attire, bore evidence that she was the owner and attendant of the animal. The boy by whom she was accompanied was remarkable for his sparkling eyes and jet-black hair. He carried a flute in his hand, and he united his tears to those of his mother, whilst, with a more calm but deep-felt sorrow than she displayed, he knelt quietly at her side.

The violent expression of this wretched woman’s grief was succeeded by a torrent of expostulations, which rushed from her in broken sentences, reminding one of a mountain stream whose course is interrupted by impending rocks. Her natural expressions, short and abrupt, were forcible and pathetic; it would be a vain task to endeavor to translate them into our idiom; we must be satisfied with their general meaning. “They have murdered thee, poor animal, murdered thee without cause. Tamely thou would’st have lain down to await our arrival, for thy feet pained thee, and thy claws were powerless. Thou didst lack thy burning native sun to bring thee to maturity. Thou wert the most beautiful animal of thy kind. Who ever beheld a more noble royal tiger stretched out to sleep, than thou art as thou liest here never to rise again? When in the morning thou awokest at the earliest dawn of day, opening thy wide jaws and stretching out thy ruddy tongue, thou seemedst to us to smile; and even when a growl burst from thee, still didst thou ever playfully take thy food from the hand of a woman, or from the fingers of a child. Long did we accompany thee in thy travels, and long was thy society to us as indispensable as profitable. To us, in very truth, did food come from the ravenous, and sweet refreshment from the strong. But alas! alas! this can never be again!”

She had not quite finished her lamentations, when a troop of horsemen was observed riding in a body over the heights which led from the castle. They were soon recognized as the hunting cavalcade of the prince, and he himself was at their head. Riding amongst the distant hills, they had observed the dark columns of smoke which obscured the atmosphere, and, pushing on over hill and dale, as if in the heat of the chase, they had followed the course indicated by the smoke, which served them as a guide. Rushing forwards, regardless of every obstacle, they had come by surprise upon the astonished group, who presented a remarkable appearance in the opening of the hills. The recognition of each other produced a general surprise, and after a short pause a few words of explanation cleared up the apparent mystery. The prince heard with astonishment the extraordinary occurrence, as he stood surrounded by the crowd of horsemen and pedestrian attendants. There seemed no doubt about the necessary course. Orders and commands were at once issued by the prince.

A stranger now forced his way forward, and appeared within the circle. He was tall in figure, and attired as gaudily as the woman and her child. The members of the family recognized each other with mutual surprise and pain. But the man, collecting himself, stood at a respectful distance from the prince, and addressed him thus:—

“This is not a moment for complaining. My lord and mighty master, the lion has also escaped, and is concealed somewhere here in the mountain; but spare him, I implore you; have mercy upon him, that he may not perish, like this poor animal.”

“The lion escaped!” exclaimed the prince. “Have you found his track?”

“Yes, sire. A peasant in the valley, who needlessly took refuge in a tree, pointed to the direction he had taken—this is the way, to the left; but perceiving a crowd of men and horses before me I became curious to know the occasion of their assembling, and hastened forward to obtain help.”

“Well,” said the prince, “the chase must begin in this direction. Load your rifles; go deliberately to work; no misfortune can happen, if you but drive him into the thick woods below us; but in truth, worthy man, we can scarcely spare your favorite; why were you negligent enough to let him escape?”

“The fire broke out,” replied the other, “and we remained quiet and prepared; it spread quickly round, but raged at a distance from us. We were provided with water in abundance, but suddenly an explosion of gunpowder took place, and the conflagration immediately extended to us and beyond us. We were too precipitate, and are now reduced to ruin.”

The prince was still engaged in issuing his orders, and there was general silence for a moment, when a man was observed flying, rather than running, down from the castle. He was quickly recognized as the watchman of the artist’s studio, whose business it was to occupy the dwelling and to take care of the workmen. Breathless he advanced, and a few words served to announce the nature of his business.

“The lion had taken refuge on the heights, and had lain down in the sunshine behind the lofty walls of the castle. He was reposing at the foot of an old tree in perfect tranquillity. But,” continued the man, in a tone of bitter complaint, “unfortunately, I took my rifle to the town yesterday to have it repaired, or the animal had never risen again; his skin, at least, would have been mine, and I had worn it in triumph for my life.”

The princes whose military experience had often served him in time of need, for he had frequently been in situations where unavoidable danger pressed on every side—observed, in reply to the man, “What pledge can you give that, if we spare your lion, he will do no mischief in the country?”

“My wife and child,” answered the father, hastily, “will quiet him and lead him peacefully along, until I repair his shattered cage, and then we shall keep him harmless and uninjured.”

The child seemed to be looking for his flute. It was that species of instrument which is sometimes called the soft, sweet flute, short in the mouthpiece, like a pipe. Those who understood the art of using it could extract from it the most delicious tones.

In the meantime the prince inquired of the caretaker on which path the lion had ascended the mountain.

“Through the low road,” replied the latter; “it is walled in on both sides, has long been the only passage, and shall continue so. Two footpaths originally led to the same point, but we destroyed them, that there might remain but one way to that castle of enchantment and beauty which is to be formed by the taste and talent of Prince Frederick.”

After a thoughtful pause, during which the prince stood contemplating the child, who continued playing softly on his flute, the former turned towards Honorio, and said:

“Thou hast this day rendered me an essential service; finish the task you have begun. Occupy the narrow road of which we have heard, hold your rifle ready, but do not shoot if you think it likely that the lion may be driven back; but under any circumstances kindle a fire, that he may be afraid to descend in this direction. The man and his wife must answer for the consequences.”

Honorio proceeded without delay to execute the orders he had received.

The child still continued to play upon his flute. He produced no exact melody, as a mere succession of notes followed, without any precise order or artistic arrangement, yet, perhaps for this very reason, the effect seemed replete with enchantment. Every one was delighted with the simple music, when the father, full of a noble enthusiasm, addressed the assembled spectators thus:—

“God has bestowed the gift of wisdom upon the prince, and the power of seeing that all divine works are good, each after its kind. Behold how the rocks stand firm and motionless, proof against the effects of sun and storm. Their summits are crowned with ancient trees, and, elated with the pride of their ornaments, they look round boldly far and wide. But should a part become detached, it no longer appears as before; it breaks into a thousand pieces, and covers the side of the declivity. But even there the pieces find no resting-place; they pursue their course downwards, till the brook receives them, and carries them onward to the river. Thence, unresisting and submissive, their sharp angles having become rounded and smooth, they are borne along with greater velocity from stream to stream, till they finally attain the ocean, in whose mighty depths giants abide and dwarfs abound.

“But who celebrates the praise of the Lord, whom the stars praise from all eternity? Why, however, should we direct our vision so far? Behold the bee, how he makes his provision in harvest time, and constructs a dwelling, rectangular and level, at once the architect and workman. Behold the ant, she knows her way, and loses it not; she builds her habitation of grass and earth and tiny twigs, builds it high and strengthens it with arches, but in vain,—the prancing steed approaches and treads it into nothing, destroying the little rafters and supports of the edifice. He snorts with impatience and with restlessness, for the Lord has formed the horse as companion to the wind, and brother to the storm, that he may carry mankind whither he will. But in the palm forest even he takes to flight. There, in the wilderness, the lion roams in proud majesty; he is monarch of the beasts, and nothing can resist his strength. But man has subdued his valor; the mightiest of animals has respect for the image of God, in which the very angels are formed, and they minister to the Lord and His servants. Daniel trembled not in the lions’ den; he stood full of faith and holy confidence, and the wild roaring of the monsters did not interrupt his pious song.”

This address, which was delivered with an expression of natural enthusiasm, was accompanied by the child’s sweet music. But when his father had concluded, the boy commenced to sing with clear and sonorous voice, and some degree of skill. His parent in the meantime seized his flute, and in soft notes accompanied the child as he sung:

• “Hear the Prophet’s song ascending
• From the cavern’s dark retreat.
• Whilst an Angel, earthward bending,
• Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
• Fear and terror come not o’er him,
• As the lion’s angry brood
• Crouch with placid mien before him,
• By his holy song subdued.”

The father continued to accompany the verses with his flute, whilst the mother’s voice was occasionally heard to intervene as second.

The effect of the whole was rendered more peculiar and impressive by the child’s frequently inverting the order of the verses. And if he did not, by this artifice, give a new sense and meaning to the whole, he at least highly excited the feelings of his audience:

• “Angels o’er us mildly bending,
• Cheer us with their voices sweet.
• Hark! what strains enchant the ear!
• In the cavern’s dark retreat,
• Can the Prophet quake with fear?
• Holy accents sweetly blending,
• Banish ev’ry earthly ill,
• Whilst an Angel choir descending
• Executes the heavenly will.”

Then all three joined with force and emphasis:

• “Since the Eternal eye, far-seeing,
• Earth and sea surveys in peace,
• Lion shall with lamb agreeing
• Live, and angry tempests cease.
• Warriors’ sword no more shall lour;
• Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear;
• Wondrous is the mighty power
• Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer.”

The music ceased. Silence reigned around. Each one listened attentively to the dying tones, and now for the first time could one observe and note the general impression. Every listener was overcome, though each was affected in a different manner. The prince looked sorrowfully at his wife, as though he had only just perceived the danger which had lately threatened him, whilst she, leaning upon his arm, did not hesitate to draw forth her embroidered handkerchief to dry the starting tear. It was delightful to relieve her youthful heart from the weight of grief with which she had for some time felt oppressed. A general silence reigned around, and the fears were forgotten which all had experienced both from the conflagration below and the appearance of the formidable lion above.

The repose of the whole company was first interrupted by the prince, who made a signal to lead the horses nearer; he then turned to the woman and addressed her thus: “You think, then, to master the lion wherever you meet him, by the power of your song, assisted by that of the child and the tones of your flute, and believe that you can thus lead him harmless and uninjured to his cage?”

She protested and assured him that she would do so; whereupon a servant was ordered to show her the way to the castle. The prince and a few of his attendants now took their departure hastily, whilst the princess, accompanied by the rest, followed more slowly after. But the mother and the child, accompanied by the servant, who had armed himself with a rifle, hastened to ascend the mountain.

At the very entrance of the narrow road which led to the castle, they found the hunting attendants busily employed in piling together heaps of dry brushwood to kindle a large fire.

“There is no necessity for such precaution,” observed the woman; “all will yet turn out well.”

They perceived Honorio at a little distance from them, sitting upon a fragment of the wall, with his double-barrelled rifle in his lap, prepared as it seemed for every emergency. But he paid little attention to the people who approached; he was absorbed in his own contemplations, and seemed engaged in deepest thought. The woman entreated that he would not permit the fire to be kindled; he, however, paid not the smallest attention to her request. She then raised her voice, and exclaimed with a loud cry: “Thou handsome youth, who killed my tiger, I curse thee not; but spare my lion, and I will bless thee.”

But Honorio was looking upon vacancy; his eyes were bent upon the sun, which had finished its daily course and was now about to set.

“You are looking to the evening,” cried the woman, “and you are right, for there is yet much to do; but hasten, delay not, and you will conquer. But, first of all, conquer yourself.” He seemed to smile a this observation—the woman passed on, but could not avoid looking round to observe him once more. The setting sun had cast a rosy glow upon his countenance; she thought she had never beheld so handsome a youth.

“If your child,” said the attendant, “can, as you imagine, with his fluting and his singing, entice and tranquillize the lion, we shall easily succeed in mastering him; for the ferocious animal has lain down to sleep under the broken arch, through which we have secured a passage into the castle court, as the chief entrance has been long in ruins. Let the child then entice him into the interior, when we can close the gate without difficulty, and the child may, if he please, escape by a small winding staircase, which is situated in one of the corners. We may in the meantime conceal ourselves; but I shall take up a position which will enable me to assist the child at any moment with my rifle.”

“These preparations are all needless; Heaven and our own skill, bravery and good fortune are our best defence.”

“But first let me conduct you by this steep ascent to the top of the tower, right opposite to the entrance of which I have spoken. The child may then descend into the arena, and there he can try to exercise his power over the obedient animal.”

This was done. Concealed above, the attendant and the mother surveyed the proceeding. The child descended the narrow staircase and soon appeared in the wide courtyard. He immediately entered into the narrow opening opposite, when the sweet sounds of his flute were heard, but these gradually diminished till at length they finally ceased. The pause was fearful—the solemnity of the proceeding filled the old attendant with apprehension, accustomed as he was to every sort of danger. He declared that he would rather engage the enraged animal himself. But the mother preserved her cheerful countenance, and, leaning over the parapet in a listening attitude, betrayed no sign of the slightest fear.

At length the flute was heard again. The child had issued from the dark recess, his face beaming with triumph; the lion was slowly following, and seemed to walk with difficulty. Now and then the animal appeared disposed to lie down, but the child continued to lead him quietly along, bending his way through the half-leafless autumn-tinged trees, until he arrived at a spot which was illumined by the last rays of the setting sun. They were shedding their parting glory through the ruins, and in this spot he recommenced his sweet song, which we cannot refrain from repeating:

• “Hear the Prophet’s song ascending
• From the cavern’s dark retreat,
• Whilst an Angel, earthward bending,
• Cheers his soul with accents sweet.
• Fear and terror come not o’er him,
• As the lion’s angry brood
• Crouch with placid mien before him,
• By his holy song subdued.”

The lion in the meantime had lain quietly down, and raising his heavy paw, had placed it in the lap of the child. The latter stroked it gently and continued his chant, but soon observed that a sharp thorn had penetrated into the ball of the animal’s foot. With great tenderness the child extracted the thorn, and taking his bright-colored silk handkerchief from his neck, bound it round the foot of the huge creature, whilst the attentive mother, still joyfully leaning over the parapet with outstretched arms, would probably have testified her approbation with loud shouts and clapping of hands, if the attendant had not rudely seized her and reminded her that the danger was not yet completely over.

The child now joyfully continued his song, after he had hummed a few notes by way of prelude:

• “Since the Eternal eye, far-seeing,
• Earth and sea surveys in peace,
• Lion shall with lamb agreeing
• Live, and angry tempests cease.
• Warriors’ sword no more shall lour;
• Faith and Hope their fruit shall bear;
• Wondious is the mighty power
• Of Love, which pours its soul in prayer.”

If it were possible to conceive that the features of so fierce a monster, at once the tyrant of the forest and the despot of the animal kingdom, could display an expression of pleasure and grateful joy, it might have been witnessed upon this occasion; and, in very truth, the child, in the fulness of his beauty, looked like some victorious conqueror, though it could not be said that the lion seemed subdued, for his mighty power was only for a time concealed; he wore the aspect of some domesticated creature, who had been content to make a voluntary surrender of the mighty power with which it was endued. And thus the child continued to play and to sing, transposing his verses or adding to them, as he felt inclined:

• “Holy Angels, still untiring,
• Aid the good and virtuous child,
• Every noble deed inspiring
• And restraining actions wild
• So the forest king to render
• Tame as child at parent’s knee,
• Still be gentle, kind, and tender,
• Use sweet love and melody.”