WERNER;

OR, THE INHERITANCE

A TRAGEDY

ΤΟ

THE ILLUSTRIOUS GOETHE,

BY ONE OF HIS HUMBLEST ADMIRERS, THIS TRAGEDY IS DEDICATED.

PREFACE

The following drama is taken entirely from the German's Tale, Kruitzner, published many years ago in Lee's Canterbury Tales; written (I believe) by two sisters, of whom one furnished only this story and another, both of which are considered superior to the remainder of the collection. I have adopted the characters, plan, and even the language, of many parts of this story. Some of the characters are modified or altered, a few of the names changed, and one character (Ida of Stralenheim) added by myself; but in the rest the original is chiefly followed. When I was young (about fourteen, I think) I first read this tale, which made a deep impression upon me; and may, indeed, be said to contain the germ of much that I have since written. I am not sure that it ever was very popular; or, at any rate, its popularity has since been eclipsed by that of other great writers in the same department. But I have generally found that those who had read it, agreed with me in their estimate of the singular power of mind and conception which it develops. I should also add conception, rather than execution; for the story might, perhaps, have been developed with greater advantage. Amongst those whose opinions agreed with mine upon this story, I could mention some very high names: but it is not necessary, nor indeed of any use; for every one must judge according to his own feelings. I merely refer the reader to the original story, that he may see to what extent I have borrowed from it; and am not unwilling that he should find much greater pleasure in perusing it than the drama which is founded upon its contents.

I had begun a drama upon this tale so far back as 1815 (the first I ever attempted, except one at thirteen years old, called Ulric and Ilvina, which I had sense enough to burn), and had nearly completed an act, when I was interrupted by circumstances. This is somewhere amongst my papers in England; but as it has not been found, I have rewritten the first, and added the subsequent acts.

The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the stage. PISA, February, 1822.

For chambers? rest is all. The wretches whom

30

Thou namest ay, the wind howls round them, and

The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones

The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,

A hunter, and a traveller, and am

A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.

Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from
them all?
Wer. Yes.
Jos.

And from these alone.
And that is something.

Wer. True to a peasant.
Jos.

Should the nobly born Be thankless for that refuge which their habits

Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, And all been over in a nameless grave.

Jos. And I had not outlived thee; but pray take

Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive

With Fortune win or weary her at last, 70 So that they find the goal or cease to feel Further. Take comfort, we shall find our boy.

Wer. We were in sight of him, of every

thing Which could bring compensation for past

sorrow

And to be baffled thus !

Jos.
We are not baffled.
Wer. Are we not penniless?

Jos.
We ne'er were wealthy.
Wer. But I was born to wealth, and rank,

and power;

Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas! abused

them,

And forfeited them by my father's wrath, In my o'er-fervent youth; but for the abuse

80

Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death

Left the path open, yet not without snares. This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long

Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me,

Become the master of my rights, and lord Of that which lifts him up to princes in Dominion and domain.

Jos.
Who knows? our son
May have return'd back to his grandsire, and
Even now uphold thy rights for thee?
Wer.
'Tis hopeless. 90
Since his strange disappearance from my
father's,

Entailing, as it were, my sins upon
Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course.
I parted with him to his grandsire, on
The promise that his anger would stop short
Of the third generation; but Heaven seems
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies.
Jos. I must hope better still,—at least
we have yet

Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. 100 Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sickness

Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes. Wer. (ironically). And been an Hanseatic burgher? Excellent!

Jos. Whate'er thou mightst have been, to me thou art

What no state high or low can ever change, My heart's first choice; which chose thee, knowing neither

Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought save thy sorrows:

While they last, let me comfort or divide them;

When they end, let mine end with them, or thee !

Wer. My better angel! such I have ever found thee;

This rashness, or this weakness of my temper,

150

Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine.

Thou didst not mar my fortunes: my own nature

In youth was such as to unmake an em

pire,