WERNER. ACT I SCENE I. The Hall of a decayed Palace near a small Town on the Northern Frontier of Silesia-the Night tempestuous. WERNER(1) and JOSEPHINE his wife. Jos. My love, be calmer! lenheim) added by myself: but in the rest the ori ginal 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 developes. 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 Wer. 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through founded upon its contents. The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen. Jos. Ah, no! 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 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 re-written the first, and added the subsequent acts. The whole is neither intended, nor in any shape adapted, for the stage. (1) PISA, February, 1822. Wer. Jos. I am calm. To me Yes, but not to thyself: thy pace is hurried, Wer. (smiling.) Why! wouldst thou have it so? Have it a healthful current. Wer. Let it flow Wer. All-all. Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine? Wer. (approaching her slowly.) But for thee I had been no matter what, But much of good and evil; what I am, Thou knowest; what I might or should have been, Let me be wretched with the rest! Emily's and the Clergyman's Tale, or Pembroke, were con- (2) "Werner-we mean Kruitzner-is admirably drawn. tributed by Sophia Lee, the author of The Recess, the comedy of Who does not recognise in him the portrait of too common a The Chapter of Accidents, and Ameyda, a tragedy, who died character? The man of shining talent, ardent mind, powerful in 1824. The German's Tale, and all the others in the Canter-connexions, brilliant prospects, who, after squandering away all bury Collection, were written by Harriet, the younger of the sisters.-E. (1) Werner is, however, one of Lord Byron's dramas that has proved successful in representation. It is still (1834) in possession of the stage.-E. in wanton self-indulgence, having lived only for himself, finds himself bankrupt in fortune and character, the prey of bitter regret, yet, unrepentant, as selfish in remorse as in his gaiety All that is inconsistent in the character of Kruitzner is rendered still more so in the Werner of the drama. If he is made some How many in this hour of tempest shiver Thou namest―ay, the wind howls round them, and Jos. (abruptly.) My son-our son—our Ulric, Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms, And all a mother's hunger satisfied. Twelve years! he was but eight then: -beautiful Wer. I have been full oft Jos. A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of. Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, Jos. And art thou not now shelter'd from them all? And that is something. times less criminal, he appears only the more weak, and his conduct is as wayward as his fate. His remorse at taking the rouleau from the man who was about to usurp his domains and throw him into prison is somewhat overcharged; and though his horror at hearing of Stralenheim's death is natural, it seems unaccountably to absorb his joy at finding himself delivered from his enemy, and restored to affluence. If his misfortune should appear to exceed his errors, let it be remembered, says his biographer, 'bow easily both might have been avoided, since an adherence to his duties at almost any period of his life would have spared him more than half his sufferings.' This is the moral of the tale; but it is but faintly illustrated in the drama. Werner is more the victim of what would be called fate. Lord Byron has not felt the real force of the character."-Ecl. Review. (4) "In this play, Lord Byron adopts the same nerveless and pointless kind of blank verse, which was a sorrow to every body in his former dramatic essays. It is, indeed, 'most unmusical, most melancholy.'-'Ofs,' 'tos,' 'ands,' 'fors,' 'bys,' 'buts,' and the like, are the most common conclusions of a line; there is no ease, no flow, no harmony, 'in linked sweetness long drawn out: neither is there any thing of abrupt fiery vigour to compensate for these defects."-Blackwood. (2) "In this drama there is absolutely no poetry to be found; and if the measure of verse which is here dealt to us be a sample And all been over in a nameless grave. With Fortune win or weary her at last, 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, of what we are to expect for the future, we have only to entreat that Lord Byron will drop the ceremony of cutting up his prose into lines of ten, eleven, or twelve syllables (for he is not very punctilious on this head), and favour us with it in its natural state. It requires no very cunning alchemy to transmute his verse into prose, nor, reversing the experiment, to convert his plain sentences into verses like his own.-'When,' says Werner, but for this untoward sickness, which seized me upon this desolate frontier, and hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means, and leaves us-no! this is beyond me! but for this I had been happy.'-This is, indeed, beyond us. If this be poetry, then we were wrong in taking his Lordship's preface for prose. It will run on ten feet as well as the rest-[See antè, p. 599] :— Some of the characters are modified Or altered, a few of the names changed, and I was young (about fourteen, I think) I Nor is there a line in these so lame and halting, but we could point out many in the drama as bad.”—Campbell. Of that which lifts him up to princes in Dominion and domain. 'T is hopeless. Jos. Who knows? our son May have return'd back to his grandsire, and Even now uphold thy rights for thee! Wer. 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. Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal sickness; More fatal than a mortal malady, Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace : Jos. He does not know thy person; and his spies, Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh. Our unexpected journey, and this change Even to our very hopes.-Ha! ha! Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things, Wer. An exile's daughter with an outcast's son But had my birth been all my claim to match (1) "Werner's wife, Josephine, not only well maintains the character of her sex by general integrity, but equally displays the endearing, soft, and unshaken affection of a wife; cherishing and comforting a suffering husband throughout all the adversities of his fate, and all the errors of his own conduct. She is a native While they last, let me comfort or divide them; My name is Werner. Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy name As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board:. I have a cousin in the lazaretto Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore Jos. Oh, yes; we are, but distantly. Cannot you humour the dull gossip till We learn his purpose? [Aside to WERNER. Iden. Well, I'm glad of that: I thought so all along, such natural yearnings Play'd round my heart!-blood is not water, cousin; And so let's have some wine, and drink unto Our better acquaintance : relatives should be Friends. Wer. You appear to have drunk enough already; And, if you had not, I've no wine to offer, Else it were yours: but this you know, or should know: You see I am poor, ånd sick, and will not see Iden. Patience, dear Werner! Iden. The river has o'erflow'd. That to our sorrow, for these five days; since But what you don't know is, That a great personage, who fain would cross, Against the stream and three postilions' wishes, Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses, A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet. Jos. Poor creatures! are you sure? Yes, of the monkey, And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet Iden. Here! no; but in the prince's own apartment, He'll be worse lodged to-morrow; ne'ertheless, Jos. I hope he will, with all my Poor gentleman! heart. Intendant, Wer. Have you not learn'd his name? My Josephine, Retire: I'll sift this fool. Iden. [Aside to his wife. [Exit JOSEPHINE. His name? oh Lord! His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought Gab. If I intrude, I crave―― Oh, no intrusion! This is the palace; this a stranger like (1) "Some faults the poem has only in common with the ori-high-mettled soldier of fortune, whose appearances and disapginal. Gabor is a most inexplicable personage: he is always on pearances are alike singularly inopportune, and who ends in a the point of turning out something more than he proves to be. mere mercenary. His character is, we think, decidedly a faiA sort of mysterious horror is thrown around his impalpability, lure."-Ecl. Rev. in the tale; but in the drama, he is only a sentimental, moody, Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home: What ho, there! bustle! Iden. A nobleman sleeps here to-night-see that To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow But are you sure His excellency- -But his name: what is it? And yet you saved his life. Well, that's strange, Good friend, and who may you be? Gab. Hungarian. Iden. Gab. Pray, A glass of your Hockeimar—a green glass, Iden. (aside.) I don't much like this fellow-close He seems, two things which suit me not; however, I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. [Exit IDENSTEIN. Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not, Sir! Pray, Excuse me: have I said aught to offend you? Wer. Even as you please. Which is call'd ? It matters little. In bearing. |