394 The German Student. No. XXI.r— Schiller. [Doc. 1. 
Miller, {reads.) “ But thou must have 
courage to travel through a dark passage, 
where thou shalt find no light but God and 
thy Louisa. Only Love' must come with 
thee; not the hopes and the boisterous 
wishes: thou wilt want nothing there but 
thy heart. Dost thou accept my invitation 
—set off when the clock on the Carmelite 
steeple is striking twelve—if not, erase 
the word courageous from thy sex, and let 
a maiden put thee to shame.’' ( He lays down 
the letter , beholds Louisa for some time 
anxiously, and says with a broken voice) 
And this third place, my daughter ? 
Louisa. Do not you know, do not you 
really know, my father? The place is 
painted so as to be found. Ferdinand will 
find it. 
Miller. Speak out more plainly. 
Louisa. 1 do not know a pretty word 
that suits it; what if I give it a naughty 
name. This place—if Love had invented 
language—should have had a noble title— 
it is what we coarsely call the grave. 
Miller, [staggering to a chair.) O my 
God! 
Louisa, (goes to him and srepports him.) 
Not so, father; these are but horrors that 
cling about the word—away with these, 
and 'tis a bridal be^, on which the morn¬ 
ing spreads a golden carpet, and where 
spring strows his gayest garlands. None 
but a groaning sinner can misname death a 
frightful skeleton—he is a kind and gentle 
youth, blooming as Love himself, but less 
deceitful—a silent benevolent genius, who 
lends a helping arm to the soul worn out 
in this world’s pilgrimage, opens to us the 
fairy palace of everlasting bliss, gives us a 
friendly nod, and vanishes. 
Miller. What art thou planning, daugh¬ 
ter, violence from thy own hands ? 
Louisa. Call it not so, father. To quit 
a company in which I am not welcome—to 
spring forwards to a place from which my 
absence is become intolerable—is this a 
sin ? 
Miller. Suicide, is of all sins, child, the 
most detestable •, the only one whence re¬ 
pentance is cut off for ever, for the com¬ 
pletion of the guilt is the term of existence. 
Louisa. Horrid—but it shall not be so 
sudden: I will throw myself into the river, 
father, and call on the Almighty for mercy 
as 1 sink. 
Miller. That is, thou wilt repent of rob¬ 
bery, when what thou hast stolen is secure. 
Daughter, beware, and sport not with thy 
God at the moment thou hast most need of 
him. Oh! it is far, far gone with thee in¬ 
deed. Thou hast ceased to pray; and the 
All-merciful has withdrawn his hand from 
thee. 
Louisa. Ls it then a crime to love, father? 
Miller. If thou lovest God, thou ueedest 
not fear any other love. Thou hast bowed 
me low, my only one, perhaps down to the 
grave. Yet l would not add to the heavu 
ness of thy heart. I was saying awhile 
ago—I thought myself alone, but you heard 
me—that thou wast my idol. Hear me, 
Louisa, if that breast have still place for 
the feelings toward a father, thou art my 
all. It is not thy own what thou art about 
to throw away. I too have my all at stake. 
Thou seest how my hairs grow grey, and 
that time draws daily nearer, when fathers 
want to make use of that capital of love 
which they have hoarded in their children’s 
hearts. Canst thou rob me of that, Louisa, 
and snatch with thee all thy father’s earth¬ 
ly wealth and goods ? 
Louisa. (kisses his hand with lively emo¬ 
tion.J No, no, my father. I quit this world 
your greatest debtor, and will repay you 
throughout eternity with interest. 
Miller. Take heed, my child, lest your 
reckoning be false. ( with earnest solemni¬ 
ty. J Shall we meet yonder, Louisa? See, 
how pale thou growest. My child must 
feel that in another world I cannot over¬ 
take her, because I do not hurry out of 
this so fast. ( Louisa rushes to his arms 
shuddering with horror; he presses her 
with warmth to his breast , and solemnly 
proceeds. J O daughter, my fallen, perhaps 
lost daughter, take to thy heart the solemn 
warning of a father. I cannot watch over 
thee. if. I take away the knife, a needle 
may suffice for thy destruction. Poison I 
may keep from thee; but that very neck¬ 
lace might prove fatal. Louisa, Louisa, I 
can only warn thee. Wilt thou risk, on 
the tremendous bridge which divides eter¬ 
nity and time, being abandoned by that 
faithless vision which now deludes thy 
cheated senses. Wilt thou rush with a lie 
before the throne of the Omniscient: “ For 
thy sake, Creator, I come here while 
thy guilty eyes are seeking only for their 
perishable idol. And when this frail divi¬ 
nity of thy brain, a worm like thyself, 
prostrate at the feet of a common judge, in 
that fluctuating moment, shall give the lie 
to thy impious confidence, and refer thy 
cheated hopes to that eternal mercy, which 
all the wretch’s prayers can hardly venture 
to implore for himself—how then * (louder 
and with more energy.J How then? (he 
holds her faster, considers her awhile with 
a fixed and penetrating look, then suddenly 
lets her go.J From this moment I know no¬ 
thing more, (elevating his right hand.) To 
thee, Judge of all things, I answer for this 
soul no more. Do as thou wilt. Offer to 
thy base sweetheart a sacrifice, which will 
make thy bad angel shout for joy, and thy 
good angel step back in tears. Go, load 
thyself with all thy sins, and omit not this, 
the last, the most dreadful; and if the bur¬ 
den be still too light, take also my curse to 
complete the weight. Here is a knife— 
pierce thy own heart and a father’s. ( sob¬ 
bing and endeavouring to rush out.) 
Louisa. 
