CAIN (interrupting her).

No,

No more of threats: we have had too many of them: Go to our children; I will follow thee.

ADAH.

I will not leave thee lonely with the dead;

Let us depart together.

CAIN.

Oh! thou dead

And everlasting witness! whose unsinking

Blood darkens earth and heaven! what thou now art,
I know not! but if thou see'st what I am,

I think thou wilt forgive him, whom his God
Can ne'er forgive, nor his own soul.-Farewell!

I must not, dare not, touch what I have made thee.
I, who sprung from the same womb with thee, drain'd
The same breast, clasp'd thee often to my own,
In fondness brotherly and boyish, I

Can never meet thee more, nor even dare

To do that for thee, which thou shouldst have done
For me-compose thy limbs into their grave-
The first grave yet dug for mortality.

But who hath dug that grave? Oh, earth! Oh, earth!
For all the fruits thou hast render'd to me, I
Give thee back this.-Now for the wilderness.

[ADAH stoops down and kisses the body of ABEL.

ᎪᎠᎪᎻ .

A dreary, and an early doom, my brother,
Has been thy lot! Of all who mourn for thee,
I alone must not weep. My office is
Henceforth to dry up tears, and not to shed them;
But yet, of all who mourn, none mourn like me,
Not only for thyself, but him who slew thee.
Now, Cain! I will divide thy burden with thee.

CAIN.

Eastward from Eden will we take our way; 'Tis the most desolate, and suits my steps.

ADAH.

Lead! thou shalt be my guide, and may our God Be thine! Now let us carry forth our children.

CAIN.

And he who lieth there was childless.

I have dried the fountain of a gentle race,
Which might have graced his recent marriage couch,
And might have temper'd this stern blood of mine,
Uniting with our children Abel's offspring!
O Abel!

ADAH.

Peace be with him!

CAIN.

But with me!

[Exeunt.

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 developes. I should also add

conception, rather than execution; for the story might, perhaps, have been more 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 their 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 re-written the first, and added the subsequent acts.

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

February, 1822.

And all a mother's hunger satisfied.
Twelve years! he was but eight then: beautiful
He was, and beautiful he must be now.
My Ulric! my adored!

WERNER.

I have been full oft

The chase of fortune; now she hath o'ertaken My spirit where it cannot turn at bay,

Sick, poor, and lonely.

JOSEPHINE.

Lonely! my dear husband?

WERNER.

Or worse-involving all I love, in this
Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died,
And all been over in a nameless grave.

JOSEPHINE.

And I had not outlived thee; but pray take

With fortune win or weary her at last,

So that they find the goal, or cease to feel Further. Take comfort,-we shall find our boy.

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
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.

Who, in this sunken, sickly eye, the pride
Of rank and ancestry; in this worn cheek,
And famine-hollow'd brow, the lord of halls,
Which daily feast a thousand vassals?

JOSEPHINE.

You

Ponder'd not thus upon these worldly things,
My Werner! when you deign'd to choose for bride
The foreign daughter of a wandering exile.

WERNER.

An exile's daughter with an outcast son
Were a fit marriage; but I still had hopes
To lift thee to the state we both were born for.
Your father's house was noble, though decay'd;
And worthy by its birth to match with ours.

JOSEPHINE.

Your father did not think so, though 'twas noble; But had my birth been all my claim to match With thee, I should have deem'd it what it is.

WERNER.

And what is that in thine eyes?

JOSEPHINE.

All which it

Has done in our behalf,-nothing.

WERNER.

How,-nothing?

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 empire,
Hlad such been my inheritance; but now,
Chasten 'd, subdued, out-worn, and taught to know
Myself,-to lose this for our son and thee!

Trust me, when, in my two-and-twentieth spring,
My father barr'd me from my father's house,
The last sole scion of a thousand sires
(For I was then the last), it hurt me less
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother
Excluded in their innocence from what
My faults deserved exclusion: although then
My passions were all living serpents, and
Twined like the gorgon's round me.

JOSEPHINE.

WERNER.

JOSEPHINE.

Hark!

Who can it be at this lone hour? we have

Few visitors.

WERNER.

And poverty hath none,

WERNER.

Save those who come to make it poorer still.

Well, I am prepared.

Else it were yours; but this you know, or should know :
You see I am poor and sick, and will not see
That I would be alone; but to your business!
What brings you here?

IDENSTEIN.

Why, what should bring me here?

WERNER.

search for some weapon.

JOSEPHINE.

Oh! do not look so. I

Will to the door, it cannot be of import In this lone spot of wintry desolationThe very desert saves man from mankind.

That which will send you hence.

JOSEPHINE (aside).

Patience, dear Werner!

IDENSTEIN.

You don't know what has happened, then?

JOSEPHINE.

[She goes to the door.

How should we?

And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet
We know not if his excellency's dead
Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown,
As it is fit that men in office should be;
But, what is certain is, that he has swallow'd
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants;
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller,
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from
The whirling river, have sent on to crave
A lodging, or a grave, according as

It may turn out with the live or dead body.

JOSEPHINE.

And where will you receive him? here, I hope, If we can be of service-say the word.

What ho, there! bustle!
Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad!
[Gives directions to different servants who enter.
A nobleman sleeps here to night-see that
All is in order in the damask chamber-
Keep up the stove-I will myself to the cellar-
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger,)
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for,

To say the truth, they are marvellous scant of this
Within the palace precincts, since his highness
Left it some dozen years ago. And then
His excellency will sup, doubtless?

GABOR.

Faith!

I cannot tell; but I should think the pillow
Would please him better than the table, after
His soaking in your river: but for fear
Your viands should be thrown away, I mean
To sup myself, and have a friend without
Who will do honour to your good cheer with
A traveller's appetite.

GABOR.

IDENSTEIN.

Hungarian.

Which is call'd?

GABOR.

Pray,

By my family,

It matters little.

IDENSTEIN (aside).

I think that all the world are grown anonymous, Since no one cares to tell me what he's call'd! Pray, has his excellency a large suite?

How many?

GABOR.

IDENSTEIN.

GABOR.

I did not count them.

Sufficient.

We came up by mere accident, and just

In time to drag him through his carriage window.

I have not yet put up myself to sale:

In the mean time, my best reward would be
A glass of your Hochheimer, a green glass,
Wreathed with rich grapes and Bacchanal devices,
O'erflowing with the oldest of your vintage;
For which I promise you, in case you e'er
Run hazard of being drown'd (although I own
It seems, of all deaths, the least likely for you),
I'll pull you out for nothing. Quick, my friend,
And think, for every bumper I shall quaff,
A wave the less may roll above your head.
IDENSTEIN (aside).

I don't much like this fellow-close and dry
He seems, two things which suit me not; however,
Wine he shall have; if that unlocks him not,

I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity.

GABOR (to WERNER).

[Exit IDENSTEIN,

This master of the ceremonies is The intendant of the palace, I presume. 'Tis a fine building, but decay 'd.