University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

—Frankfort.—Enter Conrad, slowly and thoughtfully.
Con.
I have an eddying sorrow in my heart!
It must be done!—it must be done, as sworn!
I know too much of speed—to linger here!
Here is a hand, and here is, too, a heart!—
A kinder, never lov'd, or had a friend.—
A prouder, never beat a human breast!
With these two friends, in purpose bound, I'll make
A breach in nature, time shall never heal!
Beside this heart, sleeps virtue's warmest friend.
Within this cell, it rests in deep repose.
It counts the very pulses of my heart,
And cheers impatience on to swifter speed.
How warm it feels!—now, when I wake it hence!
[Draws his dagger.
See how its face will shine!—and I will wash
It in a human fount, all full of blood!
Then bury him, without a funeral rite,
That virtue's foes may read his epitaph!
This tongue, no more, shall sound his obsequies!
Nor wake him from his rest!—but, like his prey,
Shall live and die! upon his first resolve!
Now, when I wake him, thus,—'twill be, to sheathe
It in the foulest heart that ever beat!
I would not deign inter it in his breast,
But such an absolution sweeps away
The guilt, which dyed the name of innocence!
'Tis hard!—but these are darling energies!—
He made his bed—his fardels shall be thorns.
There is a watchman in the city, here,
Which cries loves night of hate, to actual morn!
When I must guardian be, to love's estate—
Avenge her many wrongs, with gratitude;
And stamp the traitor underneath my feet!
Thou good old friend!—my heart! it must be done!
Wake up thy rivulets, and feed my soul;
And make a freshet, like Eudora's tears!
Now, balance consequence with insult given;
And in the scales of everlasting love,
Sweep down the wasting banks of sandy life,
And wash seduction from creation's shore.
My country! when I look upon my land—
Mine own devoted soil, which gave me birth,
I cry out in my spirit, glorious Isle!—
Thou younger mother of the best of men!—
Where once the canebrake told the rivers flow,
The queen of Andalusia stands divine!—
I'd live a thousand years and be at rest
With thee—thou altogether lovely land!
Wer't not for that huge dam, which shoals the stream
Of all life's blessedness!—now, he shall die!
But stay—am I not wrong? She bade me kill
Him in the night!—the starless, dead of night!—
But I must probe the courage of his soul,
And meet him in the daylight, like a man.—
Enter Alver.
Who comes there? Alver, my friend! how art thou?

Alver.
Well, I thank your kindness, how art thou?

Con.
Well, I thank ye—Alver! can'st thou not tell
Me where Alonzo keeps himself, to day?

Alver.
Yes, I saw him pass the street just now—why?

Con.
You know I have been absent for some time;
I wish to see him—we were once old friends.

Alver.
Alonzo's friend? no, no! that cannot be!
I thought the villain had no friends of late.
Were I his friend, 'twould be to take his life!

Con.
Why so? Alver! my friend! thou art officious?

Alver.
I want no cameos, intaglios and jewels—
No foul, barbaric gold, enrich'd with pearl,
To make myself a frantic libertine,
And woo a wanton nymph from virtue!
To be thus filagreed with antique gems!—
[Disdainfully.
I'd rather be an owl, and hoot all night,
Than such a conscience-smitten traitor.

Con.
Hast thou a spark of hatred gainst that man?

Alver.
I'm not his friend! I need not tell thee more.
A fair outside—but when you search his heart,
There, guilt and rottenness sepulchred lie,
And crime stands pauting with stupendous guilt!
The offspring of his promise to Eudora.
Mark me! a man, who lives a foe to virtue,
Is no friend to man!—traitor! coward! dog!
That man would steal your soul at dead of night!
That man, who would deceive an orphan girl,
By blushes—silvered over with his tears—
Would rob a widow, and betray his father!
If smaller hearts hold in their smaller deeds,
Then larger hearts hold in them greater crimes;
And the incentive in the last, is greatest!
Therefore, I say, beware of such a man!
A Cataline—a Nero is a brighter man.

Con.
Thou art incensed against that man!—why so?
Thou would'st impugn him with thy very wrath!

Alver.
Since thy return, thou hast not heard the news,
Which float about, like chaff upon the wind,
Which way you choose to blow it.

Con.
Why? that's strange!

Alver.
'Tis not more strange than true!—didst thou not know,
About one year ago, this same Alonzo.
Courted fair Eudora?

Con.
No; I did not.

Alver.
The villain kept it from the world, for fear
His devilish deeds might come to light.

Con.
How so?
What harvest has he sown to reap thy curses?

Alver.
Go down in yonder vale, and thou wilt see.
Look at that eye, which was unto thy soul,
A living star!—which roll'd within its orb,
And would have gazed a wild gazelle away—
Now shining in an atmosphere of tears!
The sorrows of Elvira are too great!

Con.
Where is Elvira?—has she left this place?

Alver.
Yes, long ago; and made the solitudes
Her home.

Con.
Has he exposed her goods to sale?
He had her property at his control,
To which Elvira's daughter was an heir.

Alver.
Ah! so much the worse;—I did not know that.
The treacherous devil, then, has ruined them both.
You tramp the adder—see if he will bite!
To try a man, place money in his hands,
Then mount him on the steed of lenity;
And when he has the reins, if you perceive
He guides him well,—with care and honesty,—
Then set him down as one who may be trusted;
But when you see him sell his neighbour's horse,
Upon a breach of trust, you shun that man.
He is a traitor!—thus he sold Eudora.

Con.
What has he done?

Alver.
Promised to marry her.

Con.
Is that all? that cannot break her heart.

Alver.
This cannot break it: 'tis already broken.

Con.
Perhaps some light may chase away her gloom?

Alver.
You cannot mend a broken egg.

Con.
That's true.

Alver.
Well, you can no more make her what she was.
A woman's virtue robbed, like loss of sight,
Can never be restored—and life is night!
Were he to give you all he has on earth,
'Twould only lend enchantment to the crime,
And gild destruction. Gilt wears off;
But guilt like this can never wear away.
If thou canst be her friend, 'twould please the heavens.

Con.
I be her friend? how can that be?

Alver.
Kill him!

Con.
Do that which I could not behold thee do?
There, thou hast touched the secret strings of nature.

Alver.
No less than death can ever give her peace.

Con.
How knowest thou that?

Alver.
By fathoming the crime.

Conrad
takes his hand.
Alver! thou art an honest man—I know thee!
Were I a man, who trusted men—I'd choose thee
From the world! but say no more! I'll love thee,
Though I ne'er shall see thee more!

[Shakes hands.
Alver.
Fare thee well!
[Exeunt Alver.

Con.
When Noah sent the turtle from the ark,
The first poor, honest thing, was drowned!—it died!
Elijah multiplied the widow's oil,
And, Nathan gave to David good advice.
How I love to look upon an honest man!
My heart once grew so full of love, I thought
'Twould be a better plan to trust that man.
My soul was full, to ask him to befriend me;
But such a deed as this, admits no trust!
Then, quickly, down the door of prudence shut,
And lock'd credulity in unbelief.
I love that man, as David lov'd his brother!
But he might turn out Cataline, for all.
Therefore, 'tis best to hardly trust one's self.
Who knows how soon man's nature may misgive!
And frail expectancy beguile his trust?
Where art thou, friend?—what! asleep in daylight!
[Takes out his dagger.
This bright embassador's as warm as life!
This is that guardian angel, at the gate
Of paradise, which keeps the banished out.
Ah! 'tis a ticket in a lottery—
With love, and hate, and homicide for numbers,
And when the prize is drawn, 'twill turn out blood!
And pay my way to fond Eudora's arms.
How sweet is self-congratulation's voice!
Like echoes from the sighs of those we love:
It builds a bridge across the gulf of fear,
And binds the sword of resignation on.
Have I them all? 'tis better to be sure,
[Looks at himself.
Than lose one's life from negligence—to ask
An absolution when decrees are past,
Seems begging pardon after punishment.
[Hesitates.
Now, I must think upon it for the last.
I'll do that which is best—I'll call him out.

[Goes to his office and knocks. Alonzo comes out.
Alonzo.
Conrad! is that you? Friend! how do you do?

[Shakes hands.
Con.
How do ye do, my friend? is Alonzo well?
I'm glad to see you, sir, indeed!—no news?

Alon.
None, I think, upon my word!

Con.
Ah! no news?
Well, that is strange, I do declare! no news!
Suppose we take a walk? I have some news!

[Hesitates.
Alon.
I would, but—I—I have—I must be gone—

[Starts away.
Con.
Stay—all excuse is vain! walk, or do worse.

Alon.
Do what? thou hast no hatred 'gainst a friend?

Con.
None in the world—best friend you ever had.

Alon.
Well, indeed! and I am glad to hear it.

[Trembles
Con.
Why do you tremble so? Why look so pale?
You look like you had been in some bad place?

Alon.
You have no hatred lodged in heart, for me?

Con.
Why do you ask that question?

Alon.
You look mad!
You look as if you had repressed some thought,—
Some hatred which is wont to vent—is't so?

Con.
'Tis Mexico.

Alon.
Conrad, I ask forgiveness—do not kill me!

[Kneels.
Con.
Alonzo! what's the matter? rise, you fool!
[Rises.
I said 'twas Mexico—the land—the sun—
That savage land!—the things I saw last year!

Alon.
I fear that sunny land! men's hearts grow hot
Beneath that sun.

Con.
It should be warm to friends.

Alon.
Art thou my friend? oh! could I think thee so!

Con.
Did I not tell thee so, just now?—why not?
Thou look'st as if some foregone deed beguiled thee.
Why not look up, and be a man? dost love?

Alon.
I love my wife and children—they are kind.

Con.
Hast thou a wife and children?

Alon.
Yes, 'tis true.

Con.
Eudora is thy wife?

Alon.
No; Angeline!

[Frightened.
Con.
Ah! then the people lie—they say, Eudora!

Alon.
Eudora—yes—I know!—but! I thought—

Con.
Thought what! Art thou a man? Hast thou a soul?

Alon.
I am not what I was! ah! 'tis too hard!

Con.
Thou 'rt more than thou wilt ever be again!

Alon.
You will not murder me?

[Frightened.
Con.
Why think you so?
Dost thou deserve to die? She bade me ask thee?
Thou wilt not speak, and look'st as pale as death—
Did'st thou never love Eudora?

Alon.
I did.

Con.
Why, then, not marry her?

Alon.
I could not, then!

Con.
Why not? lie not to me—I know thee, devil!
Thou hadst her moneys in thy hand, thou villain!
Why cheat her of her birthright, and thus bring
Her mother into want and sorrow!—speak?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, do not kill me! let me live!

[Kneels.
Con.
Thou, villain! dost thou not deserve to die?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, do not kill me—spare my life!
Didst thou not tell me, thou wert true, my friend?

Con.
I did—I thought thee honest!—thou art not!

Alon.
Oh! be my friend!—I would that I were dead!

[Weeps.
Con.
Would freely die, had'st thou a friend to kill thee?

Alon.
Oh! Conrad, spare my life!

Con.
Ah! hear how he lies!
Thou art a traitor to thyself!

Alon.
Oh! guilt!

Con.
Guilt, I think you say? thou art guilty then?
Thou prowling wolf, in clothing of a lamb!
'Twould be much better if thou had'st no wife.

Alon.
Thou wilt not kill me, Conrad?

Con.
Think on thy soul!
[Points at him.
Thou art dying with a conscience-wasting heart!
And I am sorry for thy wife and children—
How many children have you in this world?

Alon.
I have two lovely children!

Con.
Only two?

Alon.
None but two, on earth!

Con.
Then name them, if you please.

Alon.
Juliet and Anna.

Con.
Poor Juliet! and poor Anna!

Alon.
I love them.

Con.
Which dost thou love the best, of all the three?

Alon.
I have but two on earth—Juliet and Anna!

Con.
Where is Eudora?—where is she, I say?

[Raises his dagger.
Alon.
Conrad, do not kill me! I pray for life!
[Kneels.
Think of my wife and children! Spare them! O!

Con.
What! did'st thou spare Elvira, when she wept,
And mourn'd her only child?

Alon.
Have mercy on me!

[Raises his hands.
Con.
What mercy did'st thou ever grant to her?
My poor Eudora! Did'st thou heed her cries?
Who call'd upon thee, in the hour of need?
Thou art asham'd to beg for pardon now!
Did mercy ever know thy heart? now, tell me!—

[Takes him by the throat.
Alon.
I beg thee for my life!

Con.
What shall I do?
[Lets go his throat.
Did I not tell thee, that I was thy friend?

Alon.
Then, be my friend! and let me live once more!

Con.
Why did'st thou tell a lie, about thy children?
Thou shouldst be murdered in these streets,—come—rise!
We must be gone—I have a balm for thee!

[Rises.
Alon.
Indeed I cannot go—I must attend!
I should be, at this moment, with my friends.

Con.
Thou wilt be judged before to-morrow morn!
Thou wilt be chained, by devils, down in hell!

Alon.
Why say'st thou art my friend, and look'st so mad?
I cannot understand thee!—thou art mad!
I see—thy countenance is full of storms!

Con.
So my lightning kills a traitor, all is well!
If I but prove thy friend—then all is right?

Alon.
I cannot go!—I fear some harm may breed!
Thou art a different man from what I thought.
Thou art Eudora's friend!—hast seen her?

Con.
Well!

Alon.
She is mine enemy!—the worst on earth!

Con.
Hast thou not been the vilest foe to her?
Hast thou not rolled a mountain on her heart?
Hast thou not robbed her of her joys in life?
And driven her mother from the best of friends?

Alon.
Thou hast seen Eudora! and, I know it well!
I must return! I fear thee, for my life!

Con.
If thou art innocent of crime, why fear?
The truth will be thy bulwark and thy shield.
No man's afraid when he has truth about him.
Talk not philosophy!—that, I will teach.

Alon.
Art thou my friend, and wilt thou swear it now?

Con.
I swear, I am thy friend! thy strongest friend!

Alon.
Thou hast no enmity at heart? do'st love me?

Con.
Why!—dost thou not believe a friend?

Alon.
I do!

Con.
Then go with me, and I will teach thee much!

[Exeunt Conrad and Alonzo.

SCENE II.

—In the vicinity of Frankfort, on the Kentucky river.
Conrad.
Thou hast a wife—three children, and thyself!
Much money, many enemies!—thou'rt rich!
I would not be so rich for all this world.
Dost thou not know what caused the Trojan war?
How Cacus fell by Hercules of old?
How Judith murdered Holofernes?
How Hector fended off Achilles' arm?
How David slew Goliah with a stone?—
Thy pandects shall be silent in an hour!
Thou hast more opulence than patient Job!
Thou can'st not pay thy way to heaven, my friend!
But thou can'st pay thy voyage into hell!
'Twere well to gird thy cash about thee, now—
This very day thou shalt defend thy life!

Alon.
Oh! treacherous friend! I knew it—let me kneel.
[Kneels.
I do adjure thee, Conrad!—let me live!
And all my life—my wife! my children's thine!
[Raises his dagger and holds him by the throat.
Oh! let me pray to heaven! I would not die!
My wealth shall be Eudora's! thine! and all—

Con.
I don't want any money—I want blood!
She don't want any money—she wants blood!
Thou owest thy life! and she demands thy pay!
Judgment hath come against thee, in this world;
And I, her officer, demand thy life!
This verdict! from the laws of God and nature,
Now cry against thee, in this manly hand.

[Shows his dagger.
Alon.
I pray thee, to forgive me! oh! forgive!

Con.
Dost thou behold the movement of that stream?
Then, like fool Canute, bid its waves be still!
No more can I retract what I have sworn.
Against this execution hast thou none?
And if thou had'st, it would not bar—here's one!

[Gives him a dagger.
Alon.
Remember my poor children, and my wife!

Con.
Defend thyself! this heart was born a man's!
I will remember one—Eudora's child!
Rise, and measure thy courage with that dagger!
I would not steal away thy life by night!

Alon.
I cannot! will not hurt thee!—rather die!
I owe thee no ill will! and will not strike!

[Throws down the dagger.
Con.
Take up thy dagger! else thy soul is gone!

Alon.
I wilt not raise my hand, if thou wilt kill!

Con.
Take up thy dagger, and defend thyself!

Alon.
I cannot! will not raise my arm against thee!
I have wronged Eudora, and am sorry for't!
Oh! I've suffered death a thousand times!

[Weeps.
Con.
Defend thy life I say! art thou a man?
Go, dog!
[Slaps his face, and kicks him.
Go to thy vomit! go, foul hog!
Go to thy wallow!—take thee to thy mire!
[Kicks him.
Go, Judas! hang thyself upon a tree!
That passers-by, may look at thee and laugh!
She told me what thou art—apostate! coward!
[Exeunt Alonzo.
Thou shalt not live—But I must see her first,
[Alone.
And then, by her request, if she persist,
I'll wade across the sea, to cut his throat.
Though I despise him as I do a snake
I know would bite me—when he begged so hard!
I could not help from feeling for his fate!
'Tis hard to kill a coward!—'tis a task!
Oh! 'tis a sin to cut a coward's throat!
Like Neptune's trident at an infant hurl'd!
Now, I will meet her, and my thoughts perpend.

[Exeunt.

SCENE III.

—A cottage in the Country. Eudora standing at the gate, waiting his return, with discontent.
Eud.
Officious expectation runs me mad!
I have been waiting, like the lonesome dove,
And still, my comforter delays his time!
I fear the villain has been rash indeed!
How anxiety doth fever every nerve!
His wings are cleft upon some watery waste—
Too far away, to find his native shore!
My thoughts, now perched, high on my panting heart,
Doth penetrate futurity, so dark!
While heaven takes knowledge of indignant wo!
Oh! that the messenger would come! peace! peace!
Then could my sickened spirit find repose.
That bright destroying Angel to my soul,
Now guards life's Paradise, with outstretched arms;
And yields his increase unto virtuous good.
The things around me, are not as they were!
The tribute that I owe him—oh! how great:
'Twill take a life time to repay his love.
Why does he stay? he surely can't forget!
His heart has been so kind to poor Eudora!
Methinks I should be twining rosy wreathes!
Where shall I find fit laurels for his brow?
A coronet of roses shall adorn his head!
This tender heart shall be his chaplet, all my life!
I'll feed him on the utmost of my love—
Gather the first blown flowers of the spring,
And waft him praises in my soul's deep songs!
What, if, by some unmanly means, he fall!
The world would be an opposite to life!
Nonentity!—a chaos of dark shades!
Methinks I hear him come—oh! would it were!
[Conrad meets her, and she embraces him.
Oh! Conrad! Conrad!—thou hast saved my tears.
My soul went out from self, to search for thee!
It wandered from its dwelling like a bird;
And like the faithful dove, bewailed its mate!
Dids't thou not hear some deep dolorous sound?
Oh! 'twas the wide vibrations of my soul!
Thine absence caused such tempests in my heart—

Con.
Oh, Eudora! thy voice is so divine!
Speak on, my gentlest! feed my longing heart—

Eud.
They dashed their waves against life's sandy shore,
And washed away the footprints of my hope.
But on the sea of life my bark still sailed,
As virtue stood, to guide her, at the helm.
Oh! joy to thee, sweet Conrad! joy of joys!

[Embraces him.
Con.
With thee, Eudora, all my life is love,
Eternal sunshine gilds my former gloom;
And hurls his sacrilegious heart to dust.

Eud.
What hast thou done?—and did'st thou see Alonzo?

Con.
Oh! yes, I've seen him—what a timid man!
He turn'd biographer, with precious speed,
And wrote thy life in characters of gold.
He made thee out the Magdalen of old!
As tranquil as the bright, unclouded moon—
Oh! how he begg'd to see his satellites!
He begg'd me to befriend his little stars;
And call'd them rose-buds, sisters of his soul.
And when he call'd his wife, he wept aloud—
As big as sorrows self! and said, 'twas hard!
That he had done thee wrong, and suffer'd for 't!
I chok'd him, as a villain should be chok'd;
As visions of stupendous wrath rose high,
And dimm'd his eye-balls!—from his strangling heart,
Rush'd up his throat, olympic guilt, and gaz'd,
With frenzy leaping from his throbbing brain;
Till, round about went swimming in his tears!
I gave this dagger to him, to defend his life,
And, like a willow twig, snapt from its stem,
Fell prostrate, trembling at his ugly self—
While I stood o'er him, like a cypress mourns,
Preaching his funeral, with exalted wrath!
And three times offer'd him this pointed steel,
Which he, as many times refus'd, with tears!
'Till natural pity overcame my hate;
And bade me earnestly prorogue his death.

Eud.
Thou did'st defer his death, to give me pain!

[Weeps.
Con.
No; my life shall be to yield thee joy.
I love to see thee weep such anxious tears!
They speak the language of a virgin soul—
Shed lofty fervor round expectant joy,
And make the pathway of my purpose bright.

Eud.
Then, why not cut the treacherous villain's throat?
Had I been with thee, he had died so sweet.
Were he within this proud arm's reach—this stroke
Should be effectual, and bring lowness low!
I'd tramp me in his blood, and smile with joy.
Did he confess, and own what he had done?

Con.
He did, my love: and like a frost-bit leaf,
Hang down his head, and valued not the sun.

Eud.
Could'st thou but raise the cavern of his heart,
In which, sepulchred lie, all fulsome things!
Thou wouldst behold it half devoured by guilt!
While here and there stands turbid, stagnant blood,
To torture and perplex his guilty soul!
'Tis then thou shouldst have given the final blow,
And hush'd the forgery of his vulcan heart,—
Where lie conceal'd, as in a dungeon cave,
All kinds of implements, achieving deeds,
Which villany would blush to look upon.
Oh! Conrad! once my heart was satisfy'd—
I thought the shadows of this life were bright,
And sunshine had made pleasant all my paths!

[Weeps.
Con.
Oh! Eudora! am I not thy friend?
Thy true—thy trusted and indulgent friend?
Would I not wend me to the mountains' tops?
Cut roads through forests—swim through rivers wide?
Walk day and night, 'till I had found him out—
Yes, would I not, for pleasure found in thee,
Leave all my utmost friends, and track him through
The sea, to gain one moment of thy love?

Enter Alver.
Alver.
The villain's gone—he's vanish'd like a ghost!
And thou hast found what I first told thee, true.

Con.
Then, Eudora! thou art happy?

Eud.
No!—no!

[Hangs her head.
Con.
Where is he gone?

Alver.
I do not know—the heavens doth only know!
Last night, beside his door, was seen a torch,
Which vanish'd into nought, and he went with it!

Con.
Where can he be?

Alver.
I do not know! I only know he's gone!
That is—I understand this from a friend.
As I am travelling far beyond the west,
I must be gone—and bid you both farewell.

[Exeunt.
Con.
If he is gone, Eudora! thou art happy?

Eud.
My soul hath made firm promise unto thee,
On one condition—that, is this, alone—
And if thou dost not take his life, I know,
Thou cans't not be my friend—I further know,
Thou can'st not bear up under my misfortunes!
And, if thou cans't not, tell me now—Oh! grief!

[Weeps.
Con.
What would'st thou have me do, my dear Eudora?

Eud.
I tell thee now, this hand shall ne'er be thine,
Until you wash my misery clean with blood!

Con.
'Tis done, as sure as said—but he is gone!

Eud.
Go—hunt him through the world's wide range!
Search ev'ry nook and corner of creation,
And let me feast mine eyes upon his blood!
And I will smile and be exceeding glad.
I must behold his life-blood on the blade,
And Thomas like, must touch it with my hands!
'Tis not because I love his blood, or thirst his life—
But 'tis, because he was unkind to poor Eudora!
Then cavil not at death—demur at nought;
I will not bear mistrust—it augurs fear.
I would not have a coward in my sight—
I do detest such bipeds, with my soul!
If thou dost love me well—then, risk thy life!
And manifest it in this injur'd cause.

Enter Alfred. Conrad meets him.
Alfred.
Good day, Eudora—Conrad! art thou well?

[Shakes hands.
Con.
Well, I thank thee—thou art from Frankfort, friend?

Alfred.
I am.

Con.
Then, what's the news in town to day?

Alfred.
Nothing—nothing worth your while.

Con.
That's all well.
And has no person left of late?

Alfred.
Not one.

Con.
Has not Alonzo left!

Alfred.
No; not he, I swear.

Con.
Then Alver's told a lie—'twas all a joke.

Alfred.
Joke or no joke, he's there—I must be gone—
I have some business in the west—adieu.

Con.
Then let him go—who cares? I do not care.

[Exeunt Alfred.
Eud.
Now, Conrad! is the time—the appointed time.
Get you a mask!—go, dress yourself in black,
And during the election, get him out—
Then, no one will suspect by whom he's kill'd!
But all will say the rival party did it—
The mob political—against his side!
Now is your time—this very night—'tis dark!

Con.
But mark—we must dispose of all we have;
That, when the deed is done, we leave the state,
And not procrastinate our speedy flight;
Lest, that prorogue endanger both our lives!
Then, I must leave thee to attend the sale.

Eud.
When thou dost come, bring blood upon thy dagger!
Dost thou not kill him, see my face no more!

Con.
I'll kill him, if he have the life to lose.

[Starts away.
Eud.
Nay, stay,—one sweet embrace before you go!
[Embraces.
May all success attend you to the end.
And when thou shalt return, with triumph crown'd—
I will be waiting at this gate, with smiles—
With open arms, to meet thee and rejoice.
Heaven bless you, Conrad! peace be thine, my love!

Con.
Once more, Eudora!—could I take thy smiles,
[Kisses.
They would be pilots through this stormy sea.

Eud.
Let not reluctance weigh upon thy purpose.
Be buoyant as a turtle on the wing.
Let future happiness illume thy thought.
Take thou, this dove into thy bosom's ark,
And lift thy expectation into bliss.
Had I a strong Herculean arm, by heavens!
I'd ride ambition with a lightnings' speed,
And furl him, with his foul companion—dust!
And thou, the Neptune to my soul's wide sea,
Should breathe the Adriatic gales of love,
And fix thy trident in his faithless heart!

Con.
The sunbeams of thy smiles doth vegetate
My heart—till vigour blooms my vermeil cheeks.
Thine azure lamps—twin born divinities!
Illume the sanctuary of my soul,
And turn this deed to sanctifying light—
While, from thy sighs, balsamic odours rise,
To waft luxuriance through my courag'd soul.
Perhaps, my love, I ne'er may see thee more!
And now, before I go, I would beseech you—
If any portent should retard my speed,
Be firm in mind, as love is infinite—
The best of Fingal's heroes speaks to thee!
He looks beyond this blue expanse of time,
Till distance makes diminutive his sight;
And not a thrill of pain disturbs the calm!
There hangs a solemn thought above this heart
This citadel of mortal life—beyond all bounds;
Which doth inspire me with a feeling so intense,
That infinite makes magnitude of self.

Eud.
Conrad! art thou as timid as thou seem'st?

Con.
I am no huge gladiator, without soul!
A man may have his purpose, and still feel.
There are strange mixtures in this chalice, life;
And, though I relish half, must gulp down all!
This firm pedestal, on the which I stand,
Will never hold a monument like this!
While hope o'ertops the pinnacle of thought,
And looks magnificent in loftiest flight—
The cloud of conscience has eclips'd my soul!
While nature, frighten'd, slumbers in alarm!
If I depart from thee—to-morrow morn
Shall wake thee with a dawn, unseen before!

Eud.
What!—after thou hast fastened on his heart,
And earth grow pregnant with his blood?
And meet it as the river meets the sea?

Con.
The overture may echo back the deed!
As thunder travels on, from cloud to cloud!
Good night to satisfaction infinite!
If this should be the sequence—then, good night!
Harmonious tones of wonderful despair,
Would drive out melody, and jar thy soul!

Eud.
Why steal from time, that which thou canst not pay?

Con.
I would thou had'st some instrument to play.

Eud.
I want no instrument, but thy intent.

Con.
Can fancy penetrate that mazy morn,
Which dawns on thy expectancy?

Eud.
My fancies tell me thou can'st melt that maze!

Con.
I am upon an embassy of deepest crime!
The angel's minister—but do no more!
And, in the night's profoundest solitude,
When Atis with his fond Galatea lies,
I will, on Ætna's peak, look down with fire—
The harvest of my hate is fully ripe,
And all his vintage trod beneath my feet!

Eud.
Lives there a desolation in thy heart?
Affection has a toilsome journey through—

Con.
Then, he must die! See how this lion sleeps!
[Feels his dagger.
This Morpheus has a lion for his pillow!
But, when, from slumber, I shall say, awake!
[Draws it.
The very strings of nature shall crack loose!
And then, the poppy that shall drowse his blood,
Shall make life's languid hold, let go of self.

Eud.
That sleep should be his soul's divinity;
The tribune be his grave—as I his slave!
And thousand times ten thousand devils friends!
Through all the dark compartments of his heart,
Shall darker midnight meet eternal gloom!

Con.
Then, fond Eudora! lov'd by me so well,
I will be dutiful to thee, who, lend'st
Unto my future life, endearment dear.

[Embraces her and leaves.
Eud.
Alone.
Now, I must bid adieu to joy again,
Until he comes. Oh! how I do mistrust.
I will not close mine eyes, this blessed night—
No—not until that sacred pledge be seal'd;
And this proud heart to him, affianced be!
Then, when the morning dawn shall wake to light,
My soul shall radiate misfortune's night.
[Exeunt Eudora.

SCENE IV.

—Frankfort—Time, Midnight—Conrad enters from the tavern, walks the street, dressed in dark clothes, with a masque on his face; and, with difficulty, finds Alonzo's house.
Conrad
with a paper in his hand.
This is a cunning deed—like all such deeds;
This very deed, perhaps, may save my life!
We cure diseases by revulsion—build
Up action in a part, by causing parts
To act.—This deed may be my warmest friend.
'Tis thus, through life, one deed blots out another,
As poisons neutralize by antidotes.
This is my aim. I've sought the clerk three times,
And still, I have not found him at his home.
'Twas my desire, when first I came, to have
This deed recorded—first, that it might hide
Suspicion, and be evidence for guilt—
Therefore, record a deed to do a deed!
A deed recorded, shall excuse a deed.—
And, if the crime of murder be found out—
As most of murders are—in spite of proof,
'Twill bring me out, by law, a guiltless man.
Now, if I had some friend to lure him out,
While I could strike the recreant dead—but, hark!
In such a deed, we could not find a friend.
Now, if the watchman find me out, this masque
Shall be thrown off—I may be thought a slave!
You see this hat—this very hat, I found
[Takes off his hat.
Two hundred miles away—beside a wood—
I took it—left one dollar in its place,
And said, old hat—thou art my humble friend!
For ought I know, this was a preacher's hat;
How long he may have fought against the devil,
And still, in his achievement, fail'd at last.
Now, when I put it off, should it be worn
Again—'twill only consecrate the head,
That 'neath this crown, may say—the devil's dead!
[Goes to a window and looks in—but does not find him.
Perhaps that is the place—and I mistake.
'Tis true—the sign—the sign—the doctor's sign!
[Looks up and reads the sign.
This is the place,—and I must change my name.

[Goes to the door and knocks. Puts his hand in his bosom. A female voice is heard within—the wife of Alonzo.
Angeline.
I would not venture out this time o'night—

[Conrad knocks.
Alonzo.
Who's there?

Con.
A friend.

Angeline
within.
I would not venture out, my love!

Alon.
Why, Angeline!—thy fears are woman's, love.

[Knocks again.
Alon.
Who is that?—speak out?

Con.
Darby—'tis thy friend!
He has some business with thee—'tis of weight!
Has sign'd a bond, and thou must seal the deed!

Alon.
What does he say?

Ang.
Indeed I do not know—you'd better see.

[Knocks again and looks round.
Alon.
Who can this be—so late at night?

[Opens the door and steps back.
Con.
Behold!
[Throws of his masque and takes him by the throat.
Look in my face, and call my name?

Alon.
Conrad!—Conrad! do not kill me, have mercy!

Con.
Where is my wife? now, villain! die—die—die!
[Stabs him.
Now, pray!—if thou can'st pray, now pray—now die!
Now, drink the wormwood which Eudora drank.

[Stamps him. Alonzo dies.
[Conrad rushes out and is seen no more. Angeline, Alonzo's wife, runs in the room, screams, and falls upon his breast.
Ang.
'Tis he—'tis he—Conrad has kill'd Alonzo!
Oh! my husband! my husband! thou art dead!
'Tis he—'tis he—the wretch has kill'd Alonzo!

[The doctor, Alonzo's brother, rushes in, crying, murder —murder! Watchmen and citizens rush in, crying, murder —murder! Alonzo's dead! Alonzo's dead!
Citizens.
Who, under God's heavens, could have done this deed?

Ang.
'Tis he—'tis he! Conrad has kill'd Alonzo!

Watch.
Who did it? speak! speak! Conrad kill'd Alonzo?

Ang.
Conrad—'twas Conrad, kill'd my husband! dead!
Oh! death—death—death! what will become of me!

Doctor.
Did you see his face? my God! I know 'twas he!

Ang.
I saw his face—I heard his voice—he's gone!
[Angeline feels his pulse, while the rest look round.
Oh! my husband—my husband—death—death!
Speak, Alonzo! speak to Angeline—death!
[Kisses him.
Oh! speak one word, and tell me who it was?
No pulse—my husband's dead!—he's gone!—he's gone!

[Faints away on his breast. The watchmen and citizens take her into an adjoining room, bearing her husband with her—asking, who could have killed him? Speak, Angeline —speak.—Curtain falls.