ILLINOIS UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS AT URBANA-CHAMPA1GN PRODUCTION NOTE University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign Library Brittle Books Project, 2015.COPYRIGHT NOTIFICATION In Public Domain. Published prior to 1923. This digital copy was made from the printed version held by the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign. It was made in compliance with copyright law. Prepared for the Brittle Books Project, Main Library, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign by Northern Micrographics Brookhaven Bindery La Crosse, Wisconsin 2015THE DREAM OF FATE; sarah, the jewess, A DRAMA, in By c. z: baenett, Author of Oliver Twist, Dominique, Victorine, Fair Rosamond TTu- Bravo, The Vow of Silence, Bell-Binger of Notre , Dame, Cater an''s Son, Swing, Claude Lorraine, <#C. / \ THOMAS HAILES LACY, } WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND, LONPON.DRAMATIS PERSONS ACT I. Oaw'fi Stot^rg, the Mich Jew of Frankfort Mr. Calticari euben Clsssold, betrothed to Sarah Mr J. Webst^i? $&ah Trinkalles, Stolberg's Domestic,.... 0 Mr. Conquest Stephen Cardinham, an English Adventurer Mr. R. Hoom-i' Sarah, Stolberg's Daughter,. •• • ......... Mrs. R. Honker Rebecca, a Jewish Maiden—her Attendant. „ Miss PieooU ACT II. David Stolberg, the u Stricken Jew of Frank" fort"..............................Mr. C attic art AUuben Clissold, his Friend ............Mr. J. Webster Noah Trinkalles, the Keeper of a " Commerce du Vins" in Paris.................. Mr Conquest Stephen Cardinham, a Beggared Gamester.. Mr. R. Honuef Zcdiah, an Apostate Jew—his Friend .... Mr, Dry Pierre, a Garcon .................... Mr. M@Sti@F Sarah, married to Cardinham............ Mrs. R. Homegy Rebecca married to Noah ..... .........Miss Pinoott Priest, Executioner, Archers, Guests, Monies, <$v„ Scene. Fir&t Act—Frankfort. Second—Chiefly in Pari®* First produced at Sadler's Wells Theatre, Aug. 2Cfth, 183S. Time in Representation, 1 hour forty minutea COSTUME. David—Long black velvet shirt trimmed with broad red stripes, lilac's jabe trimmed with red and gold lace, white kerseymere , '>rt very long, trimmed with broad yellow binding, russet shoes, hat to snatch. Third. Same as the first. Reuben*—Red shirt trimmed with brown, yellow arms trimmed with white satin, white belt, yellow hanging pocket, red cap withjrosett© and trimmed with gold lace black velvet shoes. Second.—;-Bicwn ,hirt and arms with white puffs, blue pantaloons, russet shoesi Third same as the first. I —fcen—Brown cloth shirt richly trimmed, hanging sleeves, retf arms, Step collar, black cap and feather, black shoes, cloak trimmed with *>lue . Second—Green shirt trimmed with red, blue pantaloons, /usse (boots, white sugar-loaf hat. 1 ,Noah—Light green shirt and red sleeves, stockings, russet shoes, blu© round cap. Second—Light brown doubletand trunks, brown cap. —Long blue shirt trimmed with r«d, red striped stockings; shoes, yellow belli black hat, g%rah—Red velvet trimmed \sith gold, white satin petticoat ana1 Second—Light brown slip, white apron, velvet boddice trimmed blue, French cap. Third—Same as first. l^cca—Blufl silk dress, yellow petticoat richly trimmed, boots s*nrt~—Red striped slip, brown boddice, white oproa Freucl T&lfd—-Same as the first. :lib" T H E DREAM OF FATE.* ACT I. , SCENE I,—A splendid Saloon richly lighted, in David St of a berg's House. Window l. h, Practicable Folding Doors C., which open upon a Terrace, and Gardens seen by Moon- light, which are gained by a deep flight of St*>ps. Couches R. . %nd L. H. and ander Window, L. H. is a small Table. Jews and Jewesses, Sfc. (friends of Ben David), discovered celebrating The FVist of Purim, soma of thorn wear fancy dresses, masks, <$c%t OHORUS. Joy1 jov 1 joy ! we hail the festal time, For lightsome dance aftd festive song prevail » Jo£> ! joy! joy ! we hail thy happychime, 'Tis on the light breeze borne, and wafted by the gale Short Ballet, in which is introduced a Grotesque dance—'the ^ , Characters retire after the dance. 3 Rebecca, and Noah, tome forward, 1 b. l, h. < Reb. Have done with these silly fanoies. You, ill indeed— ^ bah ! voki'te as well as I am. Noah. \ Well ! Foolish girl ! how can I be well ? Have I not a hesjid ache, a tooth ache, an ear ache, a heart ache,-—you u-, ftre the cause of the latter ; a face ache, and a— Reb. (What? a Noah. Nothing. I'm a snocking invalid—my diseases are ^.Incurable! I've tried every remedy without" effe&t—I've ^ fdWowef. the old system of cures—but, alas ! they cured not me. Aldop'ed the Homeopathic remedies—but they were not remedies in my case—I've been electrified, but it shocked *"? I £ * jit having been generally reported that the following Drama is a - literal translation of a Parisian novelty, the Author avails himself of this £ opportunity io state that he is indebted to the French Piece for nothing fei-more fehaa the idea of writing a Drama on a plan similar to that of " Vic- ^ toriuc,!" the second title, and the incident of Sarah's takihg the opium >ymisftake» Tor the rest, it is entirely orioin at-, and Whatever may b# He or defects, he aloae is responsible for them.6 THE DREAM OF PAYS* others, not .me. ( .shall try animalt magnetism next week, and if that fails, I shall sink into my grave in the flower of my youih ! Meb The flower of your nonsense ! Noah. Oh, Rebecca! your ankind words affect my weaJtt? constitution. Meb. Prithee cease this folly, Noah ; at such a time it is not titling. Is not this the first day of the feast of Purim, and will not our young mistress, Sarah, to-morrow become the bride of Reuben Cliss >rl ? Nmh. True—there U* much couie of gladness, and when I get better I shall be glad too. Oh, Rebecca, I kn«^y whet would restore me to perfect health. Meb* And that is—— Noah. Your charming hand. Meb. There, take it, Noah And your heart, sweetest ? Meb. You ask too much. Noah, But you will become my wife 1 Rib* Your wife ? pshaw ! that 1 shall never be„ Noah, Never— never I Ob, say not So—you make me feel worse than ever. I've lost my heart! I've iost my heal to— l9ve lost my- wife I Reb. Your wife ? ( Noah. She that was to have been my wife, I nliran ; but no matter, I'll do something desoerate—I'll take—I'il take— Meb. What pray ?— Noah. Some more physic—it may do me good, [ With great ]pathos.~] Rebecca j have you any pity iu your nature—have you any feelings of compassion? If your heartlis not as hard as marble—if your soul is not as obdurate as a Ulmt, take pity on me, and \ Reb. Well ?— I Noah. Make me some lemonade, and put twelve jgrains of opium in it. ^ Reb. Why I prepare your lemonade every night foir you* Noah. Yes, you're very good natured, but not jquite so loving as I could wish. Ah, opium is a mild opiate*—I can- not sleep without it. Were I not to take it, I should nfi be able to sleep for thinking of you, \ Meb. Twelve grains of opium in some lemonade—I*h jl fe- g?&ie it for you ; in an hour's time I'll place it, as I on that little table there by the window, so tha§ $ paler, but since the wedding day has been named, she has become to all appearance wretched ; and the nearer the time has approached the more miserable she ha9 seemed, Noah. 'Tis very odd; that Reuben loveg her warmly, ardently, I'd swear, Reb, Yes ; and 'twould be a pity that she should deceive tiimi He thinks she loves him, and should he after they are B 3t? TH.E DRFAM OF F« T t.. tv^(fded, discover that her affect ion << a^o^er'Jj Ut« pcor t< >mg ni#n will be rendered unhappy i'-r ever ! Noah Physic wouldn't cure -him. And t ow vo>i b»v<* touched upon this string, I remember a c;rcum>*t»»rw in^t occurred only a few evenings since, th it struck me as being tno-i remarkable ! Reb Indeed ! what tva« if ? Noah. I was walking down the Zeil towards the Eschenhei- vner Thov> in order to prccued to Bockenheim, where as thou k owest Doctor Drugenheim lives, to get some medicines-*-■• Meb. But you were not ill then ? Noah. B it ! might have been soon, vou know, and preven- tion's bet er than cure. 1 had hardly passed through the ° T;io y when I saw a few jards beforfc in-—— Reb What? Noah. A man. Rub, A man ? Noah Yes, in a cloak, and he was walking with our young mistress, Sarah. Reb Did you see his face ? Noah. No, but I saw his back • there is a mystt ry shout it, is there not ? She may love this stranger. Rob., True. You saw not his face vou say I Noah. No. I dad not seek to see it, as my suspicions *rere not aroused. ^ Reb. And ihoy entpred the (own 9 \ i N ah. I believe thev did. Who could it have beep ? Reb. Might it not have been her future husband, iSetfben C;]:ssold ? Noah. So it mijiht—well. I never thought of that. Reb. She comes thin way j she looks pa'^r than ever to- t. Well. I mu^t prepare Cor the departure of the g*?ests, N oh And I. Suppt-r is I dare say, nearly over' by this iima, so your services w ill be required. Rebecca, don't for. eleven o'clork, the lemonade with the twelve grains of »®sia n in it, Ueb, I will place it on that little table by the windov. [Exeunt severally, K. and L. - Enter David Stolberg, leading in Sarah, 3 e. j.. ii- ne conducts her to a couch. *S'ar.ah. Thank von, dear father ! 'twas a r*ere «&'>-■■■ aoihi:fg more-1 feel better now. [Aside ] '.(Va? he — I'm Wte of it ; his sudden appearance here overcame mv.'' Dat\ Compose yourself, my child—I can well excuse tneee idlings so close upon your bridal day-—THE Oil BAM OF FATE Sau Father !—» .I)av, How now, girl—fl't ill agbin ? Sar. No, dear father—no ! J&av. My child—my only child-—rav dear Sarah I the joy and cotnfort of my declining years! speak to roe—answer truly the question I am about 'o jmt to thee, Sar. W hat would mv father know ? Dav My child, thou art dearer to me. even tnan my own life—thou art more precious ill rnv sight, than the biightest, richest gem, (solconda yields ; and I would gladly bestow my gold—that gold t have toiied years to obtain, the gathering of which has strewed the snow upon my head, and dug the fur- rows in my ch^ek—all, all that] possess—house, land—all, to the Ih^t kreutzer, to render you happy—to banish sickness from your couch ! Sar* Dear father, I know it all—all ! I am a wrctch f— accursed of heaven ! Dav. Hold girl—you speak profanely ! none but guilty wretches are accursed of Heaven ! and has crime stamed thy young soul with its black hue ? No, girl, no ! Sir, Faih/er, \our words madden ene ! Dav. The bare thought of guilt ever alarms the pure and innocent ! Girl, this may be the last opportunity 1 have of speaking f.o you alone ere you become a wife I Sar. (Aside.) A wife! despair—despair! ffia&e A father's watchfulness—-a fatherfs love for an only child, what can deceive. Girl, there is something preying on your mind—something that poisons your repose—that pales your cheek—blanches your lip, and dims the bright lustre of your eye/;—that which has made you unhappy, makes me so ioo, though I know not the cause. Can I behold the daily change tb)at comes over you, and not feel wretched ? Speak, dear Sarah—tell \ onr father—your aged father, who loves you as father neVr loved chiid before, tell him the cause of your unhappiness that he may remove it. &af. Father, dear father ! urge me no more. What cause have I for misery 1 none, none, believe me, dear father £ I am very;—very happy ! Dav., And y-1 you weep, Aar./They are tears of joy I shed, dear father—not gritt?, not grijef ! Dav, Sarah, deceive me not ; for as 1 love yon, falsehood " will soon be mine by the holiest of ties ? Sar. (Shrinking involuntarily from him ) Thine ! Reu. yYou avoid my gaze, and shrink from me, as though yon love^d me not ! What means this sadden coldness ? Sar. Coldness ! Nay—nay, you mistake—I meant no i?oldnes»s. Rffw. Your cheek is indeed pale, and your eye Io»ks O. OF ILL iift.12 THE DREAM OF FATE, and sunken. Retire to your chamber, sweetest ! repose may strengthen and refresh you. Farewell, mine own loved bride! anon we'll meet again. Dav. Reuben, I'll go with you—I have something to say to yon that must be told at once. Sarah, retiro to your oh am- ber—you do much need repose, [ELveunt Reuben, and David U, c. R. H. She follows them up the stage—watches them off- then returns—staggers to the couch, and sinks overcome upon if Sar (After a pause*) Once m re am I alone, and I dare tve*»p ! While they were here 1 thought my bursting heart wou d break ! 1 may weep now, for none are by to note my tears, and ask the cause of them. and comes forward."] My father taxed me with deceiving him—did be know all, he would spurn me from his roof and curse me ! bitterly, deeply curse me ! [Shudders.] No, no ; let me not dwell on the horrid Ihoucht. I could endure death, rather than hit curse ! My affection for my affianced husband is all flown, nod love for another—for a Christian supplies its place.— Hear it Heaven, and a'test it earth ! a daughter of Jadah~— a child of Israel, has fallen from her high faith to love the scoffer of her tribe—to listen to the vows of one of Nazareth ! Oh, did my father, strong in his faich, suspect the weakness of his child, he woald cast her from his heart for ever ! Yes, it shall be bo. Stephen, we must never meet again. Reuben, from this hoar I am thine ! let me rather endure everlasting misery, than my father's remaining life be embittered by his daughter's weakness ! [Siufc upon couch again. Music— Stephen Cahdinham appears up stage, C.—he is enveloped in a cloak, and his bonnet is drawn over his eyes—he looks cautiously around him—comes forward—pauses—turns—per- ceives Sarah—approaches her gently^—kneels—takes her hand, the touch rouses her from her reverie. She starts upon behold- ing a man at her feet. Sar. A strang-er ! Car. Sarah, do you not know me ? Sar. That voice ! it is Car. (Lifting his bonnet, and throwing off1 his cloak.) Ste- phen Cardinhmn ! Sar. (Aside ) He here ! Unfortunate ! — Car, You turn from me! I do not wonder at it—I know all—to morrow vou are to wed another. Sar. And if you knew this, why are you here now 1 Car. Then my fpars have not deceived me. \ ou cast me ©if—desert me,* without a hope to cling to, to save me fne 5 forget that we mer met f Cfir. Hear me !-— &'ar. I dare not—I am one of a race despised by yoK?„ and all of your belief. No, no, it h not fitting shat w© should meet again. Your friends, you have told me are rich, power- ful and noble ; they would look down with disdain and aver° siots upon the lowly Jewess. No, no, Stephen Cardinham, I am no fitting male for you S Car. Your words madden me ! the hope 1 had cherished in my breast that you would be mine, leaves me—and in its place is chill despair I What remains bat death I tSar* Well, be ife so ; better thus, than any act of mfn© should o'erwhelm my father's white hairs with sorrow, and sink him broken-hearted to his grave ! Think you he could see his daughter wedded to one of the race of Nazareth, and live ? No, no, be is old-—he is feeble ; he ig no bigot—no wild enthusiast, but his faith—the faith that he was born in —the faith of his forefathers is in his heart, and while that beats it will remain there pure and unshaken 5 Car. (Aside.) Weak, foolish, girl ! I lose hey, and ©B I've toiled for vanishes in one short .moment* 1 will Hot resign ner without an effort,, [Aloud.] Sarah, listen to me I Sar. I fear I have too !^ng for my own peace I Wfe&S would you Two months since 0 most savage and brutalIA THE DREAM OF PATE0 was committed at Dusseidorf upon an English resident tog Frankfort jew, named Zodinh Cahn ! — Sar, Ah ! Car, You know the circumstn nce0 The jaws of Frugal© are as severe upon those who haibour and protect murdej^fs as on the murriereis themselves — is t not so ? Now, tell me, Sarah Stolberg, who gave Zociiah Cahn an asvlum ?®»>who8e house concealed him from the pursuit of justice? You do iiot answer. Was it not thy father ? Wan he not secreted here ? Sar* He was j but my father knew not that his crime wae murder, nor did I till now ! Car. He who fell by the assassin's hand was my brother Sar. Your brother ! Car, Yes, my brother—-Richard Cardinham* My mission here was to avenge his death ! Sar. Oh, heavens S Car. Sarahj your father's wealth—nay, more, his life are \n my hands ; let me but say the word, his large riches are con« fiscated, and he is dragged in his old age from his cheerful hearth, and thrown into a chill aud gloomy dungeon ! Sar, Horror! Cvr. Worse, still worse. The assassin has escaped to Frances The vile deed must be expiated with blood ! David ^tolberg is condemned to die !-=» Sar, (Shrieking wildly.) No, no ! take his wealth«=»take his home-—take all, all, but spare—spare his life * Car, One word of mine condemns him to the scaffolds Sar. And yon will speak it ! Do so, do so, and see me perish at your feet ! Car, You would condemn me to as painful a death. Sarah, none know that thy father is implicated in this atrocious act but me—unwillingly it may be, yet implicated. My love for yon was stronger than the feeling to avenge a dear loved brother's death, and now you cast me off—heedless of the pangs I suffer— heedless of the sacrifice I make—but no matter, his fate is in my hands, Sar. Ob, spore him ! take my life, but spare my father : You have too much pity in vour nature to drag a poor infirm old man to a prison ! [Kneels,] Behold me at your feet! spurn me—crush me ! I will not rise—plunge your dagger in nr" heart9 I will not shrink; but spare my aged, kind, gooiv f&Sher I [Pause. J You will not ? and plucks his ger fr@m his vest,] Then I will not li ve to behold the sacriite.^the dream of fate» 15 Car. Hold ! rasli girl! Sar. No, why should I live to see my father slain ? Oar, No. Much as I loved my brother—-much as I would wish to avenge his foul murder, yet my love for you would make me pause. No, no, Sarah—David Stolberg is your father ; nor word, nor deed of mine, shall harm him. Sar. Thanks—thanks, dear Stephen ! Now do I indeed feel you love me, and that I could give up everything for you. Car. You will "be mine, then? Oh, joy—-joy ! You will be mine ! Sar. Injure not my father, and I—I am your slave ! Car. Nay, nay, 'tis I who am thy slave, sweet Sarah—a slave that would obey thy every look—anticipate even thy wishes. Sar. But my father—my father ! you will not denounce him—promise me——■ Car. Be mine, and he is safe ! Sar. He is the innocent victim of a bad man's artifice. Car. It may be so—I nothing doubt it. Believe me he is safe ! Hark! I hear footsteps—I must leave you, the hour is late. Yet, one thing ere I depart. You have promised to become mine—to-morrow is the day named for your union with Reuben Clissold. Sarah, there is no other way to avoid this marriage—you must fly with me to-night. Sar. To-night! Car. Yes, or to-morrow will see you wedded to another. When all have retired to rest, place as a signal one only light by yonder window ; I shall know by that there is no danger, and that I may enter to take away my own loved Sarah. Sar. But should there be no light there ? Car. Then I shall deem my plan impracticable, and you must contrive to quit the house unobserved, and join me at the entrance to the garden; do this, and ere to-morrow's close we shall be secure from pursuit. Farewell! we soon shall meet again. Remember, if possible, the signal that I may enter; a burning taper placed near yonder window. Sar. Yes. A parent's welfare should be a child's first care. Stephen, you shall behold the signal! [lie kneels—takes her hand—presses it to his lips—-rises>—draws on his bonnet- gathers his cloak round him—as he turns up stage to exit, he encounters Noah,- who, at that moment enters, u. e. l. h.] Noah. Heyday! whom have we here '? A stranger in a mysterious looking cloak. Pray, Mynheer, who in the fiend's name are you? ['without heeding the question, Stephen18 the DR8AM OF r/AT®. thrusts Noah aside 9 and essits u# B. L„ n/j Well, I ns>yej? ? it not for my weakly state iYt follow him, and ask him wlmt he meant by thf listing me 02a one aido. Who could it be f [Comes forward.'] Ah, my young lady hero ! Pray, did \ou notice a strange looking sort of person jus! now sn i? ar. Reuben !— ^Iteu. You wonder at beholding me at ibis unseemly hour* 1 covim not quit the bouse without seeing you again-™ ^Hiiout bidding you good night. [Approaches her tenderly,J fioavens ! how pale you have become-—your eyes seem red with weeping! Answer me, I conjure you. What has happened ? There should be no secreta between us nowo San Now ! lieu. Will not to-morrow see you mine I Sar. Thine !—> Ren* You distress me much ; that some heavy grief is on your heart I can now plainly see* Do you think me unworthy of your confidence, that you thus withold your sorrows from me ? This is unkind—ungenerous I Sar. I have no sorrows ! none worth explaining. My situa° tion is novel and peculiar, and I may entertain weak girlish fancies—nothing more—nothing more, Reu, It may be so—and yet, Sarah, 1 have perceived of late a marked change in your manner towards me—no, it couldn't be delusion, it has been too marked-—too palpable ! Sar. You do indeed distress me \ Keu. At times, I've thought that you repented your promise to become mine, but the next minute Pve dismissed the dark conjecture from my mind; and doubted not but that you loved me still I Sar. (Aside ) His words kill me ! fieri. We were children together, and the feelings of affec- tion engendered in childhood increased with increase of yeajs until it ripened into loves I woo'd you for my wife, and •you consented to become mine,, Oh, with what rapture did that eonsent bless me ! You sorrowed much, Sarah, when you learned that I should be compelled io leave you for awhile —you shed bitter tears at my departure, but no smile glad- dened my return—you shed tears as bitter then, You are my affianced wife—affianced in the sightof heaven, and of man t To morrow that solemn engagement is to be ratified,, Deceive me not; if your love for me has ceased—fear not to speak it 5 it may wound me deeply, but not so deeply as the discovery a year hence, I have wedded one who loves me not. Speaks Sarah, ere it prove to late ! Sar. Reuben Clissold, you have guessed my secret! [With great effort.] lieu. Then you lo^e me no longer 1 Sar, ft breaks my heart to speak it IIB THE DREAM OF FATE* Rett* (After a pause.} The blight ha« fallen on mv * *Tis better so. Better that one branch be withered, thau W»t the who e tree decay ! She loves me not—she loves me not! Oh, misery—misery ! she loves me not! [ Buries his face in his hands."] Sar. Reuben^ dear Reuben ! look up—look up ! your grief distracts me ! Reu {Mastering his agitation ) The drea^ is over ! 'twas a sweet one while it lasted—but ' is over, and I arl—-be will goon forget the lowly Jewish maic!en0 Why do i weep ? lhat thought should rejoice me, Now for the signal ? [She places the lighted taper on the table, l. h. close to the window, and approaches couch l, h, on which she seats herself.'} This has been a trying day—the excitement ! have undergone has made me feel listless and unhappy ! A heavy torpor overcomes me, and seems to hold my senses prisoner—I strive to shake it oft' in vain—1 cannot struggle against it. What can it mean ? The drink—the drink 1 he will be here, and I ~—l have not power to shake oft' this heaviness. Sleep—»sleepi tho'i art an unwelcome visitant. Away—away ! Oh !—~ [5/ie sighs heavily, and falls back insensible from the effects of the opiate.] Enter Noah, cautiously, j e. l. h» Noah I forgot my lemonade 1 Ah, there's a light here—= the wind extinguished mine, so I may venture to take this away for a few minutes to light my own candle b/ [Approaches the table—takes up the. taper-—-looks into tankard.] Heyday I the tankard emp;y! Soma person has swallowed my night drink. [Sees Sarah.] What, rny young mistress asleep . if she wakes and sees me, she'il wonder what I do here. I'll to my own room again. Oh, dear, dear ' my opium's gone, and I shall pass as sleepless a night as though I were going to be married mysfclf to-morrow, [ Exit with lighted taper, t». H. Stage quite darK—Sarah seems restless on the couch—a gust of wind seems to blow open the window l. h„ and the moonlight streams in upon the sleeping maiden—a Mtrn's footsteps heard pacing beneath the window,] Cardinham, {Under the window.) Sarah ! Sarah ! She bears sne not. No light—no signal • she comes not. Confusion 8 she repents her promise—she will not come. A.U in lost * £Hu retreating footsteps are heard as the Act Drop slowly falls.] -*jr bnd of act i. ACT II. SCENE I.—The Banks of the, Seinef and le Font du No$re Dame- A Small House r . H. having the appearance of a W'rue Shop, over which i# written Si Commerce du Vins/' C 320 the dream of pats. Upon the rising of the Curtain angry voices are heard with&ul9 and presently the door opens and Zqojah is thrust from ike House by Pierre—Rebecca following him. [Second dress.] Pierre. Get ye gone from honest folks' place, who want none of the likes of you. 1leb. No, indeed—to eat and drink at other people's ex- pence ! You're a villain ! Zod. No harsh names—no harsh r,®nses? or $e may both repent it. Steb. Well, I never—Did you, Pierte ? Pierre. No, that 1 didn't. I'll turn him away, madame— I'll make him run ! [ 4pproaching him.] Zod, (Contemptuously.) You ! [yls Pierre approaches him, he struggles with him—at the same m&ment Noah enters l« H « £Second dress.~\ Noah. Heyday! What have we here? Why, Rebecca—• ^ife ! What has caused all this disturbance 2 What's the Sn&tter ? Feb. Matter enough, I thinke There's been a rogue in the house, and you away. Noah% A rogue in the house, and I not there ! Well that is strange. But, tell me—-- Meb. Not an hour since this villain cam® into the place, and swallowed cotelette after cotelette, pate after pate, bonbon after Oronbon, a bottle of wine, and ten glasses of eau de vie. dfoah. The nasty beast! Bat, Rebecca, how is it you find fan it with so good a customer ? Meb. Many such customers would ruin you. Neah. Ruin me ! Reb. After eating and drinking ehongb for seven-—=» Pierre, Seventeen, I think ! Reb. Yes, after eating and drinking enough to satisfy seven till grown moderate men, the wretch declared he hadn't the ni ney to pay for what he'd had. N->ah, (Horrified.) No money ! Reb, Not a sous ! N ah. Well, if ever—wife, why didn't you send for the A c tiers ? Reb. What would have been the use of that ? they couMi/t a man pay a bill if he had no money, ts'oak. That's true. Eat and drink, and not pay—and su'.'h & <5^1 •*j t ity, too ! [ Turning to him ] You villain—you mo;?f er —you cormorant—you Eh ? what? Do my eyes decmvh me ? Z -Uah Cahn !SHI DREAM OF FATE. 2i Zod»(Atide*) Known, [.4 J me?.] And who are vou that thus uddress me? Noah. Tes, it 18 the same I The very man who took rof'u£*» in David Stolberg's, our kind master's house, five years u:.ok, when flying from his creditors- Zod. Yoa know me,tnen, it seems. Reb. Pierre, go and attend to the customers. We have lost quite enough for one day. Pierre, Yes, tnadame. reside.] He looks for all the wo?Id like &filoul \Exit into house* Noah. Know yon ? Yes, I know you too well,' and jou know me, too* I am Norh Trinkalles-———— Zod. Noah ! JReb, Yes, and I am his wife*. Rebecca Hartman that was,, Noah. And we were both the servants of David Stolberg, the banker, of Frankfort ! Zod. David Stolberg ! Nuah, Perhaps you don't remember coming there one fine evening, pretending you were flying from your creditors, ar d asking an asslum for a few days. Zod. And what then ? Noah . Why after being suffered to remain two months; did you not rob the old man, and run away f Zod. Rob him ! Noah. You may well repeat my words. You Fobbed him of three hundred thalers, and me of teti0 I was very ill then. 1 used to take a gjeat deal of physic—particularly opiu.tn—and that made me sl< ep so soundly, that you contrived to escape without my hearing you, Rtb. And then to think after wed got comfortably settled here, that *ou should come and ea! md drink at our expenoe •—1 wonder you'd the impudence ! N>ah. J wonder he'd theappe ? But, however, yonder rip some Archers, and so Zod. Fool I stand Kack ! Attempt to prevent my free pas sage, and Til strike you to mv feet ! Stand back, I say, or you'll repent it. [Aside.] Known! No matter—one bold deed more, pnd t hen adieu Pans ! *[Exit U. E. I., n . Noah. V? hut a savas.e ! Reb. Ho s a brute- and you're a fool for suffering him to t into Bo%se6 David STolberg enters l. H LSecond dress,] leaning &n a Staff. He appears much enfeebled. Dav. From St, Denis to Pans, is ten good miles, and that walk between breakfast md dinner is not amiss for a „ poor, feeble, old man like me. True, I had his arm to support me—g0f>d. kind Reuben —and his society to cheer me—anil they marie the road seem shorter. Whe. Speak not of her—speak not of her! She has broken her father's heart, and driven him forth a wanderer in his old age ! Noah. Some one approaches. Yes—it is he we but now spoke of—it is Reuben Clissold. Dav% He has returned, then. fTe would not desert t'eol-l man! No, no—the child deseris the parent, the friend -ciii remains true. Good iad—yood iad ! Enter Reuben, l. h. [Second rfres*.] tleu♦ Yes, 'twas she I beheld ! How changed she seemed \ Can that wretched house be her dwelling ? And was it for this she fled a happy home—a father who loved her, and- Ah, father—you are here before me. [Approaches him] Dav, You have been a loiterer-—»• Reu. 1 pray your pardon, father. A little idle curiosity drew me from your side for a moment—nothing more. [Astde. j At length, then, 1 have discovered her retreat. Accident has at last disclosed whaf in years I have been vainly endeavouring to iearn. Noah Good day. Mynheer Cliasold. D j you not remember me? Noah- Kelt. Ah, my good fellow—I am glad to see you once a train, Noah. And so am I to S'*e vou. Well, here ! am tUe reputable owner of a reputable hotel, .Reu. Hotel! Noah. Why some peop'e call it ly an inferior r.ame its true,but they are inferior peop'e. Five years a^o—when our kind master, overcome with grief at hi, daughter s flight with a Christian—quitted Frankfort, and dismissed his household, Rebecca—you remember Rebecca Hartmann— •became aiy Loving spouse We removed to Paris, opened this iiotel, or wine shop, and here have we been comfortably settled ever since, Reu. I am glad to find ^ on have been m> prosperous* Noah. Whv, yes—we've no cause to complain. And do you know, vice I've taken to drink the ligut vyiues of France, I've not the .east occasion in the worlo for pi>ysic. Reu. Indeed ! H>mh, Oh, I am quite another nian} I assure you. All my n»nladie» ha' e left me, sihd I have no need of opium now, whatever.24 THE DREAM OF FATE. Reu. Noah, look there—[Pointing to David, who ha$ tercd to house door.]—Is not that sight enough to soften a heart of stone ? Noah. It is a sad sight, indeed 1 Reu. A poor bereaved, deserted father, left childless In his old age. Oh, could she who has caused this ruin gaze but 9 moment here, it wou d wring drops of blood from her heart, though that heart were marble ! Noalu You are much changed. JReu. Changed! I loved her-~-she deceived me 1 Yes, I am indeed changed. Noah, know you the Faubourg St. Jacques ? Noah, Do I not know it ? It is the worst street in Paris. It bears a most infamous character. I wouldn't pass :hrough it after dark, for a thousand francs ! Reu, Indeed ! [Aside.] Yes, I will seek her even there. I xtill pray her to quit the traitor who lured her from her early home, and return to her heart-broken father—to me she is now as nothing—but it n.ay smooth his passage to the grave, though i fear me she can nevor restore the peace to his bo»om, that one fatal act of hers first banished. Noah. That was a sad night, when Sarah fled with that Englishman., We all felt the effects of it, I'm sure I did— for somebody took my lemonade and opium, and 1 hardly got a wink of sleep all night. Her Bight pretty well made the poor old man crazed ! Deu, He has never recovered the blow ! Dav, (Coming forward.) Reuben—Reuben, good lad—-good lad. You haie supported my trembling steps for many a long day, and many a weary mile. For five years—five long weary years, you have attended me, watched over me, and assisted me. We have wandered through many lands, and endured many hardships—but you—ypu have ever been the same to me—ever—ever! Reu. Oh, it was a sad day, when ruin came upon your house. Das. And who caused that ruin/ she—she—the unnatural cne ! I would forget her, but I cannot. See, Reuben -she is there—he, the vise Nazarene, is beside h«r ! She smiles upon him,-—-and yet she weeps when you approach. No—I've been in a dream—she has not deceived me 1 What, Sasah, my child—deceive her trusting father ? No. no—I'll not be- lieve it ! Sarah ! Sarah I come to thy poor father's arms— some—come—>thou hast been too long absent!. Kneel, my guild, that 1 may bless thee I Kneel! Ah ! away, unnaturalriin dream or pate, 2$ one ! Awcy, lest I curse thee ! \He falls overcome on Rets*. &en's shoulder, who leads him gently into house—-Noah following 9 SCENE II.—An Apartment, meanly furnished, in the Fau- bourg St. Jacques. Door and Window m f. -practicable, Table, with one candle, on it lighted, chair, Sfc* Sarah discovered, meanly attired, kneeling to Cardiniiam, whose dress also appears faded. He is turning from her» bar. Oh. do not leave m^, Stephen ! The hour Is la e, and ac reams, and oaths, and groans, resound fom time to time, breaking the silliness of this horrid street. Car• Weak, foolish wench ! what cause have you to fear? We are too poor to be harmed. Tremble not. I must away -—business calls me, and I must hence ! Sar. Business I and at this hour ? Oh, Stephen, do not—. do not leave me. I am cold, and i,l3 aud weak—and fear t® be alone. Car, Idle folly! let me hear no more of it. There—no tears-—no sighs ; they will not procure us food when \va affe starving. Sar. You cannot procure food at this hour, Stephen? Car. But I may get tha>, that will wili procure it. Sar (Alarmed.) What fearfni words are tho»e you uiter ? Car. Ha, ha, ha ! the wench is crazed! Sar. Oh, Stephen, we are poor—very poor—we have known calamity in its worst form—for when it comes clothed in the ragged garb of want—crushing want—can there be greater misery ? And yet, Stephen, I have murmured not9 and would endure much more—much more, so that you would not do that in a rash moment, that you would afterwards b• sorrv for. Car. No more ! jf I want homilies, I can find them in books. No more of this! The hour grows late—I must away ! Well, since tears is your humour, weep—weep! I shall re- turn soon. Approach me not, or you will make me angry with yon ! [Approaches door, and then returns suddenly.] What right have you to complain ? you, the daughter of an infidel — a Jew— an unbeliever! How have I benefitted by ma>rying you? Have I become enriched through it? No_it has (fragged me to this poverty. And what can repay ma for the stain I've placed upon my father's 'scutcheon, by an alliance with a Jewess ?96 THE DREAM OP FATE. Sar, Thy father's'scutcheon J The ruin my wadding ihe« brought on my father's house is nothing—no, nothing ! Car, Thy father is a Jew—a despised, contemned Jew—an infidel—a dog ! Sar• Hold! you utter sacrilege. True, he is a Jew—ami that is his only crime, if crime it be, [Proudly.] But Jew though he be, there are many Christians, who for rectitude, banesty, and worth, might well follow in David S olberg's path, though he follows the cretd of his forefathers. No more ! He is my father, and he wruld rather have looked on me dead, and. in my coffin, than wedded to thee, or any of thy race Car. Thou art bold of speech. Sar. Your unkind words have made me so. 111 usage-w misery—want—all, all I could endure without a word—a sigh -—a single murmur—but I would rather that you plunge your dagger in my heart than speak lightly of one whom you have so deeply injured—and that one, my father ! Car. These are but idle words at best, for which I am ne- glecting matter of more serious import. The night grows old—I must away.' Farewell ! I shall soon retrrn ! [/?*«£ through D. Sar, (After a pause,] Gone—and not one kind parting word—not one! Bat I deserve it all. Yes, it was for this I abandoned thee, Reuben—it was for this I fled my father's roof! Oh, this indeed is dreadful retribution He loves me uot—he never loved me, or he would not use me thus 1 Five years of unhappiness are enough to break the stoutest heart-— why not mine? My father I where art thou now? Perhaps he's dead—-and she—his unnatural daughter—was not near him in his dying hour ! Oh, I have erred—deeply erred— erred beyond forgiveness ; and, now that it is too late, comes bitter, shaming repentance! [A knock heard outside,] Zod, (Without.) Open, if you have any charity ! Sar, (Terrified—apptoaohing door,) A moment—a moment! be not impatient-[She gets close to the doort and slips the bolt forward.] Who's there ? Zod. (Without—'trying to open the door,J Open, in pityps name- ■ — Sar, Who are you t Zod. (Without.) A r'retched fugitive. Even now my pursuers are on my traok. If I am discovered, they wifl'&iU me \ Sar, Are you alone ?THR DREAM OW FATE. 27 Zod, (Withont*) 1 nm—I Mm ! If you deny me an asylum here for a few moments, I shall be muidered, and my blood «ill upon \our head [Sarah approaches window cau- tiously f and looks through f£.] Sar, Yes, he spoke truly—he is alone. This is a fearful gu«et—he may indeed be pursued by villains, i will admit him. Why should he wish to harm me 1 [Approaches dooV and opens it.] You may enter. Zo Di a h rushes in hastily, closes the door$ pauses a moment, and lis ens, rushes up to the window, closes the shutters, then c tries forward, and sinks on the chair. Zod. 1 am safe ! Sar. Be composed, and tell me what brought you to this dangerous quarter of the city at this untimely hour ? Zoa. That voice ! its tones ore familiar to my ears. [jRiji*, and gazes earnestly at her.) I must have been deceived— five years oouid never have made that alteration I Sar. Your naitne—your name? Zod. Zodi&h BEAM OP FATS, Zod. I was a better man then, tLao I am now. I was n® robber. I had been unforlunale in my speculations atDussei- dorf, and was flying from tny creditors, when your father— whom I had traded Jargely with—by dint of my entreaties, gave me an asylum until I could escape into France. Sar, You were flying'from no creditors—you had stained yoar hands with human blood at Dusseldorf ! You murdered there an Englishman, and for that crime you took refuge with my father! Zod. By Heaven, 'tis false! Villain as I am, of the crime of murder I am innocent.. The base lie has been coined for 60ine dark purpose. Sar• Innocent of that deed Zod. Would I were as innocent of every other ! Sar,' Swear that you slew him not, by that bright Heaven you have so oft offended Zod. (Dropping on one knee, and clasping his hands together —in which action ke lets the pistol fall.*) I swear it! Sar. (Aside ) Then Stephen spoke falsely. I have beett deceived—betrayed—undone 1 £Knocking at the door heard— he goes up Stage to listen, and hastily returns—during which,, she picks up the pistol he let fall, and as he turns, she hastily concials i*.] Zod. Have they traced me heref Sar. They are without to drag you to a prison t Zod, Save me ! Sar. Conceal yourself. Guilty as you are. you are under my roof—wretched though it be—and I ivill not betray you. Go into that apartment, and keep fast the door. Zod. Thanks—many thanks ! [ J%xit l. h.] The hnoching is repeated—she goes to door, and opens it, Reuben enters, and comes forward.] Reu. (Aside.) It is the same—I thought I could not be mistaken ! Sar. (Approaching him.) May I ask your name and business in this poor dwelling? Rew Sarah ! Do you not know me 1 Sar. Know you ? Who are you ? Reu. Reuben Clissold, Do you not recognize me ? Sar, (Starts.) Reuben Clissold I Oh, horror 1 horror I Reu. And is it thus we meet again? You turn from me— you avoid my gaze, as though you dared not look upon me. Fear not—I am not come to reproach you. Much as *ou have injured me, I have Lpng forgiven you.THE DREAM 0¥ FATB. Sar. Each kind word you utter is a reproach that cuts me to the heart, i cannot look at you. Wretched—guilty as I am, I have still one feeling left that belougs to innocence, and that is sLame. Reu. For three years have I been endeavouring to discover the place of your retreat, and to conjure you to leave that bad main, who first lured you from a joyous, happy home. Sar. Would I had never quitted it ! Reu. Return, then, with me. Sar. Tell me—tell me—and yet I fear to name him—my -—I cannot speak the word to you—David Stolberg—[Hastily.J does he live 1 is he well ? Reu. Helive8—he lives! Sar. (Joyfully.) Thanks—thanks for those joyful tidings ! Reu. Come with me. Leave tbis spot, and return to thy broken-hearted father. He has mourned thy loss dcepiy. Com* with me, and he may forgive thee. Sar. Then be is well—happy........ Meu. Happy, and you away? Happy, and you wedded to another—to a Christian, too I Sarah, you should have kn«wu h»m better. Sar. Then he mourns the loss of one who is not worth the grieving. Reu. Sarah, be not deceived—thy father knows not of mv errand here. We have been both wanderers for many years to discover thy retreat. He knows not that even now we are together. Sar% I know why he would see me—-that he may curse me ! Dh, the thought is terrible ! Reu. No—he speaks not of thee but in his wildest moments. Sar. Wildest moments ? lieu. He is much changed since you quitted him. Sar. And who caused that change? I—I, monster that 1 am, to call down ruin and desolation on so good and exceilt i t a parent' Reu. Return with me, and he may forqive you. I will in- tercede for you. My pravers may do much. No selfish mo- tive actuates me. Once I loved you, and we might have been happy—oh, how happy !—bat that is past now—[Brushing away a tear."]—and its memory brings anguish to my wo o heart I „Rejturn to your father, that he may biess you once again. Sar. Blessing- are not for the disobedient and the guilty,, No, no—I dread to gaze upon him j and I cannot, daro not leave my husband I** TH» DR8 1M OF FATE. Beti, The traitor I Traitor as he is, he is yet my husband, Rett. A villain—a false, dissembling villain, to bring thee to this misery ! Thou art much changed since last we met, and the heavy weight of sorrow and of years seems to have fallen upon thy young brow, banished the roses from thy cheek, and leit deep traces of their visitations. I madden as 1 gaze upon thee ! [Kneels.] Forget him who brought this heavy grief upon thee. The past shall be forgotten—for- given ! dome—come with me, I intreat—I implore you, to thy father—thy stricken father-[Clasps her hand fervently ~~~ she til ns from him and weeps. At the same moment the door opens, and CaiidinHaM enters—upon perceiving Reuben at the feet of Sarah, he draws his sword and rushes upon him.J Car. Villain, die [As he is ab nit to strike Reuben, Sarah throws herself before hi uf and catches Cardinham's arm as it descends.] Sir, Hold Ktepn^n ! harm him not. Car. You intercede tor the man who wrongs — b -trm s rne ! thrusts her back—Raub-n rushes upon him, wrests his sword from him, and throws it away. They siriujqh Reuben tsthrnvm. Cardinham draws his dagger, and is ah out to strike, wnen Sfirah advances with Zouiab's pisl-sj in her hand, and as Cardinham retreats a step or two to make his aim the surer, she presents the pistol at him—the action protects Reuben. Tableau.] Sar, Stand back, Stephen Cardinham ! I ca..i.<>t stand tamely by, and see murder done, even by my husbai.d ! Car. What, foiled—by her, too ! True—I had forgotten* She would rather have me perish, than that her pas amour be injur <>tl. Sar, Paramour ! The word sickens me. Fon.par, Ste- phen— I am roused bevond my nature, and mav do that I fcbaii be.sorry for. [To Reuben.] Fly—fly, or bi ......... Car. My wife, Zod What, you married to old Divid Stolberg's daughter 1 I knew him well. He did me good service once. [During this dialogue Sarah gradually recovers and listens.] Car. Which you repaid by robbing him. Zod. 'Twas the first base action of mv life. No more ! I love not to dwell on the past, The old man's gold — for that alone could have caused you to wed the girl—his gold-- Car. I was deceived. She bad rich jewels of her own, but no gold of his,became mine. The Jew's daughter proved too honest for her Christian husband. Zod, It needs little wit to guess the truth. 1 see you now a fallen and ruined man—deceived in a wife that you thought would enrich you, and rendered desperate by misfortune. Car. True, The last franc I possessed I lost not ao hour since at play. Zod, I never could set* any use ill dice, for my part, without it was to turn them into bullets. Follow me, and innke the first man you m^et share his purse with you. Come—a des- perate man must use desperate means; Car. (After a pause ) Why should 1 pause ? I have no fpar A small sum would enable me to return to the tables, and I might come off a large winner. Yes, it shall be so. Better be sent to the gallies as a felon, than die of poverty. Come, 1 am ready ! Zod. Bravely spoken I and thus we renew onv former friend- ship ! [ Kxe nt through, dour» I) 'd .8* The ircicAM of fate* tsW. (Vising, and looking wildly round her.} Stay—slay, . Ipave me not again ! Gone, and with him, too f he bears tre not. They fly together—what fearful scene are iliev about to eaaot"? And that bad mar, whom he denounced to me as a murderer, is his early associate and friend. [A vwi-e heard in the stre t] What sounds are those ? [She ap- proaches windoiv—n isp increases, with cries of Help—-help !'] Those feuful cri*>s—[Looks through window.] What terrible sji^ht do I gaze upon t two men attacking a third one ! He .*tag£«rs this way—they pursue him ! Graci< us powers—'ti.i Stephen and Zodiah ! The man they pursue seems old and feeble. Heaven renders him strength—he will escape them ! Ha! they point their pistols at him — [Pause—pistol heard without."] Horror ! they have slain him ! [She rushes up to the door, throws it open, and is about to exit—she starts back— David Stolberg staggers in. pale and wounded.J Vav. I have been set upon by villains—they have wounded trie. Keep them back—keep them back—they would kill ine f [Sinkson chair c.~\ Sar. (Recognizing him.) Oh, God—-it if my father \ [Chord. D*tv. Sarah ! Sar. (Approaching him timidly.) Father! Dav. Approach me not—approach me not! Unnatural viper ! who stung to the quick the heart that loved you best. Away,girl—away ! Sar. Oh, this is indeed terrible. Father j are pale— d\ing, peihaps. Oh, I cannot bear this torture. Father— d^ar father—in mercy's sake, let me assist you ! Dav. Begone ! your touch would hasten my death. Five years back you fled with a villain—a mocker—a despiser of our race. You heeded not my pangs-—you cared not what agony your flight brought upon me, No ! Through your falsehood I perish ! Sar. (.Franticly.) No, no! Father, you grow paler— wpaker. [Kneels to him.] Mercy— mercy ! Oh, withhold not vour forgiveness from me—forgive me—wretched, guilty, as I am—pity and forgive me! Dav. No. When y >u could fo rget you had a father, I could fo'get 1 had a child ! Away, unnatural parricide—a way ! With my dving breath I curse you ! [Falls back and expires. 5W», Hold—hold! Call 1 noli vour curse, father—he hears ms not—he's dead I [Falls insensible.] Archers, $c. enter through Door. Archer, This way—the pistol was fired somewhere here»the dream of FATK. s3 Ha ! a man killed—a woman, too, lying here ! [They ratse ker.J She breathes—this insensibility is but assumed. f»ee that pistol at her feet— [Picks up the pistol.]— she has com- mitted murder ! [They groupe. Sccne closes them in. ) SCENE II.-A Bo m in a Commerce du Vim, or Taventm Enter Noah and RebeccAj r. h. Noah. Shocking ! Reb Dreadful ' Noah. Horrible ! Reb. Murderous ! Who would have thought it ? Noah, I can scarcely believe it's real. Sarah—the young kind Sarah—the most beautiful Jewess io Frankfort, murder her own father—it's impossible ! Seb' It's very unnatural. Why she was the kindest mis- tress that ever breathed. Noah. I dare say her marriage with that Christian, Stephen Cadinham, changed her nature. Marriage does change wo- men's natures surprisingly Reb. No wonder, when they get such nrntes of husbands. Noah, But they don'i all get brutes of husbands, my love? Reb, No, 'twould be a pity they should all be as uufojtu- nate as I am. Noah. Unfortunate ! You have cause to bless your stars, Reb, Bless my stars—for what, ! wonder 1 Noah. For me. Heaven has sent you a great blessing, Mid vou Know not how to «»ppreeiate its value. Reb• A blessing ! Perhaps it is so—only I've mistaken the meaning of the Word all this time Noah. If I thought you meant what you say, I should suffer a relapse, and all my maladies would return. Reb. Haik—I hear footsteps. Noah. Then most likely somebody is coming. That being the case, we'll wait Reuben Clissold's arrival below. Reb I am dying with impatience to know what will be the fate of our young mistress, Soah. Puor girl, 1 cannot think she's guilty. I could a*» so:>n believe 1 had swallowed one of the towers of Notre Dame, or tfrank up all the waters of the Seine ! [Exeunt l. H Enter ZoiHAii and CaRoinh am, r. h. Zod. Come, cheer up, man—cheer up. 'Tis the fortune o, war Cur. And must she perish for my crime ?m the dream of pateo Zod, Why, no—not if you like to take her place. Come, be not downcast. 1 must leave you for a while. I will away and hear what news is stirring. Remain here, Cardiohftm—I shall rot be absent long [Exit l. h» Car. And she, Sarah, is accused of the deed I have done ' Curses on this foolish arm that was raised against the old ma'ji! I meant not to take his life—no, no ! Ha—who comes here ? Enter Reuben, l. h, Reuben Clissold ! Reu. 1 hen we have met again ! Just Heaven, I thank thee —thou hast heard my prayer. Car, Your manner is strange, sir ; you seem excited. I ivi- I leave yoo 'till you are calmer, [Is going L. H.] Stay, sir. You will not 3 [Draws a pistol.J Attempt to move or s'ir, and i fire ! Car. You use strong arguments, and I must needs submit, [ Without heeding him Reuben fastens the door, takes the heyt / ®%>ens the window, and throios it oatf.] Reu We are alone. None can interrupt us> in the struggle that must needs ensue, Car. Struggle ! JReUi Aye—of life and death Car. What mean you"? Reu. Take your choice of these pistols—[Offers them."\ Car. Fight with pistols in a smail room ! It would be mur- der. Meu, Stephen Cardinham—-five years ago, you stole from a happy home—from a father who loved her—from a lov®r who adored her—a young and beautiful girl—for what ? for mi- sery, for wretchedness, for want. Her bereaved father became frantic at the loss of his only, darling1, child, and on her lover the blow struck deep indeed. "For your crime she is con- demned to undergo an ignominious death. To-day will she perish upon the scaffold, and to this sad^and horrid fate you— you, villain, have brought her. I have sworn to avenge her fate, and 1 will keep my oath. Once more, I say, take your choice--[Offers pistols again.'] Caro I will not fight in so small a space with such deadly weapons. Reu Be it so. [Goes to L. wing and talees down two swords ] Choose-[Offers hvokJs—Cardinham reluctantly takes one ] Men. Now, ^i'lain, defend yourself--[They fight—after a few passes Cardinham is disarmed—he retreats baok a few Heps, draws a pistol and fires. ]THE DK.A.ii OF FATE. 9£ Car. Confusion i I have missel him ! Reu, Treacherous coward—perish! [Strikes him nnrh nit sword—Cardinham falls ivounded ] Sarah, I have avenged tnee^ [Solemn music heard without —Reuben approaches Cardinham, aud raises him ] Do you hear 'hose sounds? Even now th^y are lending your victim to th« scaffold. [He forces him to the window.] See, they come ' Tae weak unhappy girl w,n»m you betrayed is being led to the place of execution-—^he v ill parish for your crime 1 ~~ar. She will not die una :en»ed.Mercy—mere--, Heaven ! [Falls c. The door is opened from without, Zooi ah and Ntoah enters.] Noah. What noise was that I hoard ? Ha! a man here* and -vounded ? Reu Bv me. Behold the betray r • i Sarah, [He points to Caxnnhaiu and exits I., u ] Zod. Stephen Cardinham—and wounded to the death ! Vengeance ! 1 will denounce his murderer----[He is about to rush off*] Noah. (Snatcltb'Q up Cardiaham's two d.) No, vou clon^t ' Come, lift up thai scoundrel ! [Zodiah hesitates ] You re(V, .. ? Then you haven't n minute's life in you ! [Advances trnv at forgiveness in Heaven you withheld from me gl e-trih. Despair has cast it s i»on hand upon me, and its pon- derous weight s< ems to erusu me. Oh, I am cold —icy cold , but it will soon be over now, and 1 shall d«e uuregrcttcdt .nma-80 THE DREAM OF FATE. ?$eeted. There are none left f.o weep foy ine—none, none" Lead on-—I am prepared. [Sara!? is led up to the scaffold— upon beholding the Priest^ and the Executioner, she screams.^ Ha! the priest, the executioaer, and the gibbet ! My brain whirls—my eyes gro*> dizzv, and my sens js leave me ! Oh, heart-sickening sight! [The door of the H^use l. h. is thrown open, and Red BEN rushes out, pale, and in disorder—a pistol is in his hand.] Reu. S-irah, I have avenged thee ! [Zodiah rushes from house—at the same time Cardinham is brought out wounded and dying—he falls at the feet f Sarah dead. She turns, shuddering from the sight.J Sar. Stephen ! slain by Reuben. too ! Fate, thou hast done toy worst — no fresh horrors cwi exceed these. Lod. Seize vonder man—[Pointing to Reuben,J—he is a murderer ! [The Archers approach and seize Reuben—the Executioner approaches Sarah—the Priest kneds beside her~~> she falls, overcome3 on the block— Zodiah looks exultmgly on« Tableau. j[ Reu. Sarah, 1 have avenged thee ! [Sfcatie chsm* SCENE V.—ji Dark Street. Kight. The body of Stephen Cardinham, covered with a blach chthf is brought on the Stage on a hurdle. Men with torches Monks attending, fyc. ZoDlAH following* Zod. He is dead, but he will not fall unavenged—they wilt both die upon the same scaffold. Yet I cannot help pitying the poor girl's fate Cardinham's treachery has br- oght her to an early ignominious death. He first told her he had her father in his power, and urged her to fly with him. 'Twas her lather's gold he wanted. He cared but little for the tnaiueu. But he is dead, and I must see his last rites per- formed. [Solemn Chaunt, or Miserere, is sung by the Monks grouped around the body. At the end of the first part Ihey exeunt slowly with the body, sinking the Chorus, followed by Zodiah. When they are all off the Chorus is still heard, which becomes fainter and fainter, as the Scene changes. A Dark Mist seems to envelope the Stage, which suddenly clears, and discovers— SCENE VI.—Salo n in Stolberg's House, as in Act I. The arrangement of the Scene, fyc* is exactly the same as at the close of the First Act. Lights full up.the dream of fate. Sav ah is discovered lying upon the couch in her first dress. seems restless and uneasy, Many footsteps heard withmts and cries of u Sarah ! Sarah !" She murmurs iu her sleep, " Mercy J Mercy !*' and becomes more uneasy, Presently, the noise increasing, she awakes, starts from the couch, looks wildly round her as if just recovering from a terrible dream« Sar. Mercy—mercyI slew him not ! Ha ! the priest—the executioner, and the gibbet! Oh, horrid—horrid sight, f Gradually recovering,] Where am I ? "What place is this? [Jjooking found her,'] In my father's house at Frankfort ? This dress, too—can it be real} Has this been but a fearfu' dream ? Yes, yes—it must be so. [Laughs hysterically.] Ha; Sia, ha—this was but a frightful dream, after ail,. Ha, ha, ha! This was, then, but a dream. [Kneels.] Kind heaven I thaik thee for the terrible warning thou hast given me—I will not fail to profit by it. Enter David, Reuben, and Rebecca, 2 e. l. h. Dav. Sarah, 1 have forced Reuben once again to see yo\^ ere he quits Frankfort for ever. Sar. No, no, no ! Reuben—dear Reuben, you will not leave us if Zintreatyou to remain. Jleu, Sarah Dav. Joy, joy I The girl has recovered her senses, Reubes^ this will be your wedding day, after all. Enter Noah, i e. l. h, Noah. Such news I Omnes. News ! Noah, Why, somebody took tny twelve grains Oi opium last nigh.t* Reb, Took vour opium—is that, all? ft oak. Yea, and so I couldn't sleep, and early this morning I walked into the Zeil, aud there I saw an Englishman beiog taken to the guard house. Sar. An Englishman ! Noah. He has been cheating all the bankers on the Rhine— ye9, out of their rhino—and this morning he was discovered here, and secured. Sar• His name- Noah. Stephen Cardinham, Sar. Stephen Cardinham! [Aside.] Just Heaven, I thank tbee for my prophetic dream. Stephen*—Stephen, henceforth 1 must not think of thee—or 3think of thee only as one dead. **Thou art unworthy aa honest maiden's love, but a tear shed te<&-$ THE DBEA M OF I ATE. thy memory may not be deemed a crime, [7o.Reuben»3 iiey- uen, forgi\e my harsh words to you last night. Father," I have communed with myself in solitude and night, and wi.l not disappoint your hopes, Reuben,, you shall not leave Frank- f«jrt—or, if you dot I will accompany yon-—for who will have so great a right to be near you, as—your urije ? Ren. Dear—dear Sarah—-you have made me blest indeed ! Dan, I am overcome with joy . See, our friends are here to congratulate the bride and bridegroom N ah. Huzza ! huzza * I feel quite well again ' Lon