WERNER and JOSEPHINE, his wife. Jos. My love, be calmer! Wer.

I am calm.

To me

Jos. Yes, but not to thyself; thy pace is hurried, And no one walks a chamber like to ours With steps like thine when his heart is at rest. Were it a garden, I should deem thee happy, And stepping with the bee from flower to flower: But here!

Wer. 'Tis chill; the tapestry lets through The wind to which it waves: my blood is frozen. Jos. Ah, no!

Wer. [smiling]. Why! wouldst thou have it so? Jos.

Have it a healthful current.

I would

Until 'tis spilt or check'd-how soon, I care not.
Jos. And am I nothing in thy heart?
Wer.

All-all.

Jos. Then canst thou wish for that which must break mine?

Wer. [approaching her slowly]. But for thee I had been-no matter what,

But much of good and evil; what I am

Thou knowest; what I might or should have been,
Thou knowest not: but still I love thee, nor
Shall aught divide us.

[WERNER walks on abruptly, and then ap-
proaches JOSEPHINE.

The storm of the night

Perhaps affects me; I'm a thing of feelings,

And have of late been sickly, as, alas!

Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my

love!

How many in this hour of tempest shiver
Beneath the biting wind and heavy rain,
Whose every drop bows them down nearer earth,
Which hath no chamber for them save beneath
Her surface.

Wer. And that's not the worst: who cares For chambers ? rest is all. The wretches whom Thou namest-ay, the wind howls round them,

and

The dull and dropping rain saps in their bones
The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,
A hunter, and a traveller, and am

A beggar, and should know the thing thou talk'st of.

Jos. And art thou not no w shelter'd from them

Be thankless for that refuge which their habits
Of early delicacy render more
Needful than to the peasant, when the ebb
Of fortune leaves them on the shoals of life?
Wer. It is not that, thou know'st it is not: we
Have borne all this, I'll not say patiently,
Except in thee-but we have borne it.

Jos.

Well? Wer. Something beyond our outward sufferings (though

These were enough to gnaw into our souls)
Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now.
When, but for this untoward sickness, which
Seized me upon this desolate frontier, and
Hath wasted, not alone my strength, but means,
And leaves us-no! this is beyond me!-but
For this I had been happy-thou been happy-
The splendour of my rank sustain'd-my name-
My father's name-been still upheld; and, more
Than those-

Jos. [abruptly]. My son-our son-our Ulric, Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms, And all a mother's hunger satisfied.

Twelve years! he was but eight then :-beautiful He was, and beautiful he must be now,

My Ulric! my adored! Wer.

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. Jos. Lonely! my dear husband? Wer. Or worse-involving all I love, in this Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, And all been over in a nameless grave.

Jos. And I had not outlived thee; but pray take

Comfort! We have struggled long; and they who strive

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.
Wer. We were in sight of him, of everything
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow-
And to be baffled thus!
We are not baffled.
Wer. Are we not penniless?
Jos.

Jos.

We ne'er were wealthy. Wer. But I was born to wealth and rank and power;

Enjoy'd them, loved them, and, alas! abused

Wer. Since his strange disappearance from my father's, Entailing, as it were, my sins upon

Himself, no tidings have reveal'd his course.

I parted with him to his grandsire, on

The promise that his anger would stop short
Of the third generation; but Heaven seems
To claim her stern prerogative, and visit
Upon my boy his father's faults and follies.

Jos. I must hope better still,-at least we have yet

Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim.

That bitter laugh!

Wer.

Alas!

Who would read in this form The high soul of the son of a long line? Who, in this garb, the heir of princely lands? 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? Jos. 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.

Wer. 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.

Jos. 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.
Wer. And what is that in thine eyes?
Jos.

Has done in our behalf,-nothing!
Wer.

All which it

How,-nothing?

Jos. Or worse; for it has been a canker in
Thy heart from the beginning: but for this,
We had not felt our poverty but as
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully;
But for these phantoms of thy feudal father,
Thou might'st have earn'd thy bread as thousands
earn it;

Or, if that seem too humble, tried by commerce,
Or other civic means, to amend thy fortunes.
Wer. [ironically]. And been an Hanseatic
burgher? Excellent!

Jos. Whate'er thou might'st have been, to me thou art

What no state high or low can ever change,
My heart's first choice;-which chose thee, knowing

neither

Thy birth, thy hopes, thy pride; nought, save thy

sorrows: .

While they last, let me comfort or divide them: When they end, let mine end with them, or thee!

Wer. My better angel! Such I have ever found thee;

This rashness, or this weakness of my temper,

sickness,

More fatal than a mortal malady,

Because it takes not life, but life's sole solace :
Even now I feel my spirit girt about

By the snares of this avaricious fiend :-
How do I know he hath not track'd us here?

Jos. He does not know thy person; and his spies,

Who so long watch'd thee, have been left at Hamburgh.

Our unexpected journey, and this change
Of name, leaves all discovery far behind:
None hold us here for aught save what we seem.

Thou didst not mar my fortunes: my own nature
In youth was such as to unmake an empire,
Had 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 fathers' 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

Save those who come to make it poorer still. Well, I am prepared.

That to our sorrow for these five days; since
It keeps us here.
Iden.

But what you don't know is,

Jos. Oh! do not look so. Will to the door. It cannot be of import In this lone spot of wintry desolation:The very desert saves man from mankind.

I

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, snatched 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.
Jos. And where will you receive him? here, I hope,

If we can be of service-say the word.

Iden. Here? no; but in the prince's own apart

ment,

Here in the prince's palace-(to be sure, His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts And rats these twelve years

palace)

I say you have been our lodger, and as yet
We do not know your name.

Wer.
My name is Werner.
Iden. A goodly name, a very worthy namie,
As e'er was gilt upon a trader's board;

I have a cousin in the lazaretto
Of Hamburgh, who has got a wife who bore
The same. He is an officer of trust,
Surgeon's assistant (hoping to be surgeon),
And has done miracles i' the way of business.
Perhaps you are related to my relative?
Wer. To yours?

Jos. Oh, yes; we are, but distantly. [Aside to WERNER]. Cannot you humour the dull gossip till We learn his purpose?

Iden.

Well, I'm glad of that; I thought so all along, such natural yearnings Play'd round my heart :-blood is not water,

cousin ;

He'll be worse lodged to-morrow: ne'ertheless,
I have order'd fire and all appliances
To be got ready for the worst—that is,
In case he should survive.
Jos.

Poor gentleman,

I hope he will, with all my heart. Wer.

Have you not learn'd his name?

Retire: I'll sift this fool.
Iden.

Intendant, My Josephine, [Aside to his wife. Exit JOSEPHINE. His name? oh Lord! Who knows if he hath now a name or no? 'Tis time enough to ask it when he's able To give an answer; or, if not, to put His heir's upon his epitaph. Methought Just now you chid me for demanding names? Wer. True, true, I did so: you say well and wisely.

Enter GABOR.

Gab. If I intrude, I crave-
Iden.

Oh, no intrusion!
This is the palace; this a stranger like
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home:
But where's his excellency? and how fares he?

Gab. Wetly and wearily, but out of peril: He paused to change his garments in a cottage (Where I doff'd mine for these, and came on hither),

And has almost recover'd from his drenching.
He will be here anon.

Iden.
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 ?

Gab.

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.

Iden.

But are you sure

His excellency--But his name: what is it?
Gab. I do not know.
Iden.

And yet you saved his life.
Gab. I help'd my friend to do so.
Iden.

Well, that's strange, To save a man's life whom you do not know. Gab. Not so; for there are some I know so well, I scarce should give myself the trouble. Iden.

Good friend, and who may you be?

Pray,

Gab. Hungarian.

By my family,

Iden.

Which is called ?

It matters little.

Gab.

Iden. How many? Gab.

Sufficient.

I did not count them. We came up by mere accident, and just In time to drag him through his carriage-window. Iden. Well, what would I give to save a great man!

No doubt you'll have a swingeing sum as recompense.

Gab. Perhaps. Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on? Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale: In the meantime, my best reward would be A glass of your Hockheimer, a green glass Wreath'd 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. Iden. [aside]. I don't much like this fellow-close and dry

He seems,-two things which suit me not; how

ever,

Wine he shall have; if that unlock him not, I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity. [Exit IDENSTEIN.

Wer. [quickly, and then interrupting himself]. I commanded-no-I mean

I served; but it is many years ago,

When first Bohemia raised her banner 'gainst
The Austrian.

Gab.

Well, that's over now and peace Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts adrift To live as they best may: and, to say truth, Some take the shortest.