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.
I would

Let it flow

Have it a healthful current.
Wer.
Until 't is 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 approaches
Josephine.

The storm of the night Perhaps affects me; I am a thing of feelings, And have of late been sickly, as, alas! Thou know'st by sufferings more than mine, my love!

In watching me. Jos.

To see thee well is much

To see thee happy

Wer.

Where hast thou seen such ? Let me be wretched with the rest!

But think

Jos. 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 now shelter'd from them all?

Wer. Yes. And from these alone.

Jos.

And that is something.

Wer. True-to a peasant. Jos.

Should the nobly born

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.

Well?

Jos.
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 splendor 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!
Jos.
We are not baffled.
Wer. Are we not penniless?
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 them,
And forfeited them by my father's wrath,
In my o'er-fervent youth; but for the abuse
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death
Left the path open, yet not without snares.
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon
The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me,
Become the master of my rights, and lord
Of that which lifts him up to princes in
Dominion and domain.
Jos.

Who knows? our son

May have return'd back to his grandsire, and
Even now uphold thy rights for thee?
Wer.
"T is hopeless.
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.

Wer. We should have done, but for this fatal 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.
Wer. Save what we seem! save what we are-
sick beggars,

Even to our very hopes.-Ha! ha!
Jos.

That bitter laugh!

Alas!

Wer. 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?

You

Jos. 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 't was
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 fathers,
Thou mightst 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 mightst have been, to me thou

art

This rashness, or this weakness of my temper,
Ne'er raised a thought to injure thee or thine.
Thou didst not mar my fortunes: my own nature
In youth was such as to unmake an empire,
Had such been my inheritance; but now,
Chasten'd, subdued, outworn, 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
My passions were all living serpents, and
Twined like the Gorgon's round me.

Jos.

Wer.

[A loud knocking is heard. Hark! A knocking! Jos. Who can it be at this lone hour? We have Few visitors. Wer.

And poverty hath none,

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

[Werner puts his hand into his bosom, as if to search for some weapon. Jos. Oh! do not look so. I Will to the door. It cannot be of import In this lone spot of wintry desolation :The very desert saves man from mankind. [She goes to the door.

Here in the prince's palace-(to be sure,
His highness had resign'd it to the ghosts
And rats these twelve years-but 't is still a 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 name,
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 humor 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; And so let's have some wine, and drink unto Our better acquaintance: relatives should be Friends.

Wer. You appear to have drunk enough already;
And if you had not, I've no wine to offer,
Else it were yours: but this you know, or should
know:

You see I am poor, and sick, and will not see
That I would be alone; but to your business!
What brings you here?

Iden.

Why, what should bring me here? Wer. I know not, though I think that I could guess

That which will send you hence.
Jos. (aside).
Patience, dear Werner!
Iden. You don't know what has happen'd, then?
Jos.
How should we?
Iden. The river has o'erflowed.
Jos.
Alas! we have known
That to our sorrow for these five days; since
It keeps us here.
Iden.
But what you don't know is,
That a great personage, who fain would cross
Against the stream and three postilions' wishes,
Is drown'd below the ford, with five post-horses,
A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet.
Jos. Poor creatures! are you sure?
Iden.
Yes, of the monkey,
And the valet, and the cattle; but as yet
We know not if his excellency's dead
Or no; your noblemen are hard to drown,
As it is fit that men in office should be;
But what is certain is, that he has swallow'd
Enough of the Oder to have burst two peasants;
And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller,
Who, at their proper peril, snatch'd him from
The whirling river, have sent on to crave
A lodging, or a grave, according as

It may turn out with the live or dead body.

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 apartment,

As fits a noble guest :-'t is damp, no doubt,
Not having been inhabited these twelve years;
But then he comes from a much damper place,
So scarcely will catch cold in 't, if he be
Still liable to cold-and if not, why
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?

Intendant, My Josephine, [Aside to his wife. [Exit Josephine.

Retire: I'll sift this fool.
Iden.
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 craveIden. 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? Gad. 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 chamberKeep up the stove-I will myself to the cellarAnd 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

Gab. Perhaps.

Iden. Now, how much do you reckon on? Gab. I have not yet put up myself to sale: In the mean time, 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: however,
Wine he shall have; if that unlock him not,
I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity.

[Exit Idenstein. Gab. (to Werner). This master of the ceremonies is The intendant of the palace, I presume: "T is a fine building, but decay'd.

Wer.
The apartment
Design'd for him you rescued will be found
In fitter order for a sickly guest.

Gab. I wonder then you occupied it not,
For you seem delicate in health.
Wer. (quickly).
Gab.

Sir!

Pray

Excuse me have I said aught to offend you?
Wer. Nothing but we are strangers to each

Wer.
Gab. Then, as we never met before, and never,

The Imperial?

In what service?

The Austrian.

An air, and port, and eye, which would have better
Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days
(Though in a garb adapted to its present
Abandonment), return'd my salutation-
Is not the same your spouse?
Iden.
I would she were!
But you 're mistaken :-that 's the stranger's wife.
Gab. And by her aspect she might be a prince's:
Though time hath touch'd her too, she still retains
Much beauty, and more majesty.

Iden.

And that

And I-nothing. Gab. That's harder still. soldier. Wer. I was. Gab. You look one still. All soldiers are Or should be comrades, even though enemies. Our swords when drawn must cross, our engines aim (While levell'd) at each other's hearts; but when A truce, a peace, or what you will, remits The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep

The spark which lights the matchlock, we are breth

But how came he here? Iden. In a most miserable old caleche, About a month since, and immediately Fell sick, almost to death. He should have died. Gab. Tender and true!—but why? Iden.

Why, what is life Without a living? He has not a stiver. Gab. In that case, I much wonder that a person Of your apparent prudence should admit Guests so forlorn into this noble mansion.

Iden. That's true; but pity, as you know, does make

One's heart commit these follies; and besides,
They had some valuables left at that time,
Which paid their way up to the present hour;
And so I thought they might as well be lodged
Here as at the small tavern, and I gave them
The run of some of the oldest palace rooms.
They served to air them, at the least as long
As they could pay for firewood.
Gab.
Iden.
Exceeding poor.

Gab.

If I mistake not.

Poor souls!

Ay,

And yet unused to poverty, Whither were they going?

Iden. Oh! Heaven knows where, unless to heaven

His barony or county to repel