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-

WERNER (approaching her slowly).

But for thee I had been-no matter what,

Than those

JOSEPHINE (abruptly). My son our son-our ric, Been clasp'd again in these long-empty arms.

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.

WERNER.

We were in sight of him, of every thing
Which could bring compensation for past sorrow-
And to be baffled thus!

JOSEPHINE.

We are not baffled.

WERNER.

Are we not pennyless?

JOSEPHINE.

We ne'er were wealthy.

WERNER.

But I was born to wealth, and rank, and power;
Enjoy'd them, loved them. and, alas! abused them,
And forfeited them by my lather's wrath,
In my o'er-fervent youth; but for the abuse
Long sufferings have atoned. My father's death
Left the path open, yet not without snares.
This cold and creeping kinsman, who so long
Kept his eye on me, as the snake upon

The fluttering bird, hath ere this time outstept me,
Become the master of my rights, and lord

Of that which lifts him up to princes in
Dominion and domain.

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

JOSEPHINE.

You

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

WERNER.

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

JOSEPHINE.

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

WERNER.

And what is that in thine eyes?

JOSEPHINE.

Has done in our behalf,-nothing.

WERNER.

JOSEPHINE.

All which it

How,-nothing?

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 might'st have earn'd thy bread as thousands carni
Or, if that seem too humbie, tried by commerce,
Or other civic means, to mend thy fortunes.
WERNER (ironically).
And been an Hanseatic burgher? Excellent!

JOSEPHINE.

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 thec, 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!

WERNER.

My better argel! such as I have ever found thee; 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 father's house,
The last sole scion of a thousand sires
(For I was then the last), it hurt me less
Than to behold my boy and my boy's mother
Excluded in their innocence from what
My faults deserved exclusion; although then
My passions were all living serpents, and
Twined like the gorgon's round me.

JOSEPHINE.

WERNER.

JOSEPHINE.

Hark!

Who can it be at this lone hour? we have

Few visiters.

WERNER.

And poverty hath none,

WERNER.

Save those who come to make it poorer still.

Well, I am prepared.

IDENSTEIN.

Why, what should bring me here?

WERNER.

search for some weapon.

That which will send you hence.

JOSEPHINE (aside).

Patience, dear Werner!

IDENSTEIN.

You don't know what has happen'd, then?

JOSEPHINE.

How should we?

IDENSTEIN.

The river has o'erflow'd.

JOSEPHINE.

Alas! we have known

Shall I say more? You have been a guest this month
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.

WERNER.

My name is Werner

IDENSTEIN.

A goolly 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,

IDENSTEIN.

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.

JOSEPHINE.

Poor creatures! are you sure?

IDENSTEIN.

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 bod

What ho, there! bustle! Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter, Conrad! [Gives directions to different servants who enter.

A nobleman sleeps here to-night-see that
All is in order in the damask chamber-

Keep up
the stove-I will myself to the cellar-
And Madame Idenstein (my consort, stranger)
Shall furnish forth the bed-apparel; for,

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

His excellency will sup, doubtless?

GABOR.

Faith!

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

It matters little.

IDENSTEIN (aside).

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

How many?

GABOR.

IDENSTEIN.

GAPOR.

I did not count them.

We came up by mere accident, and just

Sufficient.

In time to drag him through his carriage window.

IDENSTEIN.

Well, what would I give to save a great man!
No doubt you'll have a swinging sum as recompense.

Perhaps.

GABOR.

IDENSTEIN.

Now, how much do you reckon on?

GABOR.

I have not yet put up myself to sale:

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

your head.
IDENSTEIN (aside).

I don't much like this fellow-close and dry

He seems, two things which suit me not; however, Wine he shall have; if that unlocks him not,

I shall not sleep to-night for curiosity.

Design'd for him you rescued, will be found

In fitter order for a sickly guest.

WERNER.

GABOR.

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, remi's
The steel into its scabbard, and lets sleep
The spark which lights the matchlock, we are brethren.
You are poor and sickly-I am not rich, but healthy,
I want for nothing which I cannot want;
You seem devoid of this-wilt share it ?

[GABOR pulls out his purse.
Who

WERNER.

A goodly fellow, by his looks, though worn,
As most good fellows are, by pain or pleasure,
Which tear life out of us before our time:

I scarce know which most quickly; but he seems
To have seen better days, as who has not
Who has seen yesterday?-But here approaches
Our sage intendant, with the wine; however,
For the cup's sake, I'll bear the cup-bearer.
Enter IDENSTEIN.

'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years
Of age, if 't is a day.

GABOR.

Which epoch makes

Young women and old wine, and 't is great pity
Of two such excellent things, increase of years,
Which still improves the one, should spoil the other.
Fill full-Here's to our hostess-your fair wife.
[Takes the glass.

IDENSTEIN.

Fair!-Well, I trust your taste in wine is equal To that you show for beauty; but I pledge you Nevertheless.

GABOR.

Is not the lovely woman

I met in the adjacent hall, who, with

An air, and port, and eye, which would have better Beseem'd this palace in its brightest days