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Josephine. Ah, no!

Thou knowst by sufferings more than mine, my love!

In watching me.

Josephine. To see thee well is muchTo see thee happy

W'erner.

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

Josephine. But think

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.

Werner. 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

Werner (smiling). Why! wouldst thou The creeping marrow. I have been a soldier,

have it so?

Josephine. I would

Have it a healthful current.

Werner. Let it flow

Until 'tis spilt or check'd-how soon, I

care not.

Josephine. And am I nothing in thy heart? Werner. All-all.

Josephine. Then canst thou wish for

that which must break mine? Werner (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'm a thing of feelings, And have of late been sickly, as, alas!

A hunter, and a traveller, and am
A beggar, and should know the thing thou

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Hath stung me oft, and, more than ever, now, | May have return'd back to his grandsire, and When, but for this untoward sickness, which | Even now uphold thy rights for thee? Seized me upon this delate frontier, and Werner. 'Tis hopeless.

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Josephine (abruptly). My son—our sonour 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!

Werner. 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.

Josephine. Lonely! my dear husband? Werner. Or worse-involving all I love, in this

Far worse than solitude. Alone, I had died, And all been over in a nameless grave.

Josephine. 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.

Werner. We were in sight of him, of every thing

Which could bring compensation for past

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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.
Josephine. I must hope better still,―at
least we have yet

Baffled the long pursuit of Stralenheim. Werner. 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?
Josephine. 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.

Werner. Save what we seem! save what we are sick beggars, Even to our very hopes.-Ha! ha! Josephine. Alas! That bitter laugh!

W'erner. 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?

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 'twas 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. All which it Has done in our behalf, -nothing.

W'erner. How,-nothing?

Josephine. Or worse; for it has been a

canker in

Thy heart from the beginning: but for this,

We had not felt our poverty, or as
Millions of myriads feel it, cheerfully;
But for these phantoms of thy feudal fathers,
Thon 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. Werner (ironically). And been an Hanseatic burgher? Excellent!

Josephine. Whate'er thou mightst 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!

Werner. My better angel! such 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, 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 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.
[A knocking is heard.

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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?
Werner. To yours?

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

Idenst. 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.

Werner. You appear to have drank enough
already,

And if you had not, I've no wine to offer,
Else it were yours; but this you know, or
should know:

Josephine. Hark!
Werner. A knocking!
Josephine. Who can it be at this lone What brings you here?
hour? we have

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

Few visitors.

Werner. 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.
Josephine. Oh! do not look so. Î
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.
Enter IDENSTEIN.

Idenst. A fair good evening to my fairer
hostess

And worthy-what's your name, my friend?
Werner. Are you

Not afraid to demand it?

Idenst. Why, what should bring me here?
Werner. I know not, though I think

that I could guess

That which will send you hence.

Josephine (aside). Patience, dear Werner! Idenst. You don't know what has happened, then?

Josephine. How should we?

Idenst. The river has o'erflow'd.
Josephine. Alas! we have known
That to our sorrow, for these five days; since
It keeps us here.

Idenst. But what you don't know is,
That a great personage, who fain would cross
Against the stream, and three postillions'
wishes,

Is drown'd below the ford, with five posthorses.

A monkey, and a mastiff, and a valet

Josephine. Poor creatures! are you sure? Idenst. 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; Left it some dozen years ago. And then And now a Saxon and Hungarian traveller, | His Excellency will sup, doubtless? 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. Josephine. And where will you receive him? here, I hope,

Keep up the stove- I will myself to the
cellar --

AndMadame 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

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Gabor. If I intrude, I crave—
Idenst. Oh, no intrusion!
This is the palace; this a stranger like
Yourself; I pray you make yourself at home:
But where's hisExcellency, and how fares he?
Gabor. 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.

Idenst. What ho, there! bustle!
Without there, Herman, Weilburg, Peter,
Conrad!

[Gives directions to different ser

vants who enter.

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

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.

Idenst. But are you sure

His Excellency—but his name, what is it?
Gabor. I do not know.

Idenst. And yet you saved his life.
Gabor. I help'd my friend to do so.
Idenst. Well, that's strange,

To save a man's life whom you do not know.
Gabor. Not so; for there are some 1
know so well

I scarce should give myself the trouble.
Idenst. Pray,

Good friend, and who may you be?
Gabor. By my family,

Hungarian.

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Idenst. (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. [Exit Idenstein. Gabor (to Werner). This master of the ceremonies is

The intendant of the palace, I presume? 'Tis a fine building, but decay'd.

Werner. The apartment

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

Gabor. I wonder then you occupied it not, For you seem delicate in health. Werner (quickly). Sir! Gabor. Pray

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

Gabor. And that's the reason I would have us less so :

I thought our bustling host without had said

You were a chance- and passing-guest, the| counterpart

Of me and my companions.

Werner. Very true.

Gabor. Then, as we never met before,
and never,

It may be, may again encounter, why,
I thought to cheer up this old dungeon here
(At least to me) by asking you to share
The fare of my companions and myself.
Werner. Pray, pardon me; my health—
Gabor. Even as you please.

I have been a soldier, and perhaps am blunt
In bearing.

Werner. I have also served, and can Requite a soldier's greeting.

Gabor. In what service? The Imperial?

Werner (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.

Gabor. Well, that's over now, and peace Has turn'd some thousand gallant hearts

adrift

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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 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.

Werner. Who

Told you I was a beggar?
Gabor. You yourself,

In saying you were a soldier during peacetime.

Werner (looking at him with suspicion). You know me not?

Gabor. I know no man, not even Myself: how should I then know one I ne'er Beheld till half an hour since?

Werner. Sir, I thank you.

Your offer's noble were it to a friend,
And not unkind as to an unknown stranger,
Though scarcely prudent; but no less l
thank you.

I am a beggar in all save his trade,
And when I beg of any one it shall be
Of him who was the first to offer what
Few can obtain by asking. Pardon me.
[Exit Werner.

Gabor (solus). 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 cupbearer.

Enter IDENSTEIN.

Idenst. 'Tis here! the supernaculum! twenty years

Of age, if 'tis a day.

Gabor. Which epoch makes Young women and old wine, and 'tis 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

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