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 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. 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!

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. [noble ;
Jos. Your father did not think so, though 't was
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;

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,

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?
How should we?

Jos.

Iden. The river has o'erflow'd.
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,

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.

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,

His excellency

But are you sure

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,

By my family,

Gab.

It matters little.

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 mean time, my best reward would be
A glass of your Hockcheimera 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: 'Tis a fine building, but decay'd.

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

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.

They lay their hands on.

All Silesia and

Lusatia's woods are tenanted by bands
Of the late troops, who levy on the country
Their maintenance: the Chatelains must keep
Their castle walls beyond them 't is but doubtful
Travel for your rich count or full-blown baron.
My comfort is that, wander where I may,
I've little left to lose now.

Wer.

You say you were a

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 brethren.
You are poor and sickly I am not rich, but

healthy;

Werner! I have heard the name: But it may be a feign'd one.

Iden.

Like enough!
But hark! a noise of wheels and voices, and
A blaze of torches from without. As sure
As destiny, his excellency 's come.

I must be at my post: will you not join me,
To help him from his carriage, and present
Your humble duty at the door?

Gab.
I dragg'd him
From out that carriage when he would have given
His barony or county to repel

The rushing river from his gurgling throat.

He has valets now enough: they stood aloof then,
Shaking their dripping ears upon the shore,

All roaring "Help!" but offering none; and as
For duty (as you call it)—I did mine then,
Now do yours. Hence, and bow and cringe him here!
Iden. I cringe-but I shall lose the opportunity-
Plague take it! he 'll be here, and I not there!
[Exit IDENSTEIN hastily.