_Scene, a Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at Weimar_—PUDDINGFIELD
_and_ BEEFINGTON _discovered sitting at a small deal table, and
playing at All-fours—Young_ POTTINGEN, _at another table in the
corner of the room, with a pipe in his mouth, and a Saxon mug of a
singular shape beside him, which he repeatedly applies to his
lips, turning back his head, and casting his eyes towards the
firmament—at the last trial he holds the mug for some moments in a
directly inverted position; then replaces it on the table with an
air of dejection, and gradually sinks into a profound slumber—the
pipe falls from his hand, and is broken._
BEEF. I beg.
PUDD. [_Deals three cards to_ BEEFINGTON.] Are you satisfied?
BEEF. Enough; what have you?
PUDD. High, low, and the game.
BEEF. D——n! ’Tis my deal. [_Deals; turns up a knave._] One for his
heels!
[_Triumphantly._
PUDD. Is king highest?
BEEF. No. [_Sternly_] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.
PUDD. Are knaves so prosperous?
BEEF. Aye, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their
hands. Your kings are but _noddies_[276] to them.
PUDD. Ha! ha! ha! Still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which
procured thee thine exile from England.
BEEF. England! my native land! when shall I revisit thee?
[_During this time_ PUDDINGFIELD _deals, and begins to arrange his
hand._
BEEF. [_Continues._] Phoo, hang All-fours; what are they to a mind ill
at ease? Can they cure the heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can
they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, my Puddingfield! thy
limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction with the
elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—
[_Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young_
POTTINGEN, _awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a
grave demeanour towards_ BEEFINGTON _and_ PUDDINGFIELD. _The
former begins to recover._
Y. POT. What is the matter, comrades,[277] you seem agitated. Have you
lost or won?
BEEF. Lost! I have lost my country.
Y. POT. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.
BEEF. O, England!
Y. POT. O, Matilda!
BEEF. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of
revenge, and of restoration to my country.
Y. POT. Oppressed by the tyranny of an Abbot, persecuted by the
jealousy of a Count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in
a loathsome captivity; her lover is fled no one knows whither, and I,
her brother, am torn from my parental roof, and from my studies in
chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I
know not how. Comrades, your counsel. My search fruitless—my money
gone—my baggage stolen! what am I to do? In yonder Abbey—in these
dark, dank vaults, there, my friends, there lies Rogero—there
Matilda’s heart.