_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 heart-ache? Can they sooth banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can all-fours do this? Oh! 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?[209]--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 paternal 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---- SCENE II. _Enter_ WAITER. _Waiter._ Sir, here is a person who desires to speak with you. _Beef._ [_goes to the door, and returns with a letter, which he opens--on perusing it his countenance becomes illuminated, and expands prodigiously_.] Hah, my friend, what joy! [_Turning to_ PUDDINGFIELD. _Pudd._ What? tell me--let your Puddingfield partake it. _Beef._ See here-- [_Produces a printed paper._ _Pudd._ What? [_With impatience._ _Beef._ [_in a significant tone_.] A newspaper! _Pudd._ Hah, what sayst thou! A newspaper! _Beef._ Yes, Puddingfield, and see here [_shows it partially_], from England. _Pudd._ [_with extreme earnestness._] Its name! _Beef._ The "Daily Advertiser"-- _Pudd._ Oh, ecstasy! _Beef._ [_with a dignified severity._] Puddingfield, calm yourself--repress those transports--remember that you are a man. _Pudd._ [_after a pause with suppressed emotion._] Well, I will be--I am calm--yet tell me, Beefington, does it contain any news? _Beef._ Glorious news, my dear Puddingfield--the Barons are victorious--King John has been defeated--Magna Charta, that venerable, immemorial inheritance of Britons, was signed last Friday was three weeks, the third of July Old Style. _Pudd._ I can scarce believe my ears--but let me satisfy my eyes--show me the paragraph.