Few enough guests put up at my house nowadays. If this goes on I might as well take down my sign. Dear me, those were other times when there was scarce a piece performed but had a tavern and a host in it. I well remember in how many hundreds of pieces the foundations for the finest plots were laid in this very room. Now it was a prince in disguise, who spent his money here; now it was a prime minister, or a wealthy count at the very least, who lay in ambush here for some conspiracy. Yes, even in things that were translated from the English, I always earned an honest penny. Some drawbacks to be sure there were, when I was required to be a disguised member of a band of sharpers, and then be smartly rated by the moral characters; but there was always healthy activity in it. But now!--Now when a wealthy stranger returns from a journey, he goes to stay with his relatives by way of doing something novel and original, and does not drop his disguise until the fifth act; others appear only upon the street, as if there were no respectable house for them to stay at. All this keeps the audience in a marvellous state of curiosity, but it takes the bread out of our mouth. (_Enter Anne._) ANNE. You seem to be in low spirits, father. INNKEEPER. Yes, child, I’m out of sorts about my calling. ANNE. Would you like to be something finer? INNKEEPER. No, not exactly; but it vexes me more than I can tell you that there is no more demand for my calling. ANNE. Surely in time all that will change for the better. INNKEEPER. No, dear daughter. The times do not tend that way. Oh, why was I not a Hofrath! You may look at any play-bill this day, it always says at the bottom: “The scene is at the house of the Hofrath.” If things go on like this I’ll study for a gaoler, for prisons, you know, still occur in patriotic and mediæval pieces. But my son must see to it that he gets to be a Hofrath. ANNE. Be comforted, dear father, and do not yield to your melancholy. INNKEEPER. I’ve half a mind to turn poet myself, and invent a new art of poetry which shall supersede the Hofrath pieces, and in which the scene shall invariably play in a tavern. ANNE. Do so, dear father, and I will attend to the love-scenes. INNKEEPER. Hist! There is a diligence pulling up at the door. Indeed it seems to be an express. Kind heavens, where can the unsophisticated person come from who would put up at this house? (_Enter a Stranger._) STRANGER. Good morrow, mine host. INNKEEPER. Your servant, your servant, noble lord. Who in the world are you to travel _incognito_, and put up at my house? Surely you are of the old school, eh? A man of the good old times! Perhaps translated from the English! STRANGER. I am neither a noble lord nor do I travel _incognito_. Can I lodge here this day and night? INNKEEPER. My whole house is at your disposal. But really, is there no family in the vicinity you wish to make happy? Or do you wish to marry suddenly, or find a sister? STRANGER.