Act 1 — SCENE in the Street. Mr. H. walking, BELVIL meeting him.

Belvil. My old Jamaica school-fellow, that I have not seen for so many years? it must—it can be no other than Jack (going up to him). My dear Ho——

Mr. H. (Stopping his mouth). Ho——! the devil. Hush.

Belvil. Why, sure it is——

Mr. H. It is, it is your old friend Jack, that shall be nameless.

Belvil. My dear Ho——

Mr. H. (Stopping him). Don't name it.

Belvil. Name what?

Mr. H. My curst unfortunate name. I have reasons to conceal it for a time.

Belvil. I understand you—Creditors, Jack?

Mr. H. No, I assure you.

Belvil. Snapp'd up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at your heels?

Mr. H. I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.

Belvil. You ha'n't taken a purse?

Mr. H. To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjecture, you must know, 'tis nothing but the sound of my name.

Belvil Ridiculous! 'tis true yours is none of the most romantic; but what can that signify in a man?

Mr. H. You must understand that I am in some credit with the ladies.

Belvil. With the ladies!

Mr. H. And truly I think not without some pretensions. My fortune—

Belvil. Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance.

Mr. H. My figure—

Belvil. Airy, gay, and imposing.

Mr. H. My parts—

Belvil. Bright.

Mr. H. My conversation—

Belvil. Equally remote from flippancy and taciturnity.

Mr. H. But then my name—damn my name!

Belvil. Childish!

Mr. H. Not so. Oh, Belvil, you are blessed with one which sighing virgins may repeat without a blush, and for it change the paternal. But what virgin of any delicacy (and I require some in a wife) would endure to be called Mrs.——?

Belvil. Ha, ha, ha! most absurd. Did not Clementina Falconbridge, the romantic Clementina Falconbridge, fancy Tommy Potts? and Rosabella Sweetlips sacrifice her mellifluous appellative to Jack Deady? Matilda her cousin married a Gubbins, and her sister Amelia a Clutterbuck.

Mr. H. Potts is tolerable, Deady is sufferable, Gubbins is bearable, and Clutterbuck is endurable, but Ho——

Belvil. Hush, Jack, don't betray yourself. But you are really ashamed of the family-name?

Mr. H. Ay, and of my father that begot me, and my father's father, and all their forefathers that have borne it since the Conquest.

Belvil. But how do you know the women are so squeamish?

Mr. H. I have tried them. I tell you there is neither maiden of sixteen nor widow of sixty but would turn up their noses at it. I have been refused by nineteen virgins, twenty-nine relicts, and two old maids.

Belvil. That was hard indeed, Jack.

Mr. H. Parsons have stuck at publishing the banns, because they averred it was a heathenish name; parents have lingered their consent, because they suspected it was a fictitious name; and rivals have declined my challenges, because they pretended it was an ungentlemanly name.

Belvil. Ha, ha, ha! but what course do you mean to pursue?

Mr. H. To engage the affections of some generous girl, who will be content to take me as Mr. H.

Belvil. Mr. H.?

Mr. H. Yes, that is the name I go by here; you know one likes to be as near the truth as possible.

Belvil. Certainly. But what then? to get her to consent—

Mr. H. To accompany me to the altar without a name—in short, to suspend her curiosity (that is all) till the moment the priest shall pronounce the irrevocable charm, which makes two names one.

Belvil. And that name—and then she must be pleased, ha, Jack?

Mr. H. Exactly such a girl it has been my fortune to meet with; hark'e (whispers)—(musing). Yet, hang it! 'tis cruel to betray her confidence.

Belvil. But the family-name, Jack?

Mr. H. As you say, the family-name must be perpetuated.

Belvil. Though it be but a homely one.

Mr. H. True; but come, I will show you the house where dwells this credulous melting fair.

Belvil. Ha, ha! my old friend dwindled down to one letter.

[Exeunt.

SCENE.—An Apartment in MELESINDA'S House. MELESINDA sola, as if musing.

Melesinda. H, H, H. Sure it must be something precious by its being concealed. It can't be Homer, that is a Heathen's name; nor Horatio, that is no surname: what if it be Hamlet? the Lord Hamlet—pretty, and I his poor distracted Ophelia! No,'tis none of these; 'tis Harcourt or Hargrave, or some such sounding name, or Howard, high-born Howard, that would do; maybe it is Harley, methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him! and from his own lips I will once forever be resolved.

Enter Mr. H.

Mr. H. My dear Melesinda.

Melesinda. My dear H. that is all you give me power to swear allegiance to,—to be enamored of inarticulate sounds, and call with sighs upon an empty letter. But I will know.

Mr. H. My dear Melesinda, press me no more for the disclosure of that, which in the face of day so soon must be revealed. Call it whim, humor, caprice, in me. Suppose, I have sworn an oath, never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.

Melesinda. Oh! H, H, H. I cherish here a fire of restless curiosity which consumes me. 'Tis appetite, passion, call it whim, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn, I must and will know it this very night.

Mr. H. Ungenerous Melesinda! I implore you to give me this one proof of your confidence. The holy vow once past, your H. shall not have a secret to withhold.

Melesinda. My H. has overcome: his Melesinda shall pine away and die, before she dare express a saucy inclination; but what shall I call you till we are married?

Mr. H. Call me? call me anything, call me Love, Love! ay Love: Love will do very well.

Melesinda. How many syllables is it, Love?

Mr. H. How many? ud, that is coming to the question with a vengeance! One, two, three, four,—what does it signify how many syllables?

Melesinda. How many syllables, Love?

Mr. H. My Melesinda's mind, I had hoped, was superior to this childish curiosity.

Melesinda. How many letters are there in it?

[Exit MR. H. followed by MELESINDA repeating the question.

SCENE.—A Room in the Inn. Two Waiters disputing.

1st Waiter. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it.

2d Waiter. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you.

1st Waiter. The Hammonds of Huntingdonshire.

2d Waiter. The Hardcastles of Hertfordshire.

1st Waiter. The Hammonds.

2d Waiter. Don't tell me: does not Hardcastle begin, with an H?

1st Waiter. So does Hammond for that matter.

2d Waiter. Faith, so it does if you go to spell it, I did not think of that. I begin to be of your opinion: he is certainly a Hammond.

1st Waiter. Here comes Susan Chambermaid: maybe she can tell.

Enter SUSAN.

Both. Well, Susan, have you heard anything who the strange gentleman is?

Susan. Haven't you heard? it's all come out! Mrs. Guesswell, the parson's widow, has been here about it. I overheard her talking in confidence to Mrs. Setter and Mrs. Pointer, and she says they were holding a sort of a cummitty about it.

Both. What? What?

Susan. There can't be a doubt of it, she says, what from his figger and the appearance he cuts, and his sumpshous way of living, and above all from the remarkable circumstance that his surname should begin with an H., that he must be—

Both. Well, well—

Susan. Neither more nor less than the Prince.

Both. Prince!

Susan. The Prince of Hessey-Cassel in disguise.

Both. Very likely, very likely.

Susan. Oh, there can't be a doubt on it. Mrs. Guesswell says she knows it.

1st Waiter. Now if we could be sure that the Prince of Hessy what-do-you-call-him was in England on his travels.

2d Waiter. Get a newspaper. Look in the newspapers.

Susan. Fiddle of the newspapers; who else can it be?

Both. That is very true (gravely).

Enter LANDLORD.

Landlord. Here, Susan, James, Philip, where are you all? The London coach is come in, and there is Mr. Fillaside, the fat passenger, has been bawling for somebody to help him off with his boots.

[The Chambermaid and Waiters slip out.

(Solus.) The house is turned upside down since the strange gentleman came into it. Nothing but guessing and speculating, and speculating and guessing; waiters and chambermaids getting into corners and speculating; hostlers and stable-boys speculating in the yard; I believe the very horses in the stable are speculating too, for there they stand in a musing posture, nothing for them to eat, and not seeming to care whether they have anything or no; and after all what does it signify? I hate such curious—odso, I must take this box up into his bedroom—he charged me to see to it myself;—I hate such inquisitive—I wonder what is in it—it feels heavy; (reads) "Leases, title-deeds, wills." Here now a man might satisfy his curiosity at once. Deeds must have names to them, so must leases and wills. But I wouldn't—no I wouldn't—it is a pretty box too—prettily dovetailed—I admire the fashion of it much. But I'd cut my fingers off, before I'd do such a dirty—what have I to do—curse the keys, how they rattle!—rattle in one's pockets—the keys and the half-pence (takes out a bunch and plays with them). I wonder if any of these would fit; one might just try them, but I wouldn't lift up the lid if they did. Oh no, what should I be the richer for knowing? (All this time he tries the keys one by one.) What's his name to me? a thousand names begin with an H. I hate people that are always prying, poking and prying into things,—thrusting their finger into one place—a mighty little hole this—and their keys into another. Oh Lord! little rusty fits it! but what is that to me? I wouldn't go to—no, no—but it is odd little rusty should just happen—(While he is turning up the lid of the box, Mr. H. enters behind him unperceived.)

Mr. H. What are you about, you dog?

Landlord. Oh Lord, Sir I pardon; no thief, as I hope to be saved. Little Pry was always honest.

Mr. H. What else could move you to open that box?

Landlord. Sir, don't kill me, and I will confess the whole truth. This box happened to be lying—that is, I happened to be carrying this box, and I happened to have my keys out, and so—little rusty happened to fit—

Mr. H. So little rusty happened to fit!—and would not a rope fit that rogue's neck? I see the papers have not been moved: all is safe, but it was as well to frighten him a little (aside). Come, Landlord, as I think you honest, and suspect you only intended to gratify a little foolish curiosity—

Landlord. That was all, Sir, upon my veracity.

Mr. H. For this time I will pass it over. Your name is Pry, I think?

Landlord. Yes, Sir, Jeremiah Pry, at your service.

Mr. H. An apt name: you have a prying temper—I mean some little curiosity—a sort of inquisitiveness about you.

Landlord. A natural thirst after knowledge you may call it, Sir. When a boy, I was never easy but when I was thrusting up the lids of some of my schoolfellows' boxes,—not to steal anything, upon my honor, Sir,—only to see what was in them; have had pens stuck in my eyes for peeping through keyholes after knowledge; could never see a cold pie with the legs dangling out at top, but my fingers were for lifting up the crust,—just to try if it were pigeon or partridge,—for no other reason in the world. Surely I think my passion for nuts was owing to the pleasure of cracking the shell to get at something concealed, more than to any delight I took in eating the kernel. In short, Sir, this appetite has grown with my growth.

Mr. H. You will certainly be hanged some day for peeping into some bureau or other just to see what is in it.

Landlord. That is my fear, Sir. The thumps and kicks I have had for peering into parcels, and turning of letters inside out,—just for curiosity. The blankets I have been made to dance in for searching parish registers for old ladies' ages,—just for curiosity! Once I was dragged through a horsepond, only for peeping into a closet that had glass-doors to it, while my Lady Bluegarters was undressing,—just for curiosity!

Mr. H. A very harmless piece of curiosity, truly; and now, Mr. Pry, first have the goodness to leave that box with me, and then do me the favor to carry your curiosity so far, as to inquire if my servants are within.

Landlord. I shall, Sir. Here, David, Jonathan,—I think I hear them coming,—shall make bold to leave you, Sir.

[Exit.

Mr. H. Another tolerable specimen of the comforts of going anonymous!

Enter Two Footmen.

1st Footman. You speak first.

2d Footman. You had better speak.

1st Footman. You promised to begin.

Mr. H. They have something to say to me. The rascals want their wages raised, I suppose; there is always a favor to be asked when they come smiling. Well, poor rogues, service is but a hard bargain at the best. I think I must not be close with them. Well, David—well, Jonathan.

1st Footman. We have served your honor faithfully—

2d Footman. Hope your honor won't take offence—

Mr. H. The old story, I suppose—wages?

1st Footman. That's not it, your honor.

2d Footman. You speak.

1st Footman. But if your honor would just be pleased to—

2d Footman. Only be pleased to—

Mr. H. Be quick with what you have to say, for I am in haste.

1st Footman. Just to—

2d Footman. Let us know who it is—

1st Footman. Who it is we have the honor to serve.

Mr. H. Why me, me, me; you serve me.

2d Footman. Yes, Sir; but we do not know who you are.

Mr. H. Childish curiosity! do not you serve a rich master, a gay master, an indulgent master?

1st Footman. Ah, Sir! the figure you make is to us, your poor servants, the principal mortification.

2d Footman. When we get over a pot at the publichouse, or in a gentleman's kitchen, or elsewhere, as poor servants must have their pleasures—when the question goes round, who is your master? and who do you serve? and one says, I serve Lord So-and-so, and another, I am Squire Such-a-one's footman—

1st Footman. We have nothing to say for it, but that we serve Mr. H.

2d Footman. Or Squire H.

Mr. H. Really you are a couple of pretty modest, reasonable personages! but I hope you will take it as no offence, gentlemen, if, upon a dispassionate review of all that you have said, I think fit not to tell you any more of my name, than I have chosen for especial purposes to communicate to the rest of the world.

1st Footman. Why, then, Sir, you may suit yourself.

2d Footman. We tell you plainly, we cannot stay.

1st Footman. We don't choose to serve Mr. H.

2d Footman. Nor any Mr. or Squire in the alphabet—

1st Footman. That lives in Chris-cross Row.

Mr. H. Go, for a couple of ungrateful, inquisitive, senseless rascals! Go; hang, starve, or drown!—Rogues, to speak thus irreverently of the alphabet—I shall live to see you glad to serve old Q—to curl the wig of great S—adjust the dot of little i—stand behind the chair of X, Y, Z—wear the livery of Etcætera—and ride behind the sulky of And-by-itself-and!

[Exit in a rage.