the room-for the wretched man was raving to himself-talking idly in mad unconnected sentences, that yet seemed at times to have a reference to past facts. One while he told us his dream. "He had lost his way on a great heath, to which there seemed no end; it was cold, cold, cold, and dark, very dark. An old woman in leading-strings, blind, was groping about for a guide;" and then he frightened me,-for he seemed disposed to be jocular, and sang a song about "an old woman clothed in grey," and said "he did not believe in a devil."

Presently he bid us "not tell Allan Clare." Allan was hanging over him a that very moment, sobbing. I could not resist the impulse, but cried out, "This is Allan Clare: Allan Clare is come to see you, my dear sir." Th wretched man did not hear me, I believe, for he turned his head away, and began talking of charnel-houses and dead men, and “whether they knew anything that passed in their coffins."

Matravis died that night.

PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON.

If we have sinned in paring down a name,
All civil, well-bred authors do the same.
Survey the columns of our daily writers,
You'll find that some initials are great fighters.
How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,
When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.
With two stout seconds, just of their own
gizzard,

Cross Captain X. and rough old General
Izzard!

Letter to letter spreads the dire alarms,
Till half the alphabet is up in arms.
Nor with less lustre have initials shone,
To grace the gentler annals of crim. con.
Where the dispensers of the public lash
Soft penance give; a letter and a dash-
Where vice reduced in size shrinks to a failing,
And loses half her grossness by curtailing.
Faux pas are told in such a modest way,-
"The affair of Colonel B with Mrs.

A

You must forgive them, for what is there, say,

Which such a pliant vowel must not grant
To such a very pressing consonant?
Or who poetic justice dares dispute,
When, mildly melting at a lover's suit,
The wife's a liquid, her good man a mute!
Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,
The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,
Initials I am told have taken place

Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashioned race;
And Cabbage, asked by brother Snip to tea,
Replies "I'll come-but it don't rest with me-
I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."
O should this mincing fashion ever spread
From names of living heroes to the dead,
How would Ambition sigh and hang the head,
As each loved syllable should melt away-
Her Alexander turned into Great A-
A single C. her Cæsar to express-
Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S-
And nicked and docked to these new modes
of speech,

Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H—.

1 Performed for one night only at Drury Lane. December 10, 1806.

ACT I.

SCENE.-A Public Room in an Inn. Landlord, Waiters, Gentlemen, &c. Enter MR. H.

Mr. H. Landlord, has the man brought home my boots?

Landlord. Yes, sir.

Mr. H. You have paid him?

Landlord. There is the receipt, sir, only not quite filled up, no name, only blank-"Blank, Dr. to Zekiel Spanish for one pair of best hessians." Now, sir, he wishes to know what name he shall put in, who he shall say "Dr." Mr. H. Why, Mr. H. to be sure.

Landlord. So I told him, sir; but Zekiel has some qualms about it. He says he thinks that Mr. H. only would not stand good in law.

Mr. H. Rot his impertinence! Bid him put in Nebuchadnezzar, and not trouble me with his scruples.

Landlord. I shall, sir.

Enter a Waiter.

[Exil. Waiter. Sir, Squire Level's man is below with a hare and a brace of pheasants for Mr. H.

Mr. H. Give the man half-a-crown, and bid him return my best respects to his master. Presents, it seems, will find me out, with any name or no name.

Enter 2nd Waiter.

2nd Waiter. Sir, the man that makes up the Directory is at the door. Mr. H. Give him a shilling; that is what these fellows come for.

2nd Waiter. He has sent up to know by what name your honour will please to be inserted.

Mr. II. Zounds, fellow, I give him a shilling for leaving out my name, not for putting it in. This is one of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous. [Exit 2nd Waiter.

Enter 3rd Waiter.

3rd Waiter. Two letters for Mr. H. Mr. H.

[Exit.

From ladies (opens them). This from Melesinda, to remind me of the morning call I promised; the pretty creature positively languishes to be made Mrs. H. I believe I must indulge her (affectedly). This from her cousin, to bespeak me to some party, I suppose (opening it).-O, "this evening ""Tea and cards "—(surveying himself with complacency). Dear H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a favourite among the ladies: I wish it may not be owing to the concealment of thy unfortunate -pshaw !

Enter 4th Waiter.

4th Waiter. Sir, one Mr. Printagain is inquiring for you.

Mr. H. O, I remember, the poet he is publishing by subscription. Give him a guinea, and tell him he may put me down. 4th Waiter. What name shall I tell him, sir?

Mr. H. Zounds, he is a poet; let him fancy a name.

Enter 5th Waiter.

[Exit 4th Waiter.

5th Waiter. Sir, Bartlemy the lame beggar, that you sent a private donation to last Monday, has by some accident discovered his benefactor, and is at the door waiting to return thanks.

Mr. H. O poor fellow! who could put it into his head?_ Now I shall

be teased by all his tribe, when once this is known. Well, tell him I am glad I could be of any service to him, and send him away.

5th Waiter. I would have done so, sir; but the object of his call now, he says, is only to know who he is obliged to.

Mr. H. Why, me.

5th Waiter.

Yes, sir.

Mr. H. Me, me, me: who else, to be sure?

5th Waiter. Yes, sir; but he is anxious to know the name of his benefactor. Mr. H. Here is a pampered rogue of a beggar, that cannot be obliged to a gentleman in the way of his profession, but he must know the name, birth, parentage, and education of his benefactor! I warrant you next he will require a certificate of one's good behaviour, and a magistrate's licence in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and so to give an alms. Anything more?

5th Waiter. Yes, sir; here has been Mr. Patriot, with the country petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes so much money, has sent to remind you of your promise to bail him.

Mr. H. Neither of which I can do, while I have no name.

Here is more

of the plaguy comforts of going anonymous, that one can neither serve one's friend nor one's country. D- it, a man had better be without a nose than without a name. I will not live long in this mutilated, dismembered state; I will to Melesinda this instant, and try to forget these vexations. Melesinda! there is music in the name; but then (hang it !) there is none in mine to answer to it. [Exit. (While MR. H. has been speaking, two Gentlemen have been observing him curiously.)

1st Gent. Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?

2nd Gent. None that has yet transpired. No more! why that single letter has been enough to inflame the imaginations of all the ladies in Bath. He has been here but a fortnight, and is already received into all the first families.

1st Gent. Wonderful! yet nobody knows who he is or where he comes from!

2nd Gent. He is vastly rich, gives away money as if he had infinity; dresses well, as you see; and for address, the mothers are all dying for fear the daughters should get him; and for the daughters, he may command them as absolutely as- Melesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry him.

1st Gent. And is it possible that a mere anonymous

2nd Gent. Poh! that is the charm. Who is he? and what is he? and what is his name? The man with the great nose on his face never excited more of the gaping passion of wonderment in the dames of Strasburg than this newcomer, with the single letter to his name, has lighted up among the wives and maids of Bath: his simply having lodgings here draws more visitors to the house than an election. Ĉome with me to the Parade, and I will show you more of him.

SCENE in the Street. MR H. walking, BELVIL meeting him.

Belvil. My old Jamaica schoolfellow, 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. Mr. H. time.

Name what?

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

Belvil. I understand you. Creditors, Jack?

Mr. H. No, I assure you.

Belvil. Snapped up a ward, peradventure, and the whole Chancery at your heels?

Mr. H.
Belvil.

I don't use to travel with such cumbersome luggage.
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 fortuneBelvil. Sufficiently splendid, if I may judge from your appearance.

Mr. H.

My figure

Belvil. Airy, gay, and imposing.

7

Mr. H.

My parts

Belvil.

Bright.

Mr. H. Not so. O Belvil, you are blest 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! 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 bans, 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; harkee (whispers)—(musing). Yet, hang it ! 'tis cruel to betray her confidence. But the family name, Jack?

Belvil.

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; may be it is Harley; methinks my H. resembles Harley, the feeling Harley. But I hear him! and from his own lips I will once for ever 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 enamoured 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, humour, caprice, in me. Suppose I have sworn an oath never, till the ceremony of our marriage is over, to disclose my true name.

Melesinda. O 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 II. 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.

Two Waiters disputing.

1st Waiter. Sir Harbottle Hammond, you may depend upon it. 2nd Waiter. Sir Harry Hardcastle, I tell you.