MR. H——.
A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.
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.
[Exit.
Enter a Waiter.
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 2d Waiter.
2d 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.
2d Waiter. He has sent up to know by what name your Honor will please to be inserted.
Mr. H. 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 2d Waiter.
Enter 3d Waiter.
3d Waiter. Two letters for Mr. H.
[Exit.
Mr. H. 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),—Oh, "this evening"—"Tea and cards"—(surveying himself with complacency). Dear H., thou art certainly a pretty fellow. I wonder what makes thee such a favorite 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. Oh, 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.
[Exit 4th Waiter.
Enter 5th 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. Oh, 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 behavior, and a magistrate's license 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 county 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. Damn 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?
2d Gent. Who? Why, 'tis Mr. H.
1st Gent. Has he no more name?
2d 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 know who he is, or where he comes from!
2d 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—
2d Gent. Phoo! 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 new-comer, 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. Come with me to the Parade, and I will show you more of him.
[Exeunt.
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.
ACT II.
SCENE.—A handsome Apartment well lighted, Tea, Cards, &c.—A large party of Ladies and Gentlemen; among them MELESINDA.
1st Lady. I wonder when the charming man will be here.
2d Lady. He is a delightful creature. Such a polish—
3d Lady. Such an air in all that he does or says—
4th Lady. Yet gifted with a strong understanding—
5th Lady. But has your ladyship the remotest idea of what his true name is?
1st Lady. They say, his very servants do not know it. His French valet, that has lived with him these two years—
2d Lady. There, Madam, I must beg leave to set you right; my coachman—
1st Lady. I have it from the very best authority; my footma—-
2d Lady. Then, Madam, you have set your servants on—
1st Lady. No, Madam, I would scorn any such little mean ways of coming at a secret. For my part, I don't think any secret of that consequence.
2d Lady. That's just like me; I make a rule of troubling my head with nobody's business but my own.
Melesinda. But then, she takes care to make everybody's business her own, and so to justify herself that way— (Aside.)
1st Lady. My dear Melesinda, you look thoughtful.
Melesinda. Nothing.
2d Lady. Give it a name.
Melesinda. Perhaps it is nameless.
1st Lady. As the object—Come, never blush, nor deny it, child. Bless me, what great ugly thing is that, that dangles at your bosom?
Melesinda. This? It is a cross: how do you like it?
2d Lady. A cross! Well, to me it looks for all the world like a great staring H.
(Here a general laugh.)
Melesinda. Malicious creatures! Believe me it is a cross, and nothing but a cross.
1st Lady. A cross, I believe, you would willingly hang at.
Melesinda. Intolerable spite!
(MR. H. is announced.)
Enter MR. H.
1st Lady. O, Mr. H., we are so glad—
2d Lady. We have been so dull—
3rd Lady. So perfectly lifeless—You owe it to us to be more than commonly entertaining.
Mr. H. Ladies, this is so obliging—
4th Lady. O, Mr. H., those ranunculas you said were dying, pretty things, they have got up—
5th Lady. I have worked that sprig you commended—I want you to come—
Mr. H. Ladies—
6th Lady. I have sent for that piece of music from London.
Mr. H. The Mozart (seeing MELESINDA)—Melesinda!
Several Ladies at once. Nay, positively, Melesinda, you shan't engross him all to yourself.
[While the ladies are pressing about MR. H., the gentlemen show signs of displeasure.
1st Gent. We shan't be able to edge in a word, now this coxcomb is come.
2d Gent. Damn him, I will affront him.
1st Gent. Sir, with your leave, I have a word to say to one of these ladies.
2d Gent. If we could be heard—
[The Ladies pay no attention but to MR. H.
Mr. H. You see, gentlemen, how the matter stands. (Hums an air.) I am not my own master: positively I exist and breathe but to be agreeable to these—Did you speak?
1st Gent. And affects absence of mind—Puppy!
Mr. H. Who spoke of absence of mind; did you, Madam? How do you do, Lady Wearwell—how do? I did not see your ladyship before—what was I about to say—O—absence of mind. I am the most unhappy dog in that way, sometimes spurt out the strangest things—the most mal-à-propos—without meaning to give the least offence, upon my honor—sheer absence of mind—things I would have given the world not to have said.
1st Gent. Do you hear the coxcomb?
1st Lady. Great wits, they say—
2d Lady. Your fine geniuses are most given—
3d Lady. Men of bright parts are commonly too vivacious—
Mr. H. But you shall hear. I was to dine the other day at a great Nabob's that must be nameless, who, between ourselves, is strongly suspected of—being very rich, that's all. John, my valet, who knows my foible, cautioned me, while he was dressing me, as he usually does where he thinks there's a danger of my committing a lapsus, to take care in my conversation how I made any allusion direct or indirect to presents—you understand me? I set out double charged with my fellow's consideration and my own; and, to do myself justice, behaved with tolerable circumspection for the first half-hour or so,—till at last a gentleman in company, who was indulging a free vein of raillery at the expense of the ladies, stumbled upon that expression of the poet, which calls them "fair defects."
1st Lady. It is Pope, I believe, who says it.
Mr. H. No, Madam; Milton. Where was I? Oh, "fair defects." This gave occasion to a critic in company, to deliver his opinion on the phrase—that led to an enumeration of all the various words which might have been used instead of "defect," as want, absence, poverty, deficiency, lack. This moment I, who had not been attending to the progress of the argument (as the denouement will show) starting suddenly up out of one of my reveries, by some unfortunate connection of ideas, which the last fatal word had excited, the devil put it into my head to turn round to the Nabob, who was sitting next me, and in a very marked manner (as it seemed to the company) to put the question to him, Pray, sir, what may be the exact value of a lack of rupees? You may guess the confusion which followed.
1st Lady. What a distressing circumstance!
2d Lady. To a delicate mind——
3d Lady. How embarrassing——
4th Lady. I declare, I quite pity you.
1st Gent. Puppy!
Mr. H. A Baronet at the table, seeing my dilemma, jogged my elbow; and a good-natured Duchess, who does everything with a grace peculiar to herself, trod on my toes at that instant: this brought me to myself, and—covered with blushes, and pitied by all the ladies—I withdrew.
1st Lady. How charmingly he tells a story.
2nd Lady. But how distressing!
Mr.H. Lord Squandercounsel, who is my particular friend, was pleased to rally me in his inimitable way upon it next day. I shall never forget a sensible thing he said on the occasion—speaking of absence of mind, my foible—says he, my dear Hogs—
Several Ladies. Hogs—what—ha—
Mr.H. My dear Hogsflesh—my name—(here a universal scream)—O my cursed unfortunate tongue! H. I mean—where was I?
1st Lady. Filthy—abominable!
2nd Lady. Unutterable!
3rd Lady. Hogs—foh!
4th Lady. Disgusting!
5th Lady. Vile!
6th Lady. Shocking!
1st Lady. Odious!
2nd Lady. Hogs—pah!
3rd Lady. A smelling-bottle—look to Miss Melesinda. Poor thing! it is no wonder. You had better keep off from her, Mr. Hogsflesh, and not be pressing about her in her circumstances.
1st Gent. Good time of day to you, Mr.Hogsflesh.
2nd Gent. The compliments of the season to you, Mr. Hogsflesh.
Mr.H. This is too much—flesh and blood cannot endure it.
1st Gent. What flesh?—hog's-flesh?
2nd Gent. How he sets up his bristles!
Mr. H. Bristles!
1st Gent. He looks as fierce as a hog in armor.
Mr. H. A hog!—Madam!—(here he severally accosts the Ladies, who by turns repel him.)
1st Lady. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; but don't want a partner.
2d Lady. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe I shall remain single.
3d Lady. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but have no thoughts of altering my condition.
4th Lady. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but you must not look for anything further.
5th Lady. No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy; but have no thoughts of changing my name.
6th Lady. Must tell you, Sir, that if, by your insinuations, you think to prevail with me, you have got the wrong sow by the ear. Does he think any lady would go to pig with him?
Old Lady. Must beg you to be less particular in your addresses to me. Does he take me for a Jew, to long after forbidden meats?
Mr. H. I shall go mad!—to be refused by old Mother Damnable—she that's so old, nobody knows whether she was ever manned or no, but passes for a maid by courtesy; her juvenile exploits being beyond the farthest stretch of tradition!—Old Mother Damnable!
[Exeunt all, either pitying or seeming to avoid him.
SCENE.—The Street.
BELVIL and another Gentleman.
Belvil. Poor Jack, I am really sorry for him. The account which you give me of his mortifying change of reception at the assembly, would be highly diverting if it gave me less pain to hear it. With all his amusing absurdities, and amongst them not the least, a predominant desire to be thought well of by the fair sex, he has an abundant share of good-nature, and is a man of honor. Notwithstanding all that has happened, Melesinda may do worse than take him yet. But did the women resent it so deeply as you say?
Gent. O intolerably—they fled him as fearfully when 'twas once blown, as a man would be avoided, who was suddenly discovered to have marks of the plague, and as fast; when before they had been ready to devour the foolishest thing he could say.
Belvil Ha! ha! so frail is the tenure by which these women's favorites commonly hold their envied preëminence. Well, I must go find him out and comfort him. I suppose, I shall find him at the inn.
Gent. Either there or at Melesinda's—Adieu!
[Exeunt.
SCENE.—Mr. H——'s Apartment.
Mr. H. (solus.) Was ever anything so mortifying? to be refused by old Mother Damnable!—with such parts and address,—and the little squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound.—Oh my cursed name! that it was something I could be revenged on! if it were alive, that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or spit it out—for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me.
My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or an Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.—Mynheer Van Hogsflesh,—or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,—or Sir Phelim O'Hogsflesh,—but downright blunt———. If it had been any other name in the world, I could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull, Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard, Daw, Finch, Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black, Gray, White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month, as March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, as Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover; or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a personal name, as Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom, Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot, Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had been something, but Ho—-. (Walks about in great agitation—recovering his calmness a little, sits down.)
Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the finger-circling ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, the wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell the ambiguous blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring drum.—No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at me from under the lids of professional gravity. I dreamed of caudle.—(Sings in a melancholy tone.) Lullaby, Lullaby,—hush-a-by-baby—how like its papa it is!—(Makes motions as if he was nursing.) And then, when grown up, "Is this your son, Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of me, a sad young dog,—just what his father was at his age,—I have four more at home." Oh! oh! oh!
Enter LANDLORD.
Mr. H. Landlord, I must pack up tonight; you will see all my things got ready.
Landlord. Hope your Honor does not intend to quit the Blue Boar,—sorry anything has happened.
Mr. H. He has heard it all.
Landlord. Your Honor has had some mortification to be sure, as a man may say; you have brought your pigs to a fine market.
Mr. H. Pigs!
Landlord. What then? take old Pry's advice, and never mind it. Don't scorch your crackling for 'em, Sir.
Mr. H. Scorch my crackling! a queer phrase; but I suppose he don't mean to affront me.
Landlord. What is done can't be undone; you can't make a silken purse out of a sow's ear.
Mr. H. As you say, Landlord, thinking of a thing does but augment it.
Landlord. Does but hogment it, indeed, Sir.
Mr. H. Hogment it! damn it, I said augment it.
Landlord. Lord, Sir, 'tis not everybody has such gift of fine phrases as your Honor, that can lard his discourse—
Mr. H. Lard!
Landlord. Suppose they do smoke you—
Mr. H. Smoke me!
Landlord. One of my phrases; never mind my words, Sir, my meaning is good. We all mean the same thing, only you express yourself one way, and I another, that's all. The meaning's the same; it is all pork.
Mr. H. That's another of your phrases, I presume.
[Bell rings, and the Landlord called for.
Landlord. Anon, anon.
Mr. H. Oh, I wish I were anonymous.
[Exeunt several ways.
SCENE.—Melesinda's Apartment.
MELESINDA and Maid.
Maid. Lord, Madam! before I'd take on as you do about a foolish—what signifies a name? Hogs—Hogs—what is it—is just as good as any other, for what I see.
Melesinda. Ignorant creature! yet she is perhaps blest in the absence of those ideas, which, while they add a zest to the few pleasures which fall to the lot of superior natures to enjoy, doubly edge the——
Maid. Superior natures! a fig! If he's hog by name, he's not hog by nature, that don't follow—his name don't make him anything, does it? He don't grunt the more for it, nor squeak, that ever I hear; he likes his victuals out of a plate, as other Christians do; you never see him go to the trough——-
Melesinda. Unfeeling wretch! yet possibly her intentions——
Maid. For instance, Madam, my name is Finch—Betty Finch. I don't whistle the more for that, nor long after canary-seed while I can get good wholesome mutton—no, nor you can't catch me by throwing salt on my tail. If you come to that, hadn't I a young man used to come after me, they said courted me—his name was Lion, Francis Lion, a tailor; but though he was fond enough of me, for all that he never offered to eat me.
Melesinda. How fortunate that the discovery has been made before it was too late! Had I listened to his deceits, and, as the perfidious man had almost persuaded me, precipitated myself into an inextricable engagement before——-
Maid. No great harm if you had. You'd only have bought a pig in a poke—and what then? Oh, here he comes creeping——-
Enter MR. H. abject.
Go to her, Mr. Hogs—Hogs—Hogsbristles, what's your name? Don't be afraid, man—don't give it up—she's not crying—only summat has made her eyes red—she has got a sty in her eye, I believe—— (going.)
Melesinda. You are not going, Betty?
Maid. O, Madam, never mind me—I shall be back in the twinkling of a pig's whisker, as they say.
[Exit.
Mr. H. Melesinda, you behold before you a wretch who would have betrayed your confidence—but it was love that prompted him; who would have trick'd you, by an unworthy concealment, into a participation of that disgrace which a superficial world has agreed to attach to a name—but with it you would have shared a fortune not contemptible, and a heart—but 'tis over now. That name he is content to bear alone—to go where the persecuted syllables shall be no more heard, or excite no meaning—some spot where his native tongue has never penetrated, nor any of his countrymen have landed, to plant their unfeeling satire, their brutal wit, and national ill manners—where no Englishmen—(Here MELESINDA, who has been pouting during this speech, fetches a deep sigh.) Some yet undiscovered Otaheite, where witless, unapprehensive savages shall innocently pronounce the ill-fated sounds, and think them not inharmonious.
Melesinda. Oh!
Mr. H. Who knows but among the female natives might be found——
Melesinda. Sir! (raising her head.)
Mr. H. One who would be more kind than—some Oberea—Queen Oberea.
Melesinda. Oh!
Mr. H. Or what if I were to seek for proofs of reciprocal esteem among unprejudiced African maids, in Monomotopa?
Enter Servant.
Servant. Mr. Belvil.
[Exit.
Enter BELVIL.
Mr. H. Monomotopa (musing.)
Belvil. Heyday, Jack! what means this mortified face? nothing has happened, I hope, between this lady and you? I beg pardon, Madam, but understanding my friend was with you, I took the liberty of seeking him here. Some little difference possibly which a third person can adjust—not a word. Will you, Madam, as this gentleman's friend, suffer me to be the arbitrator—strange—hark'ee, Jack, nothing has come out, has there? you understand me. Oh, I guess how it is—somebody has got at your secret; you haven't blabbed it yourself, have you? ha! ha! ha! I could find in my heart—Jack, what would you give me if I should relieve you?
Mr. H. No power of man can relieve me (sighs); but it must lie at the root, gnawing at the root—here it will lie.
Belvil. No power of man? not a common man, I grant you: for instance, a subject—it's out of the power of any subject.
Mr. H. Gnawing at the root—there it will lie.
Belvil. Such a thing has been known as a name to be changed; but not by a subject—(shows a Gazette).
Mr. H. Gnawing at the root—(suddenly snatches the paper out of BELVIL'S hand)—ha! pish! nonsense! give it me—what! (reads) promotions, bankrupts—a great many bankrupts this week—there it will lie. (Lays it down, takes it up again, and reads.) "The King has been graciously pleased"—gnawing at the root—"graciously pleased to grant unto John Hogsflesh,"—the devil—"Hogsflesh, Esq., of Sty Hall, in the county of Hants, his royal license and authority"—O Lord! O Lord!—"that he and his issue"—me and my issue—"may take and use the surname and arms of Bacon"—Bacon, the surname and arms of Bacon—"in pursuance of an injunction contained in the last will and testament of Nicholas Bacon, Esq., his late uncle, as well as out of grateful respect to his memory:"—grateful respect! poor old soul——-here's more—"and that such arms may be first duly exemplified "—they shall, I will take care of that—"according to the laws of arms, and recorded in the Herald's Office."
Belvil. Come, Madam, give me leave to put my own interpretation upon your silence, and to plead for my friend, that now that only obstacle which seemed to stand in the way of your union is removed, you will suffer me to complete the happiness which my news seems to have brought him, by introducing him with a new claim to your favor, by the name of Mr. Bacon. (Takes their hands and joins them, which MELESINDA seems to give consent to with a smile.)
Mr. H. Generous Melesinda! my dear friend—"he and his issue," me and my issue!—O Lord!—
Belvil. I wish you joy, Jack, with all my heart.
Mr. H. Bacon, Bacon, Bacon—how odd it sounds! I could never be tired of hearing it. There was Lord Chancellor Bacon. Methinks I have some of the Verulam blood in me already.—Methinks I could look through Nature—there was Friar Bacon, a conjurer,—I feel as if I could conjure too——
Enter a Servant.
Servant. Two young ladies and an old lady are at the door, inquiring if you see company, Madam.
Mr. H. "Surname and arms"—
Melesinda. Show them up.—My dear Mr. Bacon, moderate your joy.
Enter three Ladies, being part of those who were at the Assembly.
1st Lady. My dear Melesinda, how do you do?
2nd Lady. How do you do? We have been so concerned for you——-
Old Lady. We have been so concerned—(seeing him)—Mr. Hogsflesh——-
Mr. H. There's no such person—nor there never was—nor 'tis not fit there should be—"surname and arms"—
Belvil. It is true what my friend would express; we have been all in a mistake, ladies. Very true, the name of this gentleman was what you call it, but it is so no longer. The succession to the long-contested Bacon estate is at length decided, and with it my friend succeeds to the name of his deceased relative.
Mr. H. "His Majesty has been graciously pleased"—
1st Lady. I am sure we all join in hearty congratulation—(sighs).
2nd Lady. And wish you joy with all our hearts— (heigh ho!)
Old Lady. And hope you will enjoy the name and estate many years—(cries).
Belvil. Ha! ha! ha! mortify them a little, Jack.
1st Lady. Hope you intend to stay—
2nd Lady. With us some time—
Old Lady. In these parts—
Mr. H. Ladies, for your congratulations I thank you; for the favors you have lavished on me, and in particular for this lady's (turning to the old Lady) good opinion, I rest your debtor. As to any future favors—(accosts them severally in the order in which he was refused by them at the assembly)—Madam, shall always acknowledge your politeness; but at present, you see, I am engaged with a partner. Always be happy to respect you as a friend, but you must not look for anything further. Must beg of you to be less particular in your addresses to me. Ladies all, with this piece of advice, of Bath and you
Your ever grateful servant takes his leave.
Lay your plans surer when you plot to grieve;
See, while you kindly mean to mortify
Another, the wild arrow do not fly,
And gall yourself. For once you've been mistaken;
Your shafts have miss'd their aim—Hogsflesh has
saved his Bacon.
[POEMS.]
DEDICATION[1]
1: Prefixed to the Author's works published in 1818.
TO S. T. COLERIDGE, ESQ.
My Dear Coleridge,
You will smile to see the slender labors of your friend designated by the title of Works; but such was the wish of the gentlemen who have kindly undertaken the trouble of collecting them, and from their judgment could be no appeal.
It would be a kind of disloyalty to offer to any one but yourself a volume containing the early pieces, which were first published among your poems, and were fairly derivatives from you and them. My friend Lloyd and myself came into our first battle (authorship is a sort of warfare) under cover of the greater Ajax. How this association, which shall always be a dear and proud recollection to me, came to be broken,—who snapped the threefold cord,—whether yourself (but I know that was not the case) grew ashamed of your former companions,—or whether (which is by much the more probable) some ungracious bookseller was author of the separation,—I cannot tell;—but wanting the support of your friendly elm, (I speak for myself,) my vine has, since that time, put forth few or no fruits; the sap (if ever it had any) has become, in a manner, dried up and extinct; and you will find your old associate, in his second volume, dwindled into prose and criticism.
Am I right in assuming this as the cause? or is it that, as years come upon us, (except with some more healthy-happy spirits,) Life itself loses much of its Poetry for us? we transcribe but what we read in the great volume of Nature; and, as the characters grow dim, we turn off, and look another way. You yourself write no Christabels, nor Ancient Mariners, now.
Some of the Sonnets, which shall be carelessly turned over by the general reader, may happily awaken in you remembrances, which I should be sorry should be ever totally extinct—the memory
"Of summer days and of delightful years—"
even so far back as to those old suppers at our old ...... Inn,—when life was fresh, and topics exhaustless,—and you first kindled in me, if not the power, yet the love of poetry, and beauty, and kindliness.—
"What words have I heard
Spoke at the Mermaid!"
The world has given you many a shrewd nip and gird since that time, but either my eyes are grown dimmer, or my old friend is the same who stood before me three-and-twenty years ago—his hair a little confessing the hand of Time, but still shrouding the same capacious brain,—his heart not altered, scarcely where it "alteration finds."
One piece, Coleridge, I have ventured to publish in its original form, though I have heard you complain of a certain over-imitation of the antique in the style. If I could see any way of getting rid of the objection, without rewriting it entirely, I would make some sacrifices. But when I wrote John Woodvil, I never proposed to myself any distinct deviation from common English. I had been newly initiated in the writings of our elder dramatists: Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger, were then a first love; and from what I was so freshly conversant in, what wonder if my language imperceptibly took a tinge? The very time which I had chosen for my story, that which immediately followed the Restoration, seemed to require, in an English play, that the English should be of rather an older cast than that of the precise year in which it happened to be written. I wish it had not some faults, which I can less vindicate than the language.
I remain,
My dear Coleridge,
Yours,
With unabated esteem,
C. LAMB.