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 license in one's pocket, lawfully empowering so and so to-give an alms. Anything more?

SO

5th Waiter. Yes, sir: here has been Mr. Patriot, with the county petition to sign; and Mr. Failtime, that owes 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 asMelesinda, the rich heiress, 'tis thought, will carry him.

1st Gent. And is it possible that a mere anonymous2d 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 visiters 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 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 name

less.

Belvil. My dear Ho

Mr. H. (Stopping him) Don't name it.
Belvil. Name what?

Mr. H. My cursed unfortunate name. conceal it for a time.

I have reasons to

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 han't taken a purse?

Mr. H. To relieve you at once from all disgraceful conjectures, 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 ain 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 ap

pearance.

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-damın 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, twentynine 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 consentMr. H. To accompany me to the altar without a name—in short, to suspend the 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 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. Oh! H., H., H. I cherish here a fire of rest less 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.

it.

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

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