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.