This morning, May 2, 1662, having first _The Works of Charles Lamb in Four Volumes, Volume 4

cooling salades, mallows, water-cresses, those herbes, according to

_Villanovus_ his prescription, who disallows the use of meat in a

morning as gross, fat, hebetant, _feral_, altogether fitter for wild

beasts than men, _e contra_ commendeth this herb-diete for gentle,

humane, active, conducing to contemplation in most men, I betook

myselfe to the nearest fields. (Being in London I commonly dwell in

the _suburbes_, as airiest, quietest, _loci musis propriores_, free

from noises of caroches, waggons, mechanick and base workes,

workshoppes, also sights, pageants, spectacles of outlandish birds,

fishes, crocodiles, _Indians_, mermaids; adde quarrels, fightings,

wranglings of the common sort, _plebs_, the rabble, duelloes with

fists, proper to this island, at which the stiletto'd and secrete

_Italian_ laughs.) Withdrawing myselfe from these buzzing and

illiterate vanities, with a _bezo las manos_ to the city, I begin to

inhale, draw in, snuff up, as horses _dilatis naribus_ snort the

fresh aires, with exceeding great delight, when suddenly there

crosses me a procession, sad, heavy, dolourous, tristfull,

melancholick, able to change mirth into dolour, and overcast a

clearer atmosphere than possibly the neighbourhoods of so great a

citty can afford. An old man, a poore man deceased, is borne on men's

shoulders to a poore buriall, without solemnities of hearse,

mourners, plumes, _mutæ personæ, those personate actors that will

weep if yee shew them a piece of silver;_ none of those customed

civilities of children, kinsfolk, _dependants_, following the coffin;

he died a poore man, his friends _accessores opum_, _those cronies of

his that stuck by him so long as he had a penny_, now leave him,

forsake him, shun him, desert him; they think it much to follow his

putrid and stinking carcase to the grave; his children, if he had

any, for commonly the case stands thus, this poore man his son dies

before him, he survives, poore, indigent, base, dejected, miserable,

&c., or if he have any which survive him, _sua negotia agunt_, they

mind their own business, forsooth, cannot, will not, find time,

leisure, _inclination, extremum munus perficere_, to follow to the

pit their old indulgent father, which loved them, stroked them,

caressed them, cockering them up, _quantum potuit_, as farre as his

means extended, while they were babes, chits, _minims_, hee may rot

in his grave, lie stinking in the sun _for them_, have no buriall at

all, they care not. _O nefas!_ Chiefly I noted the coffin to have

been _without a pall_, nothing but a few planks, of cheapest wood

that could be had, _naked_, having none of the ordinary _symptomata_

of a funerall, those _locularii_ which bare the body having on

diversely coloured coats, _and none black:_ (one of these reported

the deceased to have been an almsman seven yeares, a pauper,

harboured and fed in the workhouse of St. Giles-in-the-Fields, to

whose proper burying-ground he was now going for interment.) All

which when I behelde, hardly I refrained from weeping, and

incontinently I fell to musing: "If this man had been rich, a

_Croesus_, a _Crassus_, _or as rich as Whittington_, what pompe,

charge, lavish cost, expenditure, of rich buriall,

_ceremoniall-obsequies_, _obsequious ceremonies_, had been thought

too good for such an one; what store of panegyricks, elogies, funeral

orations, &c., some beggarly poetaster, worthy to be beaten for his

ill rimes, crying him up, hee was rich, generous, bountiful, polite,

learned, a _Mæcenas_, while as in very deede he was nothing lesse:

what weeping, sighing, sorrowing, honing, complaining, kinsmen,

friends, relatives, fourtieth cousins, poor relatives, lamenting for

the deceased; hypocriticall heirs, sobbing, striking their breasts

(they care not if he had died a year ago); so many clients,

dependants, flatterers, _parasites, cunning Gnathoes_, tramping on

foot after the hearse, all their care is, who shall stand fairest

with the successour; he mean time (like enough) spurns them from him,

spits at them, treads them under his foot, will have nought to do

with any such cattle. I think him in the right: _Hoec sunt majora

gravitate Heracliti. These follies are enough to give crying

Heraclitus a fit of the spleene._"

MR. H----.

A FARCE, IN TWO ACTS.

AS IT WAS PERFORMED AT DRURY LANE THEATRE,

DECEMBER, 1806.

* * * * *

"Mr. H----, thou wert DAMNED. Bright shone the morning on the

play-bills that announced thy appearance, and the streets were filled

with the buzz of persons asking one another if they would go to see

Mr. H----, and answering that they would certainly; but before night

the gaiety, not of the author, but of his friends and the town, was

eclipsed, for thou wert DAMNED! Hadst thou been anonymous, thou haply

mightst have lived. Bet thou didst come to an untimely end for thy

tricks, and for want of a better name to pass them off--" _Theatrical

Examiner_.

* * * * *

CHARACTERS.

Mr. H---- _Mr. Elliston_.

BELVIL _Mr. Bartley_.

LANDLORD PRY _Mr. Wewitzer_.

MELESINDA _Miss Mellon_.

MAID TO MELESINDA _Mrs. Harlowe_.

Gentlemen, Ladies, Waiters, Servants, &c.

_Scene_--BATH.

PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR. ELLISTON.

If we have sinn'd 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-fashion'd race;

And Cabbage, ask'd 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 turn'd into great A----

A single C. her Cæsar to express--

Her Scipio shrunk into a Roman S----

And, nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech,

Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H----.

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_.)

1_st Gent._ Who the devil is this extraordinary personage?

2_d Gent._ Who? Why, 'tis Mr. H.

1_st Gent._ Has he no more name?

2_d 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.

1_st Gent._ Wonderful! yet, nobody know who he is, or where he comes

from!

2_d 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.

1_st Gent._ And is it possible that a mere anonymous--

2_d 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.

_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!

1_st 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_.)

1_st Lady_. Extremely obliged to you for your attentions; but don't

want a partner.

2_d Lady_. Greatly flattered by your preference: but believe I shall

remain single.

3_d Lady_. Shall always acknowledge your politeness; but have no

thoughts of altering my condition.

4_th Lady_. Always be happy to respect you as a friend; but you must

not look for anything further.

5_th Lady_. No doubt of your ability to make any woman happy; but

have no thoughts of changing my name.

6_th 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]

[Footnote 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.

POEMS

* * * * *

HESTER.

When maidens such as Hester die,

Their place ye may not well supply,

Though ye among a thousand try,

With vain endeavor.

A month or more hath she been dead,

Yet cannot I by force be led

To think upon the wormy bed,

And her together.

A springy motion in her gait,

A rising step, did indicate

Of pride and joy no common rate,

That flush'd her spirit.

I know not by what name beside

I shall it call:--if 'twas not pride,

It was a joy to that allied,

She did inherit.

Her parents held the Quaker rule,

Which doth the human feeling cool,

But she was train'd in Nature's school,

Nature had blest her.

A waking eye, a prying mind,

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind,

A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind,

Ye could not Hester.

My sprightly neighbor! gone before

To that unknown and silent shore,

Shall we not meet, as heretofore,

Some summer morning,

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray

Hath struck a bliss upon the day,

A bliss that would not go away,

A sweet fore-warning?

* * * * *

TO CHARLES LLOYD.

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR.

Alone, obscure, without a friend,

A cheerless, solitary thing,

Why seeks, my Lloyd, the stranger out?

What offering can the stranger bring

Of social scenes, home-bred delights,

That him in aught compensate may

For Stowey's pleasant winter nights,

For loves and friendships far away?

In brief oblivion to forego

Friends, such as thine, so justly dear,

And be awhile with me content

To stay, a kindly loiterer, here:

For this a gleam of random joy

Hath flush'd my unaccustom'd cheek;

And, with an o'ercharged bursting heart,

I feel the thanks I cannot speak.

Oh! sweet are all the Muses' lays,

And sweet the charm of matin bird;

'Twas long since these estrangèd ears

The sweeter voice of friend had heard.

The voice hath spoke: the pleasant sounds

In memory's ear in after-time

Shall live, to sometimes rouse a tear,

And sometimes prompt an honest rhyme.

For, when the transient charm is fled,

And when the little week is o'er,

To cheerless, friendless, solitude

When I return, as heretofore;

Long, long, within my aching heart

The grateful sense shall cherish'd be;

I'll think less meanly of myself,

That Lloyd will sometimes think on me.

* * * * *

THE THREE FRIENDS.

Three young maids in friendship met;

Mary, Martha, Margaret.

Margaret was tall and fair,

Martha shorter by a hair;

If the first excell'd in feature,

Th' other's grace and ease were greater;

Mary, though to rival loth,

In their best gifts equall'd both.

They a due proportion kept;

Martha mourn'd if Margaret wept;

Margaret joy'd when any good

She of Martha understood;

And in sympathy for either

Mary was outdone by neither.

Thus far, for a happy space,

All three ran an equal race,

A most constant friendship proving,

Equally beloved and loving;

All their wishes, joys, the same;

Sisters only not in name.

Fortune upon each one smiled,

As upon a fav'rite child;

Well to do and well to see

Were the parents of all three;

Till on Martha's father crosses

Brought a flood of worldly losses,

And his fortunes rich and great

Changed at once to low estate:

Under which o'erwhelming blow

Martha's mother was laid low;

She a hapless orphan left,

Of maternal care bereft,

Trouble following trouble fast,

Lay in a sick-bed at last.

In the depth of her affliction

Martha now receiv'd conviction,

That a true and faithful friend

Can the surest comfort lend.

Night and day, with friendship tried,

Ever constant by her side

Was her gentle Mary found,

With a love that knew no bound;

And the solace she imparted

Saved her dying broken-hearted.

In this scene of earthly things

Not one good unmixèd springs.

That which had to Martha proved

A sweet consolation, moved

Different feelings of regret

In the mind of Margaret.

She, whose love was not less dear,

Nor affection less sincere

To her friend, was, by occasion

Of more distant habitation,

Fewer visits forced to pay her;

When no other cause did stay her;

And her Mary living nearer,

Margaret began to fear her,

Lest her visits day by day

Martha's heart should steal away.

That whole heart she ill could spare her,

Where till now she'd been a sharer.

From this cause with grief she pined,

Till at length her health declined.

All her cheerful spirits flew,

Fast as Martha's gather'd new;

And her sickness waxèd sore,

Just when Martha felt no more.

Mary, who had quick suspicion

Of her alter'd friend's condition,

Seeing Martha's convalescence

Less demanded now her presence,

With a goodness, built on reason,

Changed her measures with the season;

Turn'd her steps from Martha's door,

Went where she was wanted more;

All her care and thoughts were set

Now to tend on Margaret.

Mary living 'twixt the two,

From her home could oft'ner go,

Either of her friends to see,

Than they could together be.

Truth explain'd is to suspicion

Evermore the best physician.

Soon her visits had the effect;

All that Margaret did suspect,

From her fancy vanish'd clean;

She was soon what she had been,

And the color she did lack

To her faded cheek came back.

Wounds which love had made her feel,

Love alone had power to heal.

Martha, who the frequent visit

Now had lost, and sore did miss it,

With impatience waxèd cross,

Counted Margaret's gain her loss:

All that Mary did confer

On her friend, thought due to her.

In her girlish bosom rise

Little foolish jealousies,

Which into such rancor wrought,

She one day for Margaret sought;

Finding her by chance alone,

She began, with reasons shown,

To insinuate a fear

Whether Mary was sincere;

Wish'd that Margaret would take heed

Whence her actions did proceed.

For herself, she'd long been minded

Not with outsides to be blinded;

All that pity and compassion,

She believed was affectation;

In her heart she doubted whether

Mary cared a pin for either.

She could keep whole weeks at distance,

And not know of their existence,

While all things remain'd the same;

But, when some misfortune came,

Then she made a great parade

Of her sympathy and aid,--

Not that she did really grieve,

It was only _make-believe_,

And she cared for nothing, so

She might her fine feelings show,

And get credit, on her part,

For a soft and tender heart.

With such speeches, smoothly made,

She found methods to persuade

Margaret (who being sore

From the doubts she'd felt before,

Was preparèd for mistrust)

To believe her reasons just;

Quite destroy'd that comfort glad,

Which in Mary late she had;

Made her, in experience' spite,

Think her friend a hypocrite,

And resolve, with cruel scoff,

To renounce and cast her off.

See how good turns are rewarded!

She of both is now discarded,

Who to both had been so late

Their support in low estate,

All their comfort, and their stay--

Now of both is cast away.

But the league her presence cherish'd,

Losing its best prop, soon perish'd;

She, that was a link to either,

To keep them and it together,

Being gone, the two (no wonder)

That were left, soon fell asunder;--

Some civilities were kept,

But the heart of friendship slept;

Love with hollow forms was fed,

But the life of love lay dead:--

A cold intercourse they held,

After Mary was expell'd.

Two long years did intervene

Since they'd either of them seen,

Or, by letter, any word

Of their old companion heard,--

When, upon a day once walking,

Of indifferent matters talking,

They a female figure met;

Martha said to Margaret,

"That young maid in face does carry

A resemblance strong of Mary."

Margaret, at nearer sight,

Own'd her observation right;

But they did not far proceed

Ere they knew 'twas she indeed.

She--but, ah I how changed they view her

From that person which they knew her!

Her fine face disease had scarr'd,

And its matchless beauty marr'd:--

But enough was left to trace

Mary's sweetness--Mary's grace.

When her eye did first behold them,

How they blush'd!--but, when she told them,

How on a sick-bed she lay

Months, while they had kept away,

And had no inquiries made

If she were alive or dead;--

How, for want of a true friend,

She was brought near to her end,

And was like so to have died,

With no friend at her bedside;--

How the constant irritation,

Caused by fruitless expectation

Of their coming, had extended

The illness, when she might have mended,--

Then, O then, how did reflection

Come on them with recollection!

All that she had done for them,

How it did their fault condemn!

But sweet Mary, still the same,

Kindly eased them of their shame;

Spoke to them with accents bland,

Took them friendly by the hand;

Bound them both with promise fast.

Not to speak of troubles past;

Made them on the spot declare

A new league of friendship there;

Which, without a word of strife,

Lasted thenceforth long as life.

Martha now and Margaret

Strove who most should pay the debt

Which they owed her, nor did vary

Ever after from their Mary.

* * * * *

TO A RIVER IN WHICH A CHILD WAS DROWNED.

Smiling river, smiling river,

On thy bosom sunbeams play;

Though they're fleeting, and retreating,

Thou hast more deceit than they.

In thy channel, in thy channel,

Choked with ooze and grav'lly stones,

Deep immersed, and unhearsed,

Lies young Edward's corse: his bones

Ever whitening, ever whitening,

As thy waves against them dash;

What thy torrent, in the current,

Swallow'd, now it helps to wash.

As if senseless, as if senseless

Things had feeling in this case;

What so blindly, and unkindly,

It destroy'd, it now does grace.

* * * * *

THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES.

I have had playmates, I have had companions,

In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have been laughing, I have been carousing,

Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies,

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I loved a love once, fairest among women;

Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her--

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man;

Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly;

Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces.

Ghostlike I paced round the haunts of my childhood.

Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse,

Seeking to find the old familiar faces.

Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother,

Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling?

So might we talk of the old familiar faces,--

How some they have died, and some they have left me,

And some are taken from me; all are departed;

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

* * * * *

HELEN.

High-born Helen, round your dwelling

These twenty years I've paced in vain:

Haughty beauty, thy lover's duty

Hath been to glory in his pain.

High-born Helen, proudly telling

Stories of thy cold disdain;

I starve, I die, now you comply,

And I no longer can complain.

These twenty years I've lived on tears,

Dwelling forever on a frown;

On sighs I've fed, your scorn my bread;

I perish now you kind are grown.

Can I, who loved my beloved

But for the scorn "was in her eye,"

Can I be moved for my beloved,

When she "returns me sigh for sigh?"

In stately pride, by my bedside,

High-born Helen's portrait's hung;

Deaf to my praise, my mournful lays

Are nightly to the portrait sung.

To that I weep, nor ever sleep,

Complaining all night long to her--

_Helen, grown old, no longer cold,_

_Said,_ "You to all men I prefer."

* * * * *

A VISION OF REPENTANCE.

I saw a famous fountain, in my dream,

Where shady pathways to a valley led;

A weeping willow lay upon that stream,

And all around the fountain brink were spread

Wide-branching trees, with dark green leaf rich clad,

Forming a doubtful twilight--desolate and sad.

The place was such, that whoso enter'd in,

Disrobèd was of every earthly thought,

And straight became as one that knew not sin,

Or to the world's first innocence was brought;

Enseem'd it now, he stood on holy ground,

In sweet and tender melancholy wrapt around.

A most strange calm stole o'er my soothèd sprite;

Long time I stood, and longer had I staid,

When lo! I saw, saw by the sweet moonlight,

Which came in silence o'er that silent shade,

Where, near the fountain, SOMETHING like DESPAIR

Made, of that weeping-willow, garlands for her hair.

And eke with painful fingers she inwove

Many an uncouth stem of savage thorn--

"The willow garland, _that_ was for her love,

And _these_ her bleeding temples would adorn."

With sighs her heart nigh burst, salt tears fast fell,

As mournfully she bended o'er that sacred well.

To whom when I addrest myself to speak,

She lifted up her eyes, and nothing said;

The delicate red came mantling o'er her cheek,

And gath'ring up her loose attire, she fled

To the dark covert of that woody shade,

And in her goings seem'd a timid gentle maid.

Revolving in my mind what this should mean,

And why that lovely lady plainèd so;

Perplex'd in thought at that mysterious scene,

And doubting if 'twere best to stay or go,

I cast mine eyes in wistful gaze around,

When from the shades came slow a small and plaintive

sound.

* * * * *

"Psyche am I, who love to dwell

In these brown shades, this woody dell,

Where never busy mortal came,

Till now, to pry upon my shame.

"At thy feet what dost thou see

The waters of repentance be,

Which, night and day, I must augment

With tears, like a true penitent,

"If haply so my day of grace

Be not yet past; and this lone place,

O'ershadowy, dark, excludeth hence

All thoughts but grief and penitence."

_"Why dost thou weep, thou gentle maid!

And wherefore in this barren shade

Thy hidden thoughts with sorrow feed?

Can thing so fair repentance need?"_

"O! I have done a deed of shame,

And tainted is my virgin fame,

And stain'd the beauteous maiden white

In which my bridal robes were dight."

_"And who the promised spouse? declare:

And what those bridal garments were."_

"Severe and saintly righteousness

Composed the clear white bridal dress;

JESUS, the Son of Heaven's high King,

Bought with his blood the marriage ring.

"A wretched sinful creature, I

Deem'd lightly of that sacred tie,

Gave to a treacherous WORLD my heart,

And play'd the foolish wanton's part.

Soon to these murky shades I came,

To hide from the sun's light my shame.

And still I haunt this woody dell,

And bathe me in that healing well,

Whose waters clear have influence

From sin's foul stains the soul to cleanse;

And, night and day, I them augment,

With tears, like a true penitent,

Until, due expiation made,

And fit atonement fully paid,

The Lord and Bridegroom me present,

Where in sweet strains of high consent,

God's throne before, the Seraphim

Shall chant the ecstatic marriage hymn."

"Now Christ restore thee soon"--I said,

And thenceforth all my dream was fled.

* * * * *

DIALOGUE BETWEEN A MOTHER AND CHILD.

CHILD

O Lady, lay your costly robes aside.

No longer may you glory in your pride.

MOTHER

Wherefore to-day art singing in mine ear

Sad songs were made so long ago, my dear?

This day I am to be a bride, you know,

Why sing sad songs, were made so long ago?

CHILD

O mother, lay your costly robes aside,

For you may never be another's bride.

That line I learn'd not in the old sad song.

MOTHER

I pray thee, pretty one, now hold thy tongue,

Play with the bridemaids; and be glad, my boy,

For thou shalt be a second father's joy.

CHILD.

One father fondled me upon his knee.

One father is enough, alone, for me.

* * * * *

QUEEN ORIANA'S DREAM.

On a bank with roses shaded,

Whose sweet scent the violets aided,

Violets whose breath alone

Yields but feeble smell or none,

(Sweeter bed Jove ne'er reposed on

When his eyes Olympus closed on,)

While o'erhead six slaves did hold

Canopy of cloth o' gold,

And two more did music keep,

Which might Juno lull to sleep,

Oriana, who was queen

To the mighty Tamerlane,

That was lord of all the land

Between Thrace and Samarchand,

While the noontide fervor beam'd,

Mused himself to sleep, and _dream'd_.

Thus far, in magnific strain,

A young poet soothed his vein,

But he had nor prose nor numbers,

To express a princess' slumbers.--

Youthful Richard had strange fancies,

Was deep versed in old romances,

And could talk whole hours upon

The Great Cham and Prester John,--

Tell the field in which the Sophi

From the Tartar won a trophy--

What he read with such delight of,

Thought he could as eas'ly write of--

But his over-young invention

Kept not pace with brave intention.

Twenty suns did rise and set,

And he could no further get;

But, unable to proceed,

Made a virtue out of need,

And, his labors wiselier deem'd of,

Did omit _what the queen dream'd of_.

* * * * *

A BALLAD.

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF

A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.

_To the Tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."_

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;

In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:

There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,

Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,

They have store of good venison, with old canary wine,

With singing and music to heighten the cheer;

Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still carest

By a train of attendants which laugh at my young Lord's jest;

In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:

Does Age begin to prattle?--no man heark'neth to his tales.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin

Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;

In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish

For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust,

Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do,

Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsmen too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides

With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;

In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,

With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallants' pride,

To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,

That none to do them injury may have pretence;

Wretched Age, in poverty, must brook offence.

* * * * *

HYPOCHONDRIACUS.

By myself walking,

To myself talking,

When as I ruminate

On my untoward fate,

Scarcely seem I

Alone sufficiently,

Black thoughts continually

Crowding my privacy;

They come unbidden,

Like foes at a wedding,

Thrusting their faces

In better guests' places,

Peevish and malecontent,

Clownish, impertinent,

Dashing the merriment:

So in like fashions

Dim cogitations

Follow and haunt me,

Striving to daunt me,

In my heart festering,

In my ears whispering,

"Thy friends are treacherous,

Thy foes are dangerous,

Thy dreams ominous."

Fierce Anthropophagi,

Spectra, Diaboli,

What scared St. Anthony,

Hobgoblins, Lemures,

Dreams of Antipodes,

Night-riding Incubi,

Troubling the fantasy,

All dire illusions

Causing confusions;

Figments heretical,

Scruples fantastical,

Doubts diabolical;

Abaddon vexeth me,

Mahu perplexeth me,

Lucifer teareth me----

_Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici._

* * * * *

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

May the Babylonish curse

Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind,

(Still the phrase is wide or scant)

To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate:

For I hate, yet love, thee so,

That, whichever thing I show,

The plain truth will seem to be

A constrain'd hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed

This morning, May 2, 1662, having first broken my fast upon eggs and