_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----
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.)_
_Maid._ O, Madam, never mind me--I shall be back in the twinkling of a pig's whisker, as they say.
_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.