And then proceeds to argue:

If I be I,
He'll wag his little tail;
But if I be not I,
He'll bark and wail.

The question of personal identity often
resolves itself into a mere case of imposture,
the case of pretending to be what we are
not, for the attainment of certain ends by
indirect means.  This is a famous instrument
in the hands of the dramatist.  Many
and many a plot, good, bad, and indifferent,
turns upon some machination of this kind.
The audience are sometimes kept in the
dark until the very last scene; whereas in
other instances the dramatist prefers to let
them into the secret at once.  In Scribe's
Opera of the Crown Diamonds, so pleasantly
be-jewelled with sparkling music by Auber,
the veritable Queen of Spain pretends to be
a brigand's daughter; and her lover, innocent
fellow, has not the slightest suspicion
of the real truth until the dazzling scene
of the throne-room in the last act.  Again
in Lord Lytton's Lady of Lyons, we (the
audience) know all about the
circumstances which drove the gardener's son to
the personation of an Italian prince, and
the agony which Pauline Deschapelles
suffered when she discovered the cheat; but
as Claude Melnotte, much to the satisfaction
of everybody, is a good fellow at heart,
everything turns out well in the end.

The records of courts of justice present
multiplied instances more or less allied to
this in character.  Bamfylde Moore Carew
(if his history be trustworthy, which is
doubtful) was a famous example of the bold
unscrupulous personator. He could so
change the expression of his features, the
arrangement of his hair, the apparent bulk
of his person, the bend or curve of his
shoulders, the shape of his legs, his mien or
gait, and his general appearance, as to
deceive everybody.  On one occasion he so
pricked his hands and face, and so
effectually rubbed in gunpowder and bay-salt, as
to appear exactly like a man suffering
severely from small-pox; thereby averting
impressment as a seaman.  When in America,
and dressed as a Quaker, he deceived all
the real Quakers in Philadelphia.  On one
occasion, as a gentleman unknown in the
neighbourhood, he visited Colonel Strangeways.
The conversation turned upon the
notorious Bamfylde Moore Carew.  The
colonel said he knew him well, and would
never allow himself to be deceived as other
persons had been.  The real Bamfylde, an
hour or two afterwards, betook himself to
a gipsy haunt known to him in the
neighbourhood, and underwent a most thorough
personal transformation.  He appeared at
the colonel's house as a wretched object,
all rags and tatters, leaning on crutches,
displaying a counterfeit wound on the leg,
and uttering piteous moans.  He received
charity from the colonel, who did not
suspect the trick.  Bamfylde again appeared
as a gentleman guest at the colonel's table
that evening, and announced what he had
done.  Bamfylde, who was well-known at
Mr. Portman's, near Blandford, appeared
there one day as a rat-catcher, and after
creating great amusement by his cleverness,
was addressed by a Mr. Pleydell, who
expressed pleasure at meeting the
celebrated Mr. Carew, whom he had never
seen before. "Yes you have," said Bamfylde;
who announced that he was a certain
wretched beggar to whom Mr. Pleydell
had given charity a few days before.  Upon
a declaration that such a deception would
not pass undetected a second time,
Bamfylde accepted the challenge.  Next day,
Mr. Pleydell's servants were called out to
an old woman, who was leaning on a
crutch, and dragging along three miserable
children; she was so importunate, and the
children were so noisy, that the master
came out, spoke to her, gave her money,
and sent her away.  It was not known
that Bamfylde and the old woman were
one person until he announced the fact
at Mr. Pleydell's table that same evening.
So it was, everywhere; whether as a
shipwrecked mariner, a Kentish farmer
impoverished by floods, or a clergyman brought
to distress by unavoidable calamities, this,
strange man's disguise is described as all
but impenetrable.

The touching story of the Beauty of
Buttermere presents an example of
personation for fraudulent purposes.  In 1792
a volume was published, under the title of
A Fortnight's Ramble, giving an account
of a visit to the Lake district of Cumberland.
The tourist, at the little inn at Buttermere,
was waited upon by a young girl
of exquisite beauty, fourteen or fifteen
years of age; and he wrote as he felt,
about finding such a girl under so humble
a roof.  When he went again, a few years
afterwards, he found her a full-grown
woman, more lovely than ever.  He also
saw evidences that his book had attracted
visitors to the spot; for there were scribbled
verses on the walls of the inn, not only in
English, but in French, Latin, and Greek,
all in praise of the reigning beauty of the