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TRANSCRIBERS' NOTES

This e-book contains the text of _The Politician Out-witted_, extracted
from Representative Plays by American Dramatists: Vol 1, 1765-1819.
Comments and background to all the plays and the other plays are available
at Project Gutenberg.

Spelling as in the original has been preserved.

THE

POLITICIAN OUT-WITTED

_By_ SAMUEL LOW

SAMUEL LOW

(b. December 12, 1765)

Very little is known about the author of "The Politician Out-witted,"[1] a
play which I have selected as representative of the efforts of the American
drama, as early as 1789, to reflect the political spirit of the time.
Assiduous search on the part of the present editor has failed to bring to
light any information from any of the historical societies regarding Mr.
Low, except that he was born on December 12, 1765, and that he must have
been, in his political sympathies, an anti-federalist. The reader who is
interested in literary comparisons might take this play of Low's and read
it in connection with Dunlap's "The Father," in which a prologue gives a
very excellent example of the American spirit. Dunlap's "Darby's Return"
might likewise be read in connection with "The Politician Out-witted,"
inasmuch as it refers to the Federal Constitution, and to Washington's
inauguration.

The present play, which was opposed to the Federal union, was, according to
some authorities, offered to the actors, Hallam and Henry, and was promptly
rejected by them. There is no record of the piece having thereafter
succeeded in reaching the theatre. It is mentioned both in Dunlap and in
Seilhamer in a casual manner.

In the New York Directory, of 1794, we find Samuel Low mentioned as a clerk
in the Treasury Department, and, in a later Directory of 1797-1798, he is
referred to as the first bookkeeper in the Bank of New York.[2]

In the preface to his published poems, after the diffident manner of the
time, Low says: "Many of the pieces were written at a very early age, and
most of them under singular disadvantages; among which, application to
public business, for many years past, was not the least; not only because
it allowed little leisure for literary pursuits, but because it is of a
nature peculiarly inimical to the cultivation of poetic talent. For his own
amusement and improvement he has written--at the request of his friends he
publishes."

We know that he was a writer of odes, exhibiting some grace in his handling
of this poetic form. He is also credited with having written a long poem
entitled "Winter Displayed," in 1794. In 1800, two volumes of poems
appeared in New York, and among the subscribers listed were John Jacob
Astor, William Dunlap, Philip Hone, Dr. Peter Irving, and members of the
Beekman and Schermerhorn families.[3] Examining the contents of these
volumes, one discovers that Samuel Low, in a social and fraternal way, must
have been a very active member of New York society. On January 8, 1800, his
"Ode on the Death of Washington" was recited by Hodgkinson at the New York
Theatre.

At St. Paul's Church, and at Trinity Church, his anthems and odes were ever
to the fore. He must have been a member of the Tammany Society, or
Columbian Order, because a "Hymn to Liberty" was penned by him, and sung in
church on the anniversary of that organization, May 12, 1790.

His Masonic interests are indicated throughout the volume by poems written
especially for such orders as the Holland Lodge, and the Washington Chapter
of Royal Arch Masons. He was also asked to write an epitaph on John
Frederick Roorbach.

His interest in politics may likewise be seen in several poems written
about the Constitution of the United States; while his literary taste may
be measured by his tribute to Kotzebue, the "second Shakespeare," in which
occur the lines:

    "_The purest, sweetest among modern bards
    Who tread the difficult dramatic path._"

Except for this, as one of the biographical sources says, nothing is known
of Low's history, "and he is only saved from absolute oblivion by his two
small volumes of poems."

Yet "The Politician Out-witted" has historical value, and, in its dialogue,
exhibits how well Low had studied the artificial comedy of Sheridan. The
construction of the plot is mechanical, but the convictions of the two
opposing fathers, on the subject of the Constitution, give the play an
interest in character and in viewpoint which is marked. It is not a piece
adapted to the theatre, there being slight action of a cumulative kind;
but, as an example of early closet drama, it cannot be ignored.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] The/Politician Out-witted,/a/Comedy,/In Five Acts./Written in the
Year 1788./By an American./"Then let not Censure, with malignant
joy,/"The harvest of his humble hope destroy!"/Falconer's Shipwreck.
[Colophon.]/New-York:/Printed for the Author, by W. Ross, in
Broad-Street,/and Sold by the Different Booksellers./ M. DCC. LXXXIX./

[2] Through the assiduous researches of a member of the staff of the
Americana Division of the New York Public Library, who has generously
given me permission to use the results of this investigation, there is
brought to light, in the New York Directory for 1803, the name of Widow
Ann Low, keeper of a boarding-house. There is a plausible theory framed
by this investigator that, maybe, Samuel Low died during the New York
yellow fever epidemic of 1803, although his name does not occur in the
New York _Evening Post_ death lists for that year. It may be that our
Samuel, as revealed in the annals of the Dutch Reform Church, v. 1, p.
273; v. 32, p. 23 (New York Geneological and Biographical Society),
married Anne Creiger, as recorded on April 20, 1797, and that she may be
the "Widow Ann" referred to above. The Nicholas Low mentioned in the
Directories of the time as President of the Bank of New York, and who
was well-to-do, must have been the brother, or some near relation. There
are many Samuel Lows of this period; one (1739-1807) mentioned in the D.
A. R. Lineage, v. 15; another who married Margaret Kip. The nearest we
get to our Low's parentage is a reference, in the Reports of the New
York Geneological and Biographical Society, v. 29, p. 36, to John and
Susanna Low, whose son, Samuel, was, born December 22, 1765.
Identification has yet to be established.

[3] Poems, By Samuel Low. In two volumes. New York: Printed by T. & J.
Swords. 1800.

[Illustration: THE

POLITICIAN OUT-WITTED,

A

COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

Written in the YEAR 1788.

BY AN AMERICAN.

    "Then let not Censure, with malignant joy,
    The harvest of his humble hope destroy!"

_Falconer's Shipwreck._

NEW-YORK:

PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR, BY W. ROSS, IN BROAD-STREET, AND SOLD BY THE
DIFFERENT BOOKSELLERS.

M. DCC. LXXXIX.

FAC-SIMILE TITLE-PAGE TO THE 1789 EDITION]

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

MEN.

TRUEMAN.
OLD LOVEYET.
CHARLES LOVEYET, _engaged to_ HARRIET.
FRANKTON, _his Friend_.
WORTHNOUGHT.
HUMPHRY.
TOUPEE.
THOMAS.

WOMEN.

HARRIET, _daughter to_ TRUEMAN.
MARIA, _her Friend_.
TABITHA CANTWELL.
HERALD.
DOLLY.

SCENE--The city of New-York. Time of four acts is one day, and the
    fifth act commences the second day.

THE

POLITICIAN OUT-WITTED

ACT I.

SCENE I. _OLD LOVEYET'S House._

_Enter OLD LOVEYET._

Ugh, ugh, ugh,--what a sad rage for novelty there is in this foolish world!
How eagerly all your inspectors in the _Daily Advertiser_, the _New-York
Packet_, and all the long catalogue of advertisers and intelligencers,
catch'd at the news of the day just now at the Coffee-House; though a wise
man and a king has told them, there's nothing new under the sun. Ugh, ugh,
ugh.

_Enter THOMAS._

Well, Thomas, what's the news?                             [_Eagerly._

THOMAS. Nothing strange, sir.

LOVEYET. That's more than I can say, Thomas, for I'm sure 'tis strange to
hear so many people praise this same new Constitution, as it is
call'd.--Has the _New-York Journal_ been brought to-day?

THOMAS. Yes, sir.

                                             [_Fetches the newspaper._

LOVEYET. Look if it contains anything worth reading, Thomas; anything in
behalf of the good old cause.

THOMAS. Yes, sir, here's something will suit your honour's notion to a
hair.

                                              [_Offers it to LOVEYET._

LOVEYET. No, Thomas, do you read it,--I'm afraid I shall cast my eyes upon
something that's on the other side of the question; some wicked
consolidation scheme or another.

THOMAS. Why, you know, sir, there's never anything in this paper but what's
on your side of the question.

LOVEYET. True, true; by my body, you're right enough, Tom.--I forgot that:
but never mind; since you've got the paper, do you read it.

THOMAS. He only wants me to read, because he can't see to do it
himself,--he's almost as blind as a bat, and yet he won't use spectacles
for fear of being thought old.                               [_Aside._

LOVEYET. Come, Thomas, let's have it,--I'm all ears to hear you.

THOMAS. 'Tis a pity you have not a little more eyesight and brains along
with your ears. [_Aside._] [_Reads._] "Extract of a letter from a gentleman
in Boston, dated February the third, 1788.--Our convention will pass the
federal government by a considerable majority: The more it is examined, the
more converts are made for its adoption. This you may rely on."

LOVEYET. 'Tis a cursed lie.--Why, why, you confounded scoundrel, do you
mean to ridicule your master?

THOMAS. I ask pardon, sir; I thought it was the _New-York Journal_; but I
see it is Mr. Child's _Daily Advertiser_.

LOVEYET. A plague on his aristocratic intelligence!--Begone, you vile foe
to American Liberty, or I'll--

                                                       [_Exit THOMAS._

_Enter TRUEMAN._

What, my friend Trueman! well, what's the news, eigh?

TRUEMAN. I have not learn'd a single monosyllable, sir.

LOVEYET. Nothing concerning this same Constitution there is so much talk
about, friend Horace? A miserable Constitution, by the bye. If mine was no
better,--ugh, ugh, ugh,--I say, if--ugh, ugh, if my constitution was no
better than this same political one, I solemnly swear, as true as I am this
day, man and boy, two score and three years, five months, eleven days, six
hours, and, and,--[_Pulling out his watch._] fifty-nine minutes old; why,
I--I--I would,--I don't know what I wou'd not do. Ugh, ugh.

TRUEMAN. Mr. Loveyet, you run on in such a surprising manner with your
narrations, imprecations, admirations, and interrogations, that, upon my
education, sir, I believe you are approaching to insanity, frenzy, lunacy,
madness, distraction,--a man of your age--

LOVEYET. Age, sir, age!--And what then, sir, eigh! what then? I'd have you
to know, sir, that I shall not have lived forty years till next spring
twelvemonth, old as I am; and if my countenance seems to belie me a little
or so, why--trouble, concern for the good of my country, sir, and this
tyrannical, villainous Constitution have made me look so; but my health is
sound, sir; my lungs are good, sir, [_Raising his voice._]--ugh, ugh,
ugh,--I am neither spindle-shank'd nor crook-back'd, and I can kiss a
pretty girl with as good a relish as--ugh, ugh,--ha, ha, ha. A man of five
and forty, old, forsooth! ha, ha. My age, truly!--ugh, ugh, ugh.

TRUEMAN. You talk very valiantly, Mr. Loveyet; very valiantly indeed; I
dare say now you have temerity and enterprise enough, even at this time of
day, to take a _wife_.

LOVEYET. To be sure I have. Let me see,--I shou'd like a woman an inch or
two less than six feet high now, and thick in proportion: By my body, such
a woman wou'd look noble by the side of me when she was entient.

TRUEMAN. Oh, monstrous! Entient! an entient woman by the side of an antient
husband! Most preposterous, unnatural, and altogether incongruous!

LOVEYET. Poh, a fig for your high-flown nonsense. I suppose you think it
would cost me a great deal of trouble.

TRUEMAN. No, no; some clever young blade will save you the trouble.

LOVEYET. By my body, I should love dearly to have such a partner; she would
be a credit to me when she had me under the arm.

TRUEMAN. Under the _thumb_, you mean.

LOVEYET. Under the _Devil_, _you_ mean.

TRUEMAN. You're right; you might as well be under the Devil's government as
petticoat government; you're perfectly right there.

LOVEYET. I'm not perfectly right;--I--I--I mean _you_ are not perfectly
right; and as for her age, why I should like her to be--let me see--about
ten years younger than myself: a man shou'd be at least ten years older
than his wife.

TRUEMAN. Ten years; fifty-three and ten are sixty-three. Then you mean your
wife shall be fifty-three years of age.

LOVEYET. S'death, sir! I tell you I am but two and forty years old: She
sha'n't be more than thirty odd, sir, and she shall be ten years younger
than I am too.

TRUEMAN. Yes, thirty odd years younger than _you_ are; ha, ha. The exiguity
of those legs is a most promising earnest of your future exploits, and
demonstrate your agility, virility, salubrity, and amorosity; ha, ha, ha. I
can't help laughing to think what a blessed union there will be between
August and December; a jolly, buxom, wanton, wishful, plethoric female of
thirty odd, to an infirm, decrepit, consumptive, gouty, rheumatic,
asthmatic, phlegmatic mortal of near seventy; ha, ha. Exquisitely droll
and humourous, upon my erudition. It puts me in mind of a hot bed in a hard
winter, surrounded with ice, and made verdant and flourishing only by
artificial means.

LOVEYET. Pshaw, you're a fool!

_Enter TOUPEE._

TOUPEE. Pardonnez moy, monsieur. I hope it not be any intrusion; par dieu,
I will not frize dat Jantemon à la mode Paris no more, becase he vas fronte
me.

TRUEMAN. What's the matter, Mr. Toupee?

TOUPEE. I vill tella your honare of the fracas. I vas vait on monsieur
a--choses, and make ma compliment avec beaucoup de grace, ven monsieur vas
read de news papier; so I say, is your honare ready for be dress? De great
man say, "No--, d--n de barbare." [_In a low voice._] I tell de parsone,
sare, I have promise 'pon honare for dress one great man vat is belong to
de Congress, 'bout dis time, sans manquer: De ansare vas (excuse moy,
monsieur), "go to h-ll, if you be please; I must read 'bout de
Constitution." Dis is de ole affair, monsieur, en verité.

LOVEYET. Sixty-three, indeed! Heaven forbid! But if I was so old, my
constitution is good; age is nothing, the constitution is all,--ugh, ugh,
ugh.

TOUPEE. Sare, you vill give me leaf, vat is dat Constitution?

LOVEYET. Hold your prating, you booby.

TOUPEE. You booby,--Vat is dat booby, I vonder!

TRUEMAN. Ha, ha, a good constitution! With great propriety did the man ask
you what constitution you meant. Ha, ha, ha.

TOUPEE. Par Dieu, monsieur de Schoolmastare sall larn a me vat is de booby!
oui, an de Constitution,--foy d'Homme d'Honneur.

TRUEMAN. What a figure for a sound constitution! ha, ha.

LOVEYET. Ugh, hang you for an old simpleton! Talk of _my_ age and
constitution.--Ugh, ugh, ugh.

                                                              [_Exit._

TRUEMAN. Fractious old blockhead!

TOUPEE. Blockhead! Pourquoi you call a mine head von block, sare?

TRUEMAN. I mean that old curmudgeon who goes hobbling along there, like a
man of forty.

TOUPEE. Pardonnez moy, monsieur; S'il vous plaît, ve make de
éclaircissement, if you tell me vat is de interpretation--you booby.

TRUEMAN. What! have you the effrontery to call me a booby? S'death, you
scoundrel, what do you mean?

TOUPEE. Vous ne m'entendez pas.                            [_Hastily._

TRUEMAN. Do you threaten me, you insignificant thing? Do you call me names?

TOUPEE. Diable! me no stand under your names.

TRUEMAN. Zounds and fury! I am raving. Must I bear to be abus'd in this
manner, by a vile Tonsor?

TOUPEE. Yes, you Schoolmastare; you tell me vat be you booby.

TRUEMAN. Pertinacious, audacious reptile!             [_Canes TOUPEE._

TOUPEE. Ah, mon dieu! mon dieu!                           [_Runs off._

TRUEMAN. To insult a professor of Orthography, Analogy, Syntax, and
Prosody!

SCENE II. _A Street._

_Enter YOUNG LOVEYET._

In compliance with the commands of a father, here I am, once more in the
place of my nativity. Duty to him, and curiosity to know, why he has
enjoined my sudden departure so peremptorily, as well as a desire to see
New-York (perhaps never to leave it more) have all conspir'd to bring me
here sooner than I am expected,--let me see--yes, I must try to find out
Frankton first. [_HUMPHRY crosses the stage._] Here, friend, honest man,
prithee stop.

HUMPHRY. What's your will?

LOVEYET. Can you inform me, friend, where one Mr. Frankton lives?

HUMPHRY. No, I don't know where anybody lives in this big city, not I; for
my part, I believe how they all lives in the street, there's such a
monstrous sight of people a scrouging backards and forards, as the old
saying is. If I was home now--

LOVEYET. Where is your home, if I may make so free?

HUMPHRY. Oh, you may make free and welcome, for the more freer the more
welcomer, as the old saying is; I never thinks myself too good to discourse
my superiors: There's some of our townsfolks now, why some of 'um isn't so
good as I, to be sure. There's Tom Forge, the blacksmith, and little Daniel
Snip, the tailor, and Roger Peg, the cobbler, and Tim Frize, the barber,
and Landlord Tipple, that keeps the ale-house at the sign of the Turk's
Head, and Jeremy Stave, the clerk of the meeting-house, why, there an't one
of 'um that's a single copper before a beggar, as the old saying is; but
what o' that? We isn't all born alike, as father says; for my part, I likes
to be friendly, so give us your hand. You mus'n't think how I casts any
reflections on you; no, no, I scorn the action. [_They shake hands._]
That's hearty now--Friendship is a fine thing, and, a friend indeed is a
friend in need, as the saying is.

LOVEYET. What an insufferable fool it is!               [_Half aside._

HUMPHRY. Yes, it is insufferable cool, that's sartin; but it's time to
expect it.

LOVEYET. Worse and worse!

HUMPHRY. Yes, I warrant you it will be worser and worser before long; so I
must e'en go home soon, and look after the corn and the wheat, or else old
father will bring his pigs to a fine market, as the old proverb goes.

LOVEYET. You're quite right; you mean your father wou'd bring his corn to a
fine market: You mean it as a figurative expression, I presume.

HUMPHRY. Not I, I isn't for none of your figure expressions, d' ye see,
becase why, I never larnt to cipher;--every grain of corn a pig! Ha, ha,
ha. That's pleasant, ecod; why the Jews wou'dn't dare for to shew their
noses out o'doors, everything wou'd smell so woundily of pork! Ha, ha, ha.

LOVEYET. A comical countryman of mine this. [_Aside._] What is your name,
my honest lad?

HUMPHRY. Why, if you'll tell me your name, I'll tell you mine, d' ye see;
for, one good turn desarves another, as the old saying is, and, evil be to
them that evil thinks, every tub must stand upon its own bottom, and, when
the steed is stolen, shut the stable door, and, while the grass grows, the
mare starves--the horse I mean; it don't make no odds, a horse is a mare,
but a mare an't a horse, as father says, d' ye see--and----

LOVEYET. What a monstrous combination of nonsense!

HUMPHRY. Don't tell me what I am, but tell me what I have been--

LOVEYET. Prithee, Mr. Sancho, let's have no more of those insipid proverbs.
You was going to tell me your name.

HUMPHRY. My name is Cubb,--Humphry Cubb, at your sarvice, as the saying is.

LOVEYET. Hah! my worthy friend Frankton----

_Enter FRANKTON._

FRANKTON. My best, my long expected Charles! your arrival has made me the
happiest man alive.

                                                      [_They embrace._

LOVEYET. I am heartily glad to see you, George, and to meet you so
opportunely; 'tis not fifteen minutes since I landed on my native soil, and
you are the very person, above every other in the city, whom I wish'd first
to see.

FRANKTON. Then you have not forgot your friend.

LOVEYET. Far from it, Frankton; be assured that the joy I now feel at
meeting with _you_, is by no means the least I expect to experience.

FRANKTON. Our satisfaction is then mutual--your friends are all happy and
well, and I know your arrival will not a little contribute to _their_
felicity, as well as mine--but who have you here, Loveyet? Landed not
fifteen minutes ago, and in close confab with one of our Boors already?

HUMPHRY. A boar! why you're worser than he there--he only took father's
_corn_ for _pigs_, but do you take _me_ for a _boar_, eigh? Do I look like
a _hog_, as the saying is?

FRANKTON. Begone, you illiterate lubber!--My dear Charles, I have a
thousand things to say to you, and this is an unfit place for conversation.

LOVEYET. We will adjourn to the Coffee-House.

FRANKTON. No, you shall go with me to my lodgings.

HUMPHRY. Why, what a cruel-minded young dog he is! See how he swaggers and
struts--he looks very like the Pharisee's head, on old _Coming Sir_, honest
Dick Tipple's sign, I think--No, now I look at him good, he's the very
moral of our Tory.

LOVEYET. I wait your pleasure, Frankton.

FRANKTON. Then allons!

                                       [_Exeunt FRANKTON and LOVEYET._

HUMPHRY. [_Burlesquing them._] Forward, march--as our Captain
says--[_Struts after them._]--Literary lubber, eigh! But I'll be up with
the foutre.

_FRANKTON and LOVEYET return._

FRANKTON. Do you call me a foutre, you rascal?

HUMPHRY. Call you a future! ha, ha, ha. I was a talking about something
that I was a going for to do some other time, sir.--Doesn't future magnify
some other time, eigh?

FRANKTON. The future signifies the time to come, to be sure.

HUMPHRY. Well, then, isn't I right? What argufies your signifies, or your
magnifies? There an't the toss up of a copper between 'um--I wou'dn't give
a leather button for the choice, as the old proverb goes.

FRANKTON. Harkee, Mr. Talkative, if you ever----

HUMPHRY. No, sir, never,--that I won't--no, no, you may be sure of that.

FRANKTON. Sure of what?

HUMPHRY. Nothing, sir; we can be sartin of nothing in this world, as Mr.
Thumpum says.

LOVEYET. Ha, ha, ha.

FRANKTON. Oh, what a precious numskull it is!

LOVEYET. [_To FRANKTON._] I have a letter here, which announces to my
father, my intention to leave the West-Indies the beginning of March, but I
miss'd of the expected conveyance--I have half a mind to send it yet. I
would not have him apprized of my arrival; for I wish to try if he would
know me;--and yet I long to embrace my aged and venerable parent.--Will you
do me the favour to take this letter to my father, Mr. Cubb? He lives at
number two hundred and fifty, in Queen-Street, in a three-story red brick
house.--I'll reward you for it.

HUMPHRY. As for your rewards, I'm above it, d' ye see: If I do it, I'll do
it without fear or reward, as the saying is; but if you think fit, you may
treat a body to the valuation of a mug or so. Don't you love ale? for they
says how the Yorkers is cursed fellows for strong beer.

LOVEYET. What a digression!

HUMPHRY. I scorn your words--'tis no transgression at all to drink
ale--Why, Parson Thumpum himself drinks ale.

LOVEYET. Well, will you carry the letter? You shall have as much strong
beer when you come back as you can stagger under.

HUMPHRY. Why, if I was for to have my beer a-board before I go, I shou'dn't
get top-heavy, as the saying is; for I can carry as much weight in my head
as e'er a he that wears a head, without staggering.

FRANKTON. I dare say you can; you have always plenty of that.

HUMPHRY. Yes, you're right--I know what you mean; I've got it here a
little, as old Mr. Scourge says. [_Exeunt FRANKTON and LOVEYET._] But as
for what you said just now--no, no, sir; I'll never foutre you, I warrant
you--I always curses and swears in plain English, d' ye see--I--what's he
gone? I hope he won't come back again for the sixth time; three times has
he been in and out within the circumference of a minute. But I won't stay
here no longer--I'll go and try if I can't find out where Doll lives, my
old sweetheart; I an't so poor, but what I can buy her a ribbon or so; and,
if all comes to all, I can get a new pair o' breeches too; for, to be sure,
this one doesn't look quite so decent, and if that doesn't fetch her, the
devil shall, as the old saying is. I'm cursedly afraid, I sha'n't be able
to find out her quarters.

                                                              [_Exit._

SCENE III. _MR. FRIENDLY'S House._

_Enter HARRIET and MARIA._

HARRIET. Pray, Maria, how were you entertained at the Assembly last night?

MARIA. Very indifferently, I assure you, my dear: You know, Harriet, I do
most cordially hate dancing at any time; but what must one do with one's
self these irksome, heavy, dreary Winters? If it were not for cards, visits
to and from, and----

HARRIET. Assemblies.

MARIA. Yes, as my last resource, Assemblies, I should absolutely be in a
state of despair before Spring.--Then one may take an excursion on York or
Long-Island--an agreeable sail on the East-River--a walk in the Broadway,
Pharisee-like, to be seen of men, and--to see them--and then how refreshing
to take a negligent stroll on the Battery, the Fort, the Mall, and from
thence to Miss Such-a-one, then to Mrs. Such-a-one, then to Lady
What's-her-name, and then home;--but now I am half of my time as motionless
as Pitt's statue; as petrified and inanimate as an Egyptian mummy, or
rather frozen snake, who crawls out of his hole now and then in this season
to bask in the rays of the sun.

HARRIET. And whenever the sunshine of Mr. Frankton's eyes breaks upon you,
you revive.

MARIA. Pshaw--I wish you had Mr. Frankton yourself, since you are so full
of his sweet image.

HARRIET. I'm sure you did not wish so last night: Your eyes seem'd to
say,--I wish I could secure the good-for-nothing, agreeable rake.

MARIA. Oh, you _heard_ my _eyes_ say so, did you? I ask pardon of your
penetration.

HARRIET. But do you really think the Winter is so destitute of comforts?

MARIA. Ha, ha, comforts! by comforts I suppose you mean the sweets of
domestic life--the large portion of comfort arising from a large winter
fire, and the very pleasing tittle-tattle of an antiquated maiden aunt, or
the equally pleasing (tho' less loquacious) society of a husband, who, with
a complaisance peculiar to husbands, responds--sometimes by a doubtful
shrug, sometimes a stupid yawn, a lazy stretch, an unthinking stare, a
clownish nod, a surly no, or interrogates you with a--humph? till bed time,
when, heaven defend us! you are doom'd to be snor'd out of your wits till
day-break, when----

HARRIET. Hold, Maria--what a catalogue of uncomfortable comforts have you
run over.--Pleasure and Comfort are words which imply the same thing with
me; but in this enlighten'd age, when words are so curiously refin'd and
defin'd, modern critics and fashionable word-mongers have, in the abundance
of their wisdom, made a very nice distinction between them--for my part, I
always endeavour to reconcile modish pleasure with real comfort, and custom
with reason, as much as is in any way consistent with the obligation one is
under to conform a little to the perverse notions of mankind.

MARIA. There now!--you know I can't abide to hear you moralize--prithee, my
dear Harriet, leave that to grey beards and long-ear'd caps--everything is
beautiful in its season, you know.

HARRIET. Common sense and propriety are ever in season, Maria, and I was
going to mention a _sentimental_ pleasure, a _rational_ enjoyment, which is
peculiar to the present _season_, tho' beautiful in every one, if you had
not got frightened at the idea of being _comforted_.

MARIA. Well, my dear comfortable, rational, sentimental Harriet! Let me
hear what this rational enjoyment of yours is?

HARRIET. Hearing a good play, my dear.

MARIA. Hearing a good play! why not seeing it, pray?

HARRIET. Because I believe plays are frequently seen, and not heard; at
least, not as they ought to be.

MARIA. I protest you are quite a critic, Harriet.

HARRIET. If you desire amusement, what so likely to beguile the heavy hours
as Comedy? If your spirits are depress'd, what so replete with that which
can revive them as the laughter-loving Thalia? If the foibles and vices of
human nature ought to suffer correction, in what way can they be satiriz'd
so happily and successfully as on the stage;--or if elegance of language,
and refinement of sentiment----

MARIA. Humph--there's sentiment again.

HARRIET. You dislike every good thing I have mentioned this morning,
Maria,--except one.

MARIA. What's that, my dear?

HARRIET. Mr. Frankton.

MARIA. Ha, ha. Why, to be sure, the good things of this life are not to be
despis'd, and men are not the worst creatures belonging to this life, nor
Mr. Frankton the worst of men, but--apropos, about plays--did you observe
how much I was affected the other night at the tragedy of Zara?

HARRIET. I really did not--I wish I had seen such a pleasing proof of your
sensibility.

MARIA. Oh, you cruel creature!--wish to see your friend in tears?

HARRIET. 'Tis rather unusual to see a lady of your taste and spirit, either
weep at a pathetic incident in tragedy, or laugh at a comic scene; and as
for the gentlemen, your lads of spirit, such as are falsely called _ladies'
men_, they are not so masculine as to understand, and, therefore, not so
effeminate as to weep; tho' one would conclude, from their effeminacy in
appearance and behaviour, that they would cry if you were to look at them.

MARIA. To be sure, a little matter will draw tears from the feminine part
of mankind.

HARRIET. For your part, you seem'd to be neither laughing nor crying, but
rather displeas'd and uneasy.

MARIA. Oh, you mistake the matter entirely, my dear; your skill in
physiognomy is but indifferent, I find--why, after the tragedy was over, I
laugh'd most inordinately for a considerable time.

HARRIET. On what account, pray?

MARIA. Why, you must know, my dear, Mr. Frankton sat in the box opposite to
the one I was in.

HARRIET. Yes, I know your dear Mr. Frankton was in the opposite box.

MARIA. My dear Mr. Frankton! Did I say so? Why I could not say more of him,
were he my husband.

HARRIET. If you conform to custom, you would not say so much of a husband.

MARIA. But I did not say any such thing. Says I, you must know, my dear
Harriet----

HARRIET. No, no, there was no Harriet mentioned.

MARIA. But I say there was--so, as I was going to tell you, you must know,
my dear Harriet, that Mr. Frankton sat opposite to me at the theatre; and
as he seem'd to be very much chagrin'd at the attention which was paid me
by a couple of beaux, I took some pains to mortify him a little; for, tho'
he strove to hide his uneasiness by chattering, and whispering, and
tittering, and shewing his white teeth, his embarrassment was very visible
under his affected unconcern.

HARRIET. How exactly she has described her own situation and feelings!
[_Aside._]--I find that you acquire _your skill in physiognomy_ from
sympathy; or from making suitable comparisons, and drawing natural
inferences from them; but now for the remainder of your pleasant anecdote,
Maria.

MARIA. So, I was extremely civil to my two worshipping votaries, grinn'd
when they did, and talk'd as much nonsense as either of them. During this
scene of mock-gallantry, one of my love-sick swains elevated his eyes in a
most languishing manner; and, clasping his sweet, unlucky hands together
rather eagerly, my little dog Muff happen'd to be in the way, by which
means my pet was squeez'd rather more than it lik'd, and my Adonis's finger
bit by it so feelingly, that it would have delighted you to see how he
twisted his soft features about, with the excruciating anguish. Ha, ha, ha.

HARRIET. Ha, ha, ha. Exceeding ludicrous indeed!--But pray, my dear
careless, sprightly Maria, was you not a little nettled to see Mr. Frankton
and his nymphs so great? And are you not deeply in love with each other,
notwithstanding your coquetry at the theatre, and his levity at the
Assembly?--Yes, yes,--your aversion to the dancing last night was only
pretence. I hope when your hearts are cemented by wedlock, you will both do
better.

MARIA. It will be well if I do no worse; but, to hear you talk, one would
swear you were not in love yourself.

HARRIET. Love is an amiable weakness, of which our sex are peculiarly
susceptible.

MARIA. Ha, ha, ha; _of which our sex are peculiarly susceptible_--what an
evasion!--and so my dear lovelorn, pensive, sentimental, romantic Harriet
has never experienced that same _amiable weakness_ which, it seems, the
weaker sex is so susceptible of. But I won't tease you about Mr. Loveyet
any more; adieu.

                                                             [_Going._

HARRIET. Ha, ha; why in such sudden haste, my dear?

MARIA. I have already made my visit longer than I intended, and I have
plagu'd you enough now; adieu.

HARRIET. Ha, ha, ha; that is laughable enough.

                                                [_Exeunt, separately._

_End of the First Act._

ACT II.

SCENE I. _FRANKTON'S Lodgings._

_FRANKTON and YOUNG LOVEYET sitting._

LOVEYET. When did you say you saw her?

FRANKTON. Last night, in company with several other belles of no small
note, who did not look a tittle the handsomer for appearing at the same
time with her, I assure you.

LOVEYET. Then she's as charming as ever.

FRANKTON. Charming as ever! By all that's beautiful, a Seraphim is nothing
to her! And as for Cherubims, when they compete with her,

    _Conscious of her superior charms they stand,
    And rival'd quite by such a beauteous piece
    Of mortal composition; they, reluctant,
    Hide their diminish'd heads._

LOVEYET. You extol her in very rapturous strains, George--I hope you have
not been smitten by her vast perfections, like the Cherubims.

FRANKTON. I am really enraptur'd with the bewitching little Goddess!

LOVEYET. Do you positively think her so much superior to the generality of
women?

FRANKTON. Most indubitably I do--don't you, pray?

LOVEYET. I thought her handsome once--but--but--but you certainly are not
in love with her.

FRANKTON. Not I, faith. Ha, ha, ha. My enamorata and yours are two distinct
persons, I assure you--and two such beauties!--By all that's desirable, if
there was only one more in the city who could vie with the lovely girls,
and boast of the same elegantly proportioned forms; the same beauty,
delicacy and symmetry of features; the same celestial complexion, in which
the lily and carnation are equally excell'd; the same----

LOVEYET. Oh, monstrous! Why, they exceed all the Goddesses I ever heard of,
by your account.

FRANKTON. Well, if you had let me proceed, I should have told you that if
one more like them could be found in town, they would make a more beautiful
triple than the three renowned goddesses who were candidates for beauty and
a golden apple long ago; but no matter now.--The account you have given of
the lovely Harriet, has rekindled the flame she so early inspir'd me with,
and I already feel myself all the lover; how then shall I feel, when I once
more behold the dear maid, like the mother of mankind--"with grace in all
her steps, heaven in her eye; in every gesture, dignity and love!"

FRANKTON. Aye--and what do you think of your father's sending for you to
marry you to this same beautiful piece of mortality?

LOVEYET. Is it possible? Then I am happy indeed! But this surpasses my most
sanguine hopes!

FRANKTON. Did you suppose he would object to the alliance then?

LOVEYET. I did not know,--my hope was only founded on the _probability_ of
his approving it.

FRANKTON. Well, I can now inform you that your hope has a better basis to
rest on, and that there is as fair a prospect of its being shortly
swallowed up in fruition as ever Cupid and Hymen presented to a happy
mortal's view.--For your farther comfort, I have the pleasure to acquaint
you, that Mr. Trueman is equally fond of the match.

LOVEYET. Better and better--my dear George! You are the best of
friends,--my happy genius! My very guardian angel!

FRANKTON. Well said, Heroics--come, spout away.

LOVEYET. Yes, I _am_ happy, very happy, indeed: Moralists disparage this
world too much,--there _is_ such a thing as happiness under the sun,--I
_feel_ it now most irrefragably,--_here_ it vibrates in a most extatic
manner.

FRANKTON. Why, you are positively the arrantest love-sick swain that ever
had recourse to a philter.

LOVEYET. Profane heretic in love! Did not you extol the two Seraphims just
now in the same generous language? But you have never experienced the
blissful transition from doubt and solicitude to certainty and peace, as I
do now.

FRANKTON. How do you know that?

LOVEYET. I only conjecture so--Did you ever feel the same transports I do?

FRANKTON. How, in the name of sense, should I know how you feel?

LOVEYET. Feel!--I feel that kind heaven, my friend, my father, and my
dearest girl, all conspire to bless me!

FRANKTON. There he rides his hobby-horse again.

LOVEYET. Aye, and a generous horse he is--he carries me very pleasantly, I
assure you.

FRANKTON. Yes, and, I dare say, could convey you more agreeably and
speedily to Paradise than the Ass did Mahomet.

LOVEYET. Ha, ha. I think you have improved my idea.

FRANKTON. To improve your reason, and check your strange delirium, I have.

LOVEYET. I will talk more dispassionately;--but my heart _will_ palpitate
at the thought of meeting the lovely source of its joy, and the ultimatum
of all its wishes!

FRANKTON. I suppose you know she lives with Mr. Friendly.

LOVEYET. With Mr. Friendly!

FRANKTON. Yes, she is nearly related to his family, and as the style in
which they live, corresponds with her former prosperity better than the
present ineligible situation of her father does, he has granted them her
valuable company, after their repeated solicitations had prov'd the
sincerity of their regard.

LOVEYET. But how do you account for Mr. Trueman's poverty, since fortune
has lately put it so much in Harriet's power to relieve him from it? I dare
not think it arises from her want of filial regard; I do not know anything
so likely to abate the ardour of my attachment as a knowledge of that; but
it is an ungenerous suggestion, unworthy the benignity and tenderness of
the gentle Harriet.

FRANKTON. It is so.--Two things, on the part of the old gentleman, are the
cause: his pride will not suffer him to be the subject of a daughter's
bounty; and his regard for that daughter's welfare, makes him fearful of
being instrumental in impairing her fortune.

LOVEYET. I thought the angelic girl could not be ungrateful to the parent
of her being; but don't let us tarry--I am already on the wing.

FRANKTON. You are too sanguine; you must not expect to succeed without a
little opposition.

LOVEYET. How! what say you? pray be explicit.

FRANKTON. I will remove your suspense.--There is a Mr. Worthnought, a thing
by some people call'd a man, a beau, a fine gentleman, a smart fellow; and
by others a coxcomb, a puppy, a baboon and an ass.

LOVEYET. And what of him?

FRANKTON. Nothing; only he visits Miss Harriet frequently.

LOVEYET. Hah!--and does she countenance his addresses?

FRANKTON. I'll explain.--He imagines she is fond of him, because she does
not actually discard him; upon which presumption he titters, capers, vows,
bows, talks scraps of French, and sings an amorous lay--with such an
irresistibly languishing air, that she cannot do less than compliment
him--on the fineness of his voice, for instance; the smartness of his
repartees, the brilliancy of his wit, the gaiety and vivacity of his
temper, his genteel carriage, his handsome person, his winning address,
his----

LOVEYET. Hah! you surely cannot be in earnest, Frankton.

FRANKTON. To be serious then,--the sum total of the affair, I take to be
this.--In order to kill a heavy hour, she sometimes suffers the fool to be
in her company, because the extravagance of his behaviour, and the
emptiness of his upper region furnish her with a good subject for ridicule;
but _your_ presence will soon make him dwindle into his primitive
insignificance.

LOVEYET. If your prediction proves false, Harriet will be false
indeed;--but I must see her straightway.

FRANKTON. I think you go pretty well fraught with the fruits of our united
deliberations.

LOVEYET. Deliberations!--away with the musty term--

    _No caution need my willing footsteps guide;--
    When Love impels--what evil can betide?
    Patriots may fear, their rulers lack more zeal,
    And nobly tremble for the public weal;
    To front the battle, and to fear no harm,
    The _shield_ must glitter on the warrior's arm:
    Let such dull prudence _their_ designs attend,
    But _Love_, unaided, _shall_ obtain its end!_

                                                            [_Exeunt._

SCENE II. _OLD LOVEYET'S House._

_Enter OLD LOVEYET and TRUEMAN._

LOVEYET. I tell you it is the most infernal scheme that ever was devis'd.

TRUEMAN. And I tell you, sir, that your argument is heterodox, sophistical,
and most preposterously illogical.

LOVEYET. I insist upon it, sir, you know nothing at all about the matter;
and, give me leave to tell you, sir--

TRUEMAN. What--give you leave to tell me I know nothing at all about the
matter! I shall do no such thing, sir--I'm not to be govern'd by your _ipse
dixit_.

LOVEYET. I desire none of your musty Latin, sir, for I don't understand it,
not I.

TRUEMAN. Oh, the ignorance of the age! To oppose a plan of government like
the new Constitution. Like it, did I say?--There never was one like
it:--neither Minos, Solon, Lycurgus nor Romulus, ever fabricated so wise a
system;--why it is a political phenomenon, a prodigy of legislative wisdom,
the fame of which will soon extend almost _ultramundane_, and astonish the
nations of the world with its transcendent excellence.--To what a sublime
height will the superb edifice attain!

LOVEYET. Your aspiring edifice shall never be erected in _this_ State, sir.

TRUEMAN. Mr. Loveyet, you will not listen to reason: only attend calmly one
moment--[_Reads._]--"We the people of the United States, in order to form a
more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquillity,
provide--"

LOVEYET. I tell you I won't hear it.

TRUEMAN. Mark all that. [_Reads again._] "Section the first.--All
legislative powers herein granted shall be vested in a Congress of the
United States, which shall consist of a Senate and House of
Representatives." Very judicious and salutary, upon my erudition.--"Section
the second--"

LOVEYET. I'll hear no more of your sections.

TRUEMAN. "Section the second.--The House of Representatives--"

LOVEYET. They never shall represent me, I promise them.

TRUEMAN. Why, you won't hear me out.

LOVEYET. I have heard enough to set me against it.

TRUEMAN. You have not heard a _quantum sufficit_ to render you competent to
give a decisive opinion; besides, you hear with passion and prejudice.

LOVEYET. I don't care for that; I say it is a devilish design upon our
liberty and property; by my body, it is;--it would reduce us to poverty and
slavery.

_Enter HUMPHRY, listening._

HUMPHRY. What's that about liberty, and property, and slavery, and popery,
and the devil? I hope the pope and the devil an't come to town for to play
the devil, and make nigers of us!

TRUEMAN. You will have it your own way.

LOVEYET. To be sure I will--in short, sir, the old Constitution is good
enough for me.

HUMPHRY. I wonder what Constitution magnifies.

TRUEMAN. The old Constitution!--ha, ha, ha, ha. Superlatively ludicrous and
facetious, upon my erudition; and highly productive of risibility--ha, ha,
ha. The old Constitution! A very shadow of a government--a perfect _caput
mortuum_;--why, one of my schoolboys would make a better: 'tis grown as
superannuated, embecilitated, valetudinarianated, invalidated, enervated
and dislocated as an old man of sixty odd.

LOVEYET. Ah, that's me--that's me--sixty odd, eigh--[_Aside._] I--I--ugh,
ugh, I know what you want:--a consolidation and annihilation of the States.

TRUEMAN. A consolidation and annihilation!--You certainly have bid defiance
to the first rudiments of grammar, and sworn war against the whole body of
lexicographers. Mercy on me! If words are to be thus abus'd and perverted,
there is an end of the four grand divisions of grammar at once: If
consolidation and annihilation are to be us'd synonymously, there is a
total annihilation of all the moods, tenses, genders, persons, nouns,
pronouns, verbs, adverbs, substantives, conjunctions, interjections,
prepositions, participles,--

                                                            [_Coughs._

HUMPHRY. Oh dear, oh dear,--what a wise man a Schoolmaster is!

TRUEMAN. How can the States be consolidated and annihilated too? If they
are consolidated or compounded into one national mass, surely the
individual States cannot be annihilated, for, if they were annihilated,
where would be the States to compose a consolidation?--Did you ever study
Logic, sir?

LOVEYET. No, but I've studied common sense tho', and that tells me I am
right, and consequently you are wrong; there, that's as good logic as
yours.

TRUEMAN. You mean Paine's _Common Sense_, I suppose--yes, yes, there you
manifest something like common sense, Mr. Loveyet.

LOVEYET. 'Tis no such thing, sir; it lately took three speakers, and much
better ones than Paine, no less than three whole days, to prove that
consolidation and annihilation are one and the same thing.

TRUEMAN. An execrable Triumvirate--a _scandalum magnatum_ to all public
bodies: I suppose they and their adherents are now sitting in Pandemonium,
excogitating their diabolical machinations against us.

LOVEYET. A pack of nonsensical stuff!

TRUEMAN. Harkee, Mr. Loveyet, I will propound a problem to you. We will
suppose there are two parallel lines drawn on this floor, which,
notwithstanding they may be very contiguous to each other, and advance _ad
infinitum_, can never approximate so near as to effect a junction, in which
fundamental axiom all mathematicians profess a perfect congruity and
acquiescence:--now, to elucidate the hypothesis a little, we will suppose
here is one line; and we will further suppose here is another line. [_Draws
his cane over LOVEYET'S feet, which makes him jump._] Now we will suppose
that line is you, and this line is compos'd, form'd, constituted, made up
of discernment, political knowledge, public spirit, and true
republicanism,--but, as I predicated antecedently, _that_ line is
you--[_Striking his cane on LOVEYET'S feet._] You must not forget _that_.

LOVEYET. S'death, sir, do you mean to make a mathematical instrument of me,
to try experiments with?

TRUEMAN. Now take notice--as the East is to the West, the North Pole to the
South ditto, the Georgium Sidus to this terraqueous globe, or the
Aborigines of America to the Columbians of this generation, so is that line
to this line, or Mr. Loveyet to true wisdom and judgment; sometimes
appearing to verge towards a coalition with them, but never to effect it.
There, sir,--in this argument, you have a major, a minor and a conclusion,
consonant to the received principles of logic.

LOVEYET. Confound your senseless comparisons; your problems, your
mathematics, and your Georgium Sidus.

HUMPHRY. Aye, confound your gorgon hydras, I say too.

LOVEYET. Here you have been spending your breath to prove--what?--that I am
not a rational human being, but a mathematical line.

TRUEMAN. I know you are not a mathematical line; you are not the twentieth
part so straight and well made;--I only wish to convince you that the
present government is an _ignis fatuus_ that is leading you and thousands
more to ruin.

LOVEYET. But I don't choose to be convinc'd by you.

TRUEMAN. No more than you'll be convinc'd you are sixty years old, I
suppose.

LOVEYET. Now see there again, see there! isn't this enough to try Job's
patience? I'll let you know that my bodily and political Constitutions are
both good, sir, both sound alike.

TRUEMAN. I know they are. Ha, ha, ha.

HUMPHRY. Pray, old gentleman, what sort of things may them same
constitutions be?

TRUEMAN. Avaunt, thou plebeian, thou ignoramus!

HUMPHRY. Why, I lay now I can say that as good as you, for all you're such
a fine scholard.--I won't be plain, thou ignorant mouse.

TRUEMAN. "_Monstrum horrendum, cui lumen ademptum!_"

HUMPHRY. Monstrous memorandums, cu--no, I can't say that; that's too hard
for me. Well, what a glorious thing it is for to have good larning.

LOVEYET. Sixty odd years indeed! provoking wretch!

HUMPHRY. What a bloody passion he's in!

TRUEMAN. Pray, Mr. Loveyet, do not anathematize me so;--if you do not
civilize your phraseology a little, I must have recourse to a little
castigation, for, _necessitas non habet legem_, you know, Mr. Loveyet.

LOVEYET. I know nothing about such nonsense, not I.

TRUEMAN. You are the most unenlightened, contumacious, litigious, petulant,
opprobrious, proditorious, misanthropic mortal I ever confabulated a
colloquy with; by the dignity of my profession you are.

HUMPHRY. What monstrous queer words he discourses the old fellow with!

LOVEYET. Mighty pleasant and witty, by my body; sixty years, forsooth!--But
I'll be aveng'd of you.--Your daughter sha'n't have my son--there,
sir,--how do you like that? Sixty years, indeed! Ugh, ugh.

HUMPHRY. What an old reprobate it is! He swears till he sweats again.

TRUEMAN. What an unlucky affair!                             [_Aside._

LOVEYET. And give me leave to tell you, Mr. Schoolmaster, I was an
old--I--I mean--I was a _great_ fool to disparage him so much as to think
of the match.

TRUEMAN. Illiberal aspersion! But were I as contemptible as you think me, a
disastrous war has rendered me so; and as for my child, Providence has
placed her above dependence on an unfortunate father: the bequest of a
worthy relation has made her, what the world calls, rich; but her mind--is
far richer; the most amiable temper, improved by a virtuous and refined
education (not to mention her beauty) deservedly makes her the object of
general love and respect, and renders your present resolution a matter of
perfect indifference to me.

LOVEYET. Well, well, so be it; but you never shall be Charles's
father-in-law, for all that--that's as fix'd as fate,--you may beg my
forgiveness for your faults by and by, but your daughter shall never be
mine, I promise you.

TRUEMAN. Conceited old sot!                                   [_Exit._

HUMPHRY. He's gone at last.

LOVEYET. What brought _you_ here, pray?

HUMPHRY. Why, my legs, to be sure.--Here, old gentleman, if you'll promise
you won't get in such a passion as you did just now, I've got some news to
tell you.

LOVEYET. I in a passion? 'tis no such thing--I didn't mind anything he
said, because he's old and fretful;--but what news, eigh--what news?

HUMPHRY. Here's a letter for you.              [_Gives it to LOVEYET._

LOVEYET. [_Opens the letter and reads._] I am heartily glad, 'faith!
[_Reads again._]--'Od's my life, I'm as happy as the Great Mogul, and as
good-natur'd--

HUMPHRY. That's clever; I likes to see people good-natur'd,--it makes me as
happy as the Great Pogul.

LOVEYET. I'll go tell old Trueman's daughter, Charles is coming, but not
for her--I know she'll be mortify'd, poor girl, but I can't help that. Who
gave you this letter?

HUMPHRY. Why your son, to be sure.

LOVEYET. When did you leave the _Havanna_, pray?

HUMPHRY. The _Havanna_?

LOVEYET. Yes, are you not from the West-Indies?

HUMPHRY. Who--me?--not I.

LOVEYET. Why, what the plague makes you think he was my son, then?

HUMPHRY. Because he said you was his father--that's a good reason, an't it?
But it's a wise son knows his own father, as the old saying is.

LOVEYET. How can that be, when the letter is dated in the Island of Cuba,
the twentieth day of January, and he says he don't expect to leave it till
the beginning of March, and this is only February, so it is impossible he
shou'd be here yet.

HUMPHRY. May be you an't the old gentleman, then.

LOVEYET. To be sure I an't an _old_ gentleman. Did he say I was old, eigh?

HUMPHRY. Yes, I believe he did.

LOVEYET. I believe you lie--and I'll let you know that I an't old enough to
be his father, you--

HUMPHRY. Well, if the case lies there, that settles the harsh, d' ye see;
but, for my part, I think how you look old enough and ugly enough to be his
great-grandfather, as the old saying is.

LOVEYET. Sirrah, get out of my house, or I'll break your bones for you.

HUMPHRY. I'm a going--howsomever, give me the letter again; you've got no
business with it--you an't his father.

LOVEYET. You lie! I am his father--if he was here, he wou'dn't deny it.

HUMPHRY. Why, he is here, I tell you--here in New-York. I suppose how he's
made a small mistake about the day of the month, and says he's just arrived
from the East-Indies, for he's cursed apt for to make blunders;--that about
the corn and the pigs; ha, ha, ha.

LOVEYET. Do you laugh at me, you vagabond?

HUMPHRY. Not I, old gentleman; I've got too much respect for old age, I'll
insure you.

LOVEYET. I shall go distracted!

HUMPHRY. Put on your spectacles and look again--I'm sure your eyes must
perceive you, for I'll give my corporal oath he an't in the East-Indies.

LOVEYET. It is not the East-Indies, you great calf; you mean the
West-Indies.

HUMPHRY. No matter if it's East or West; the odds an't much for the matter
o' that.

LOVEYET. What an abominable fool!

HUMPHRY. I'm no more a fool than you are--

LOVEYET. Be gone, you scoundrel! Here, Thomas--[_Enter THOMAS._], lug this
fellow out of doors.

THOMAS. Yes, sir.

HUMPHRY. No, you sha'n't tho', d' ye see.

THOMAS. I'm cursedly afraid of the great two-handed fellow too.

                                      [_Aside, and exit with HUMPHRY._

LOVEYET [_manet_].

Abusive rascal! But I won't put myself in a passion with such a vile
animal.--I--I'll read the letter again.

"Honour'd Sir,

"I have just time enough to acquaint you by the _Oceanus_, Captain Seaborn,
who is now preparing to sail, that I have at length adjusted my business so
as to be able to leave this place for New-York, the beginning of March; in
which case you may look for me before the first of April next; when I
promise myself the happiness of seeing you once more, and enjoying the
society of the best of parents: till then I shall continue to be, with
truly filial attachment, and anxious expectation of the happy event, your
obliged and dutiful son,--CHARLES LOVEYET."

I wonder he don't say anything of the coffee and madeira I wrote to him
about;--egad, I must mind the main chance; a penny sav'd, is a penny got;
and charity begins at home. By strictly attending to these excellent
maxims, I am worth about five and twenty per cent. more than any other
merchant in the city; and as for that stupid proverb, money is the root of
all evil, 'tis well enough for those to say so, who have none; for my part,
I know that much of the good things of this world is better than not
enough--that a man can live longer upon a hundred thousand pounds than one
thousand pounds--that if, the more we have the more we want, the more we
have the more we make--and that it is better to make hay while the sun
shines _against_ a rainy day, when I shall be upon my last legs, than to
work and toil like an ass _in_ the rain; so it plainly appears that money
is the root of all good;--that's my logic.--I long to see the young rogue
tho'--I dare say he looks very like his father;--but, had I thought old
Trueman wou'd have us'd me so ill, I wou'd not have wrote for him yet; for
he shall not have his old sweetheart:--if he offers to disobey me in this
respect, by my body, I'll disinherit the ungracious dog immediately.

                                                              [_Exit._

SCENE III. _Another part of LOVEYET'S House._

_DOLLY and THOMAS._

THOMAS. I've set a bowl of grog before him, pretty much to the northward,
and a luncheon of bread and beef almost as big as his head; for he said he
was consumed hungry.

DOLLY. I language to behold him;--but I'm afraid he'll be rude to a
body. [_Enter HUMPHRY, with a large luncheon of bread and butter._]
Oh, as I'm alive, it is Humphry; old Cubb, the miller's son! Now
will the great bear be for rumpling and hugging a body, as he us'd to
do.                                                          [_Aside._

HUMPHRY. How d' ye do again, as the saying is? You're a devilish honest
fellow, as I'm a gentleman; and thank 'e for your frugality, with all my
heart: I've eaten up all the beef and grog, so I thought I wou'd go to the
cupboard, and cut a small slice of bread and butter, d' ye see.

THOMAS. Why didn't you cut yourself a larger slice, while you was about it?

HUMPHRY. Oh, it's big enough, thank 'e; I never eat much at a meal; but if
I crave more, I'll speak. [_Sees DOLLY._] Wha--what--Doll! is that you? Oh,
the wonderful works of nature! Who'd ha' thought to ha' found you here.
What, don't you know me? not know your old sweetheart? By Job, I want to
buss you, most lasciviously.

                          [_Crams all the bread in his mouth in haste,
                            and offers to kiss her.--THOMAS hinders him._

DOLLY. Oh, oh!

THOMAS. What, do you dare to do such a thing before me, you country brute?

HUMPHRY. Aye, no sooner said than done; that's my way.

THOMAS. But you sha'n't say nor do your lascivious tricks before me, I
warrant you.

DOLLY. Oh, the filthy beast! he has frightened me out of my seventy-seven
senses; he has given me a fever.

HUMPHRY. I don't care if you'll give me a favour, or not; for I don't value
it an old horse-shoe, not I; I can get favours enough in New-York, if I go
to the expense.--I know what--I suppose you forget when Jack Wrestle, the
country mack-marony--

DOLLY. Oh, oh!

HUMPHRY. Why, in the country you us'd for to kiss me without axing.

DOLLY. I scorn your words, you worthless blackguard; so I do.

                                                             [_Cries._

THOMAS. Sir, I'd have you to know, sir, that I won't suffer you, sir, to
abuse this young lady, sir, in this manner, sir; and, sir--in short, sir,
you're a dirty fellow, for your pains, sir.

HUMPHRY. And you're a great litterly lubber, as the saying is; and if
you'll be so friendly as for to fetch the mug of ale you promis'd me, I'll
lick you out of pure gratitude: have a care--grog makes me fight like a
tyger.

THOMAS. It's a bargain,--I shou'd be sorry to try you; but I'll go lace you
ale a little, and that will spoil your fighting, I warrant you.

                                                   [_Aside, and exit._

DOLLY. You sha'n't fight him.--Oh, law, I wou'dn't trust myself with him
alone, for the riches of the Indians!

                                                   [_Exit, after him._

HUMPHRY. [_Mimicking her._] What an unfaithless trollop! She's got to be
very vartuous since she's liv'd in town, but vartue is but skin deep, as
the saying is:--wou'dn't even let me kiss her;--I meant nothing but the
genteel thing neither,--all in an honest way. I wonder what she can see in
that clumsy booby's face, for to take his part, sooner than I!--but I'll go
buy a new coat and breeches, and get my head fricaseed, and my beard comb'd
a little, and then I'll cut a dash with the best on 'em. I'll go see where
that ill-looking fellow stays with the ale.

                                                              [_Exit._

_End of the Second Act._

ACT III.

SCENE I. _A Barber's Shop._

_HUMPHRY in new clothes, reading a newspaper.--TOUPEE shaving him._

HUMPHRY. Pray now, master barber, what does Constitution mean? I hears so
many people a quarrelling about it,--I wish I cou'd get somebody to give me
the exclamation of it; here it is among the news too. It's spelt C, O, N,
con--S, T, I, sti--consti--T, U, tu--constitu--T, I, ti--constituti--O, N,
on--con-sti-tu-ti-on,--but your city folks calls it Constitushon; they've
got such a queer pronouncication.

TOUPEE. Vat you please, sare?

HUMPHRY. Yes, it pleases me well enough; I only want to know what it
magnifies.

TOUPEE. Je ne vous entens pas, monsieur.

HUMPHRY. Why, what outlandish dialogue is that you're a talking? I can't
understand your lingo as well as the Schoolmaster's, with his monstrous
memorandums, and his ignorant mouses.

TOUPEE. You be 'quainted with monsieur de Schoolmastare, monsieur?

HUMPHRY. Yes, mounsieur; he and the consumptive old gentleman, old what's
his name, was a wrangling about that confounded name that I was axing you
about;--caw--con--[_Looks at the paper._] aye, Constitution.

TOUPEE. Dat Constitution is no bon;--de Schoolmastare vas strike me for
dat. By gar, I get de satisfaction!

HUMPHRY. He talks as crooked as a Guinea niger.              [_Aside._

TOUPEE. He vas call me--ah, le diable!--block; dis--[_Points to his head._]
blockhead, oui, blockhead.

HUMPHRY. If you've got a mind, I'll lather him for you.

TOUPEE. Yes; den I vill lader you for nothing.

HUMPHRY. You lather me for nothing?--I'll lather you for less yet, you
barber-looking--

TOUPEE. No, no; me lader you so.            [_Lathers HUMPHRY'S face._

HUMPHRY. Oh, with soap-suds, you mean:--I ax pardon, mounsieur; I thought
how you was a going for to lather me without soap-suds or razor, as the old
proverb is.

TOUPEE. Dat is no possible, monsieur.

HUMPHRY. I believe not; you shou'd be shav'd as clean as a whistle, if you
was; 'faith should you.

TOUPEE. Yes, I will shave you very clean;--here is de bon razor for shave
de beard.

                    [_Draws the razor over the back of HUMPHRY'S hand,
                      to shew him it can cut a hair._]

HUMPHRY. [_Bellowing out._] You ill-looking, lousy, beard-combing,
head-shaving rascal! Did you ever know any body for to have a beard upon
their hand?

TOUPEE. You be von big 'merican brute, sur mon âme!

HUMPHRY. You lie, as the saying is. What a mouth he makes whenever he goes
for to talk his gibberage!--He screws it up for all the world like a
pickled oyster. I must have a care I don't get some of that snuff out of
his nose.

TOUPEE. You please for taste de snuff?

HUMPHRY. I don't care if I _smell_ some.

        [_Takes a pinch of snuff, which makes him sneeze, while TOUPEE
          is shaving him; by which he gets his face cut._]

TOUPEE. Prenez garde à vous!

HUMPHRY. The devil take the snuff and you!                   [_Going._

TOUPEE. S'il vous plaît, monsieur, you vill please for take de--de--vat is
dat--de lettre--de shallange to monsieur de Schoolmastare, for fight me?

HUMPHRY. Yes, that I will, with the most carefullest manner;--he shall have
it in the greatest pleasure.

                                   [_TOUPEE gives a paper to HUMPHRY._

TOUPEE. Dat is de bon civility,--I vill be your--a--very good friend.

HUMPHRY. Thank 'e kindly, Mounsieur.             [_Exeunt, severally._

SCENE II. _A Street._

_Enter YOUNG LOVEYET and HUMPHRY._

LOVEYET. Not find where he lives?

HUMPHRY. No;--you're the most unluckiest gentleman for making of
blunders,--didn't you tell me how your father liv'd in number two hundred
and fifty, in Queen-Street, in the three-story brick house?

LOVEYET. I did; is not that the house?

HUMPHRY. No--why, your father don't live there.

LOVEYET. Did you enquire for Mr. Loveyet?

HUMPHRY. Yes, I saw Mr. Loveyet.

LOVEYET. The devil is in the fellow, I believe. Did you give him my letter?

HUMPHRY. Yes, but I didn't want to.

LOVEYET. Why not?

HUMPHRY. Becase I wanted for to carry it to your father.

LOVEYET. What makes you think Mr. Loveyet is not my father?

HUMPHRY. Somebody told me so that's got a good right to know; I've his own
words for it.

LOVEYET. My father tell you so?

HUMPHRY. The young man is crazy, I believe.--I say Mr. Loveyet said you
wasn't his son; so I suppose he can't be your father by that.

LOVEYET. I forgot that the letter would probably produce this
misunderstanding. [_Aside._]--He is the only one I know, whom I have a
right to call my father.

HUMPHRY. May be you're the old fellow's bastard, and if you're a bastard,
you can't be a son, you know: aye, that's the catch, I suppose.

LOVEYET. Your new clothes make you quite smart, Mr. Cubb.

HUMPHRY. Yes, don't I look quite smart, with these here new clothes?
they're all new, I'll insure you--only a little the worse for wear; I
bought 'em at the vandue option, at the Fly-Market.

LOVEYET. But how came you by that patch on one side of your face, and that
large crop of beard on the other?

HUMPHRY. Mounsieur, the outlandish barber, give me a small cut across the
whiskers; but the best of all you ha'n't seen yet;--see here.

                                                 [_Pulls off his hat._

LOVEYET. Aye, now you look something like--quite fierce--entirely the fine
gentleman, upon my falsehood. A genteel dress is the very soul of a man,
Mr. Cubb.

HUMPHRY. Like enough, for I've got more soul to shew myself, now I cut such
a dash; I've got a soul to see the shews at the play-house; and, I think,
I've got a great deal more soul to spend a few shillings at the ale-house.

LOVEYET. That's true; I'm glad you remind me of my promise.

HUMPHRY. Not I, I didn't remind you,--I scorn it.

LOVEYET. I dare say you do. [_Gives him money._] There, drink my health
with that.

HUMPHRY. With all my heart--soul, I mean;--aye, here's soul
enough--[_Jingling the money._]--to buy the matter o' twenty mugs;--come,
let's go at once.

LOVEYET. I?--excuse me, sir; I have particular business elsewhere.--Sir,
your most humble servant.

HUMPHRY. Sir, I am your most humble sarvint too. [_Bows awkwardly._]

                                                 [_Exeunt, severally._

SCENE III. _MR. FRIENDLY'S House._

_Enter HARRIET._

[_Knocking at the door._] What an incessant knocking! Mr. Friendly's family
are out, and between their company and my own, I expect to be engaged all
day: I am fairly tired of these morning visits;--they are fashionable, and,
therefore, agreeable, to those who can make propriety and happiness
subservient to custom and false politeness; but, for my part--

_Enter SERVANT._

SERVANT. Miss Airy is waiting in her carriage, madam.

HARRIET. Admit her. [_Exit SERVANT._] She is the only one I wish to see
this morning.

_Enter MARIA._

MARIA. My dear Harriet, I am rejoic'd to find you at home;--I this minute
heard something, which I knew would make you happy; and that, I trust, is a
good excuse for troubling you twice a day with my company.

HARRIET. You wrong my friendship, Maria, if you think you can oblige me too
often with your desirable company; 'tis true I was wishing for a little
cessation of that torrent of formal visitors which is pouring in from
morning till night; but far be it from Harriet to reckon her Maria among
that number.

MARIA. You are very good, my dear; but you must give me leave to be a
little jealous that I am not the only one who is favoured with such a
preference.

HARRIET. Indeed, I do not know any one I have a particular desire to see
this morning, except yourself.

MARIA. You forget Mr. Loveyet, when you say so.

HARRIET. Poh! I am not talking of men.

MARIA. No; but it is very probable you are _thinking_ of _a man_.

HARRIET. And pray what reason have you to think, that my thoughts run upon
such an improper subject?

MARIA. _Improper subject_,--ha, ha, ha. So my very discreet, prudish little
Harriet never lets man enter into her head; tho' it is pretty notorious
somebody has enter'd into her heart long ago.

HARRIET. Your discernment must be very subtle, if you know all that is in
my heart.

MARIA. I only judge of your heart, by your tongue; and the abundance of the
former is generally inferred from the speech of the latter.--Yes, yes--that
constant, hypocritical heart of yours is now throbbing with love, hope,
curiosity, and--a thousand speechless sensations, the improper subject of
which, I do not hesitate to declare, is odious man; and that man, the
accomplished Mr. Loveyet.

HARRIET. Pshaw,--how can you tantalize one so?

MARIA. Well, well, it shall not be serv'd like Tantalus any more: _he_ was
doom'd to behold; and, beholding, to wish and languish for the tempting
draught, in vain: but a better doom awaits the happy Harriet;--what she
desires is not thus interdicted, but will soon be obtain'd, and--

HARRIET. How strangely you talk, Maria.

MARIA. Well, I will not keep you in suspense any longer. Old Mr. Loveyet
has received a letter from his son, signifying his intention to leave the
West-Indies shortly after its date, so you may expect to see him very soon.
Then hey for a wedding, &c.

HARRIET. Ha, ha; you are a droll girl.

MARIA. But my time is precious; I am just going to the widow
Affable's:--about twelve months ago she paid me a visit, when, agreeably to
the form in such cases made and provided, she beg'd I would be more
sociable, and she would take it so kindly of me:--accordingly I shall step
in _en passant_, to shew her my sociability and kindness, which I shall,
perhaps, repeat at the end of another year.

HARRIET. How can you be so cruel? The pleasure I experience in your
society, makes me regret that any one should be deprived of it.

MARIA. That is very strange:--I should imagine, if you priz'd my company so
much, you would wish me to withhold it from others; because, the more I
bless them with my presence, the less will come to your share, you know, my
dear;--nor is it easy to conceive how you could be so fond of my sweet
person, without being jealous at the partiality of others;--but, after all,
good people, they say, are scarce; and my humble admirers shall find the
saying verified in me; because they are not fully sensible of my superior
value; but, since you prove the contrary, by extolling my conversation and
friendship so much, I likewise shall observe a contrary conduct, and
indulge you with a _tête-à-tête_ frequently, my dear.--But I have fifty
places to call at yet:--I am to wait on Miss Nancy Startup, Miss Biddy
Dresswise, Miss Gaudy, Miss Titterwell, Mrs. Furbelow, Mrs. Neverhome,
Mrs--_et cætera, et cætera_; which visits I mean to pay with all the
formality and fashionable shortness in my power: from thence I shall
proceed to Mademoiselle Mincit, the milliner; from thence to two or three
score of shops in William-Street, to buy a prodigious number of important--

HARRIET. Trifles.

MARIA. You are right, my dear;--as I live, I would not be one of those
officious "Nothing else, Ma'ms?" for all the goods from the North Church to
Maiden-Lane.--Adieu,--I leave you to meditate on what I have told you.

HARRIET. Farewell. [_Exit MARIA._] Now Maria is gone, I will see no more
company.--If anything can be an excuse for a falsehood, the present
occasion offers a very good one:--I feel my mind pretty much at ease, and I
do not choose to have it disturbed by the impertinence of pretended
friends.--Who is there?

_Enter SERVANT._

SERVANT. Madam.

HARRIET. Whoever calls to see me to-day, remember I am not at home.

SERVANT. Mr. Worthnought is here now, Madam; must I deny you to him?

HARRIET. Undoubtedly. [_Exit SERVANT._] I am disgusted with the repetition
of that coxcomb's nonsense.--[_Sighs._]--I wish Charles was here:--In spite
of the false delicacy of that tyrant, Custom, which forbids us to speak the
exquisite effusions of a susceptible heart, I can now speak boldly, while
that heart dictates to the willing tongue what complacence it feels at the
prospect of its Charles's return.

                                                              [_Exit._

SCENE IV. _Another part of MR. FRIENDLY'S House._

_WORTHNOUGHT, discovered solus._

WORTHNOUGHT. Who comes here! He sha'n't see her, if I don't,
'foregad--Curse me, but he shall go away with a flea in his ear.

_Enter YOUNG LOVEYET, followed by HUMPHRY._

HUMPHRY. Mr. Lovit--Mr. Lovit.--[_Takes him aside._] As I was a going
along, d'ye see, I see you pop in here, and so I follow'd you, to tell you,
how old Mr. Lovit said he was intend for to go for to see the old fellow's
daughter, to tell her something about the letter. Don't Mrs. Harriet live
here?

LOVEYET. I'll make haste, and supersede the design of his
errand, if possible;--it would be a pity he should come before I had
appriz'd Harriet I was not in the West-Indies. [_Aside._]--I am
obliged to you for your information.                    [_To HUMPHRY._

HUMPHRY. Thank 'e, as the saying is. [_Going,--WORTHNOUGHT whispers with
him._]--What's that to you?--How clumsy mounsieur has dress'd his
calabash!--Powder'd over the face and eyes.

                                                              [_Exit._

WORTHNOUGHT. I wish I knew what he wanted with him;--perhaps it is
something about me.                                          [_Aside._

LOVEYET. What Butterfly is this we have here!--I suppose it is the fop,
Frankton mentioned.                                          [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. Sir, I have the honour to be, with the profoundest respect
and esteem, your most obedient, most devoted, and most obliged humble
slave, _foy d'Homme d'Honneur_--Tol lol, &c.                 [_Sings._

LOVEYET. A very pompous salutation, truly. [_Aside._]--Your polite address
does me too much honour, sir;--I cannot conceive how you can be my obliged
slave, as I do not recollect I ever saw you before.

WORTHNOUGHT. Why, sir, I'll tell you:--Your appearance, sir, bespeaks the
gentleman of distinction, sir,--

LOVEYET. My _appearance_;--superficial coxcomb!              [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. 'Tis true, my words were words of course; but I meant every
word, sir, 'pon hanor.--"Cupid, Gad of saft persuasion, &c."
                                 [_Sings affectedly, and takes snuff._

LOVEYET. Humph,--To whom, sir, am I indebted, for so much civility?

WORTHNOUGHT. Dick Worthnought, esquire, at your service, sir.

LOVEYET. The very fool.                                      [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. And give me leave to add, sir, that I feel the highest
felicity, that you have given me so good an opportunity of asking you, in
my turn, for the favour of your name, sir.

LOVEYET. My name is Loveyet, sir.--With what solemnity the coxcomb talks!
                                                             [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. A native of this city, I presume, Mr. Loveyet.

LOVEYET. I am, sir; but I have been absent for some years, and, as I was a
youth when I left the city, I cannot be supposed to have retained much of
the Yorker.

WORTHNOUGHT. Pardon me, sir;--to a person of penetration, the Yorker is
still conspicuous under the disguise of the foreigner; and I am proud to
have the hanor of being your countryman, sir.

LOVEYET. I fancy the honour is by no means reciprocal.       [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. You are acquainted with Miss Harriet Trueman, I presume, Mr.
Loveyet.

LOVEYET. I was formerly acquainted with the lady.

WORTHNOUGHT. You must know, sir, that your humble servant has the hanor and
felicity of being that lady's very humble admirer.

LOVEYET. I dare say she is admired by all who have the pleasure of knowing
her.

WORTHNOUGHT. Give me leave, sir,--I mean her lover.

LOVEYET. Conceited ape!                                      [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. _You_ have no pretensions, sir, I presume.

LOVEYET. Pretensions?

WORTHNOUGHT. Aye, sir; I thought you might have a small _penchant_, as the
French call it;--you apprehend me; but she don't intend to see company
to-day. I am monstrously chagrin'd, sir, 'foregad, that I have it not in my
power to introduce you to the divine mistress of my heart; but, as matters
are circumstanc'd, I think it is not worth our while to stay.

LOVEYET. I mean to see Miss Trueman before I shall think so.

WORTHNOUGHT. Oh, fie, sir;--you wou'd not force a lady to give you her
company against her inclination:--perhaps, indeed, she may appear to
receive you with some warmth, and you may flatter yourself you have fairly
made a canquest of her, and think Dick Worthnought esquire, is out-rival'd;
but if so, you are most demnably bit, 'foregad, for she's as slippery as
ice, tho' not quite so cold;--she is the very standard of true modern
coquetry, the quintessence of the _beau-monde_, and the completest example
of New-York levity, that New-York has the hanor to call its beautiful
inhabitant: ha, ha,--she'll jilt you;--however, the dear creature, with all
her amiable foibles, has been so profuse of her attention to me, that I
should be ungrateful not to acknowledge the various favours she has hanor'd
me with.

LOVEYET. Consummate impudence! [_Aside._]--Miss Trueman's character is well
known, sir.

WORTHNOUGHT. Miss Trueman's character! Demme, sir, do you mean to say
anything against her character?

LOVEYET. No;--and I will take care you shall not, with impunity.

WORTHNOUGHT. You are the most unmannerly fellow I ever convers'd with, 'pan
hanor.

LOVEYET. And you the most contemptible puppy; or that fellow would be
unmannerly enough to chastise you for your insolence.

WORTHNOUGHT. That's a demnable rub, demme;--curse him, I'm afraid he isn't
afraid of me, after all. [_Aside._]--You wou'd find me as brave as yourself
then; demme, but you wou'd.

LOVEYET. I'll try you. [_Offers to cane him, which makes him cry out.--Then
enter HARRIET, hastily._]

HARRIET. Oh, dear!--what's the matter?

                                       [_Seeing CHARLES, she shrieks._

LOVEYET. My dearest,--my adorable Harriet!

HARRIET. Is it possible? I did not dream that Mr. Loveyet was the person
who wanted to see me.

LOVEYET. And am I again blest with a sight of the dear object of all my
wishes and affections!--I thank you, heaven; you have been bountiful,
indeed! The rolling billows, under your propitious guidance, have at length
wafted me to my native land, to love and my dear Harriet.

WORTHNOUGHT. What the devil does he mean!                    [_Aside._

HARRIET. Your unexpected appearance, and the unaccountable circumstance
which attends it, have discomposed me in such a manner, that I cannot
express, as I wish, how happy I am in your safe arrival.

WORTHNOUGHT. Hah,--happy in his arrival! If so, she will not be very
happy in his rival, I'm afraid.                              [_Aside._

LOVEYET. I will explain the occasion of my charmer's fright
immediately;--at present I can only tell you that your wou'd-be lover,
here--

HARRIET. My lover!

LOVEYET. So he confidently call'd himself, and took such other insufferably
vain and impudent freedoms with your name, that I attempted to give him a
little wholesome admonition with this, if his effeminate cries had not
brought my lovely Harriet in to prevent me; but the very attempt has proved
him to be the basest of dastards. [_While he is saying this, WORTHNOUGHT
makes several attempts to interrupt him._]

HARRIET. [_To WORTHNOUGHT._] I am equally surpriz'd and incens'd, sir, that
you would dare to take such freedoms with my name.

LOVEYET. Be assured, Miss Harriet, if you condescend to grant your valuable
company to such superficial gentry, they will ever prove themselves as
unworthy of it as he has; but your goodness does not let you suspect the
use which such characters make of the intimacy they are honour'd with, or
you would spurn their unmeaning flattery, and ridiculous fopperies, with
indignation.

HARRIET. I ever till now consider'd him as a respectful, well-meaning
person, as far as regarded myself; and as such, gave him a prudent share of
my civilities; but I never thought either his intellects or his person
sufficient to entitle him to a partial intimacy.

WORTHNOUGHT. You cannot deny, madam, that I have repeatedly experienced the
most flattering proofs of your partiality, that a lady (who values her
reputation) can ever bestow on her admirer.

HARRIET. Contemptible thing! An admirer, forsooth! Of what?--Your ideas are
too mean and frothy to let you admire anything but my dress, or some other
trifle as empty and superficial as the trifler I am speaking to. My
demeanour towards you was nothing but the effect of cheerfulness and
politeness; qualities which, I believe, are inherent in me, and of which,
therefore, all with whom I am acquainted are the objects; but your present
unmanly and insupportably impudent discourse, makes me despise myself
almost as much as you, for allowing such a wretch even that small degree of
attention which he so illy deserved.

WORTHNOUGHT. You are very insulting, madam, 'pan hanor.--

LOVEYET. How apt such fellows are to have _honour_ in their mouths.
                                                             [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. This is only a trick to conceal your inconstancy during his
absence; but it is the nature of the sex to deceive us.

HARRIET. 'Tis the nature of a fool to say so; and if that fool does not
instantly quit the subject and the house together, I must request the
favour of Mr. Loveyet to make him.

LOVEYET. "As matters are circumstanced, Mr. Worthnought, I think it is not
worth your while to stay."

WORTHNOUGHT. Her unparallel'd rudeness shall not compel me to leave the
house, till I please.

LOVEYET. "Oh, fie, sir,--you would not force a lady to give you her company
against her inclination."

WORTHNOUGHT. You are very fond of echoing my words, it seems.

LOVEYET. Yes, when I can apply them to your disappointment and
disgrace.--"I am monstrously chagrin'd, sir, 'foregad, that I have it not
in my power to introduce you to the divine mistress of my heart." Ha, ha,
ha.

WORTHNOUGHT. 'Tis very well,--I will have revenge;--if the laws of
politeness (which I would rather die than infringe) did not forbid swearing
before a _lady_ [_In a contemptuous tone._], curse me, but I would d----n
you for a--

LOVEYET. [_Interrupting him._]--"You must know, sir, I have the hanor and
felicity of being this lady's very humble admirer."--You have failed in
your predictions, I think, sir.

WORTHNOUGHT. Yes, and she shall soon pay for her duplicity; tho' I would
not have you think that her ill usage mortifies me in the least: I never
was in love with her, nor did I ever intend marriage, which is more than
_she_ can say; and, I believe, it is fortunate for us both, that you
arriv'd when you did, or something might have happened, which would have
obliged me to marry her, merely to prevent her from being miserable.--Ha,
ha, ha. Tol lol, &c.

                                                              [_Exit._

HARRIET. What a superlative wretch!

LOVEYET. He is too contemptible to cost you a thought, Harriet:--none but
the puppy tribe, and a few splenetic old maids, will pay any attention to
his slander; they, no doubt, will spread it with avidity;--but to be
traduced by such, is to be praised.--Hah!--there comes my father;--I forgot
to tell you I expected him here: I will try if he knows me.

_Enter OLD LOVEYET._

OLD LOVEYET. Madam, your most obedient;--Sir, your servant.

LOVEYET. [_Bows._] I find he does not know me:--Nature, be still; for now I
feel he is indeed my father.

HARRIET. Mr. Loveyet, I am happy to see you.

OLD LOVEYET. She would not be quite so happy, if she knew my errand.
[_Aside._]--I have waited on you, madam, upon disagreeable business.

HARRIET. How, sir?--I beg you will not leave me in suspense: What is it?

OLD LOVEYET. It is a matter of a delicate nature, madam, and therefore,
must not be spoken at random.

LOVEYET. Heaven avert any unfavourable event!                [_Aside._

HARRIET. Mr. Loveyet, your cautious innuendoes give me sensible uneasiness.

LOVEYET. I will withdraw, Miss Trueman;--My love--friendship, I would say,
though it wishes to afford you happiness, and participate in your troubles,
does not presume to intrude on the private conversation Mr. Loveyet wishes.

HARRIET. I dare say your presence is no restraint, sir.

OLD LOVEYET. I don't know that, madam: pray, who is the gentleman?

HARRIET. The gentleman is my very particular friend, sir.

OLD LOVEYET. By my body, here is rare work going on.--[_Aside._]--Well,
madam, as the gentleman is your _very particular friend_; and as his
_love_--friendship, I mean, is so great, that you dare to entrust all your
secrets with him; I shall acquaint you, that, as you and my son have long
entertained a partiality for each other, and being desirous to fulfill all
my engagements, as well as to make him happy, I have wrote for him to come
and conclude the marriage; but, for very good reasons, I have this day
determined to forbid the bans; and Mr. Trueman says, he is very willing
too.

LOVEYET. Hah!--what can all this mean?                       [_Aside._

OLD LOVEYET. You must know, madam, your father has us'd me very ill;
and--to be plain with you, madam, your familiarity with this person,
convinces me you wou'd have play'd the fool with my son, without my
breaking the match. Ugh, ugh.

LOVEYET. The old gentleman imagines I am going to cut myself out, it
seems.                                            [_Aside to HARRIET._

HARRIET. You do not know who this is, sir, or you would not put any
improper constructions on the friendly freedom you have observ'd between
us.

LOVEYET. True; and, therefore, you need not be concerned at what he
says.--Since he has made this unlucky resolution, he must not know who I
am.                                               [_Aside to HARRIET._

OLD LOVEYET. How well she dissembles!--_Friendly freedom,_--a pretty term
that, for the wanton hussy. [_Aside._]--I wish Charles was here now; he
wou'd acknowledge his father's kindness in preventing a match, which, I am
sure, would end in sorrow and disappointment.

LOVEYET. I doubt that much.--This parent of mine is a singular
character.                                        [_Aside to HARRIET._

HARRIET. It is necessary you should be made acquainted with some of his
oddities: his most striking peculiarity is a desire to be thought younger
than he is; and, I dare say, some remark of my father, respecting his age,
is the only cause of his present ill humour.

OLD LOVEYET. Look how they whisper!--well, she is the most brazen coquette
I ever knew!--Yes, yes, now her scandalous conduct is glaring enough.
[_Aside._]--I wish you and your _very particular friend_, a good day,
madam.

                                                              [_Exit._

HARRIET. I think our troubles increase fast: how unlucky, that this dispute
should happen at the very crisis of your arrival;--an event which we fondly
expected would be attended with the most pleasing circumstances.

LOVEYET. Those fond expectations, my lovely partner in trouble, shall soon
be realized;--this is only the momentary caprice of old age.

HARRIET. You must take care not to talk of _age_, before him.

LOVEYET. Yes, my fair monitor; I shall think of that: and now permit me, in
my turn, to give you a little advice.--In the first place, I would have you
go to your father--fall at his feet--clasp your fair hands,
thus--beseeching him in such terms as that gentle heart is so well form'd
to dictate, and persuading him with the all-prevailing music of that
tuneful voice, to recall his rigourous intention, nor doom such angelic
goodness and beauty to despair, by persisting to oppose an alliance which
alone can make you blest; and without which, the most faithful of lovers
will be rendered the most wretched one on earth. I shall take a similar
method with my old gentleman, and I think I can insure myself success.

HARRIET. This is all very fine; but--to have the voluntary consent of the
parent one loves,--how infinitely more agreeable! I would not offend mine,
for the world: and yet--

LOVEYET. And yet you will be obliged to offend him, by having me, eigh?

HARRIET. Pshaw;--how strangely you misconstrue my meaning: I was going to
observe, that I expect his obstinacy and pride will prove invincible, in
spite of all the rhetoric you are pleased to ascribe to me.

LOVEYET. Then we will employ a little rhetoric, against which another class
of fathers are not quite so invincible.--Parsons are plenty, you know; and
Gold and Silver are persuasive little words. _Love_ inspires me with the
spirit of prophecy, and tells me I shall soon with propriety call the
loveliest of her sex, mine.

HARRIET. You are very eloquent, Mr. Loveyet: I do not think the subject
merits so many florid speeches.

LOVEYET. Not merit them!--

    _'Tis not in human language, to define
    Merit so rare, and beauty--so divine!
    Then what avails this little praise of mine?_

HARRIET. _Harriet deserves not praise so great as thine._

                                                            [_Exeunt._

_End of the Third Act._

ACT IV.

SCENE I. _TRUEMAN'S House._

TRUEMAN [_solus_].

I sincerely lament this unfortunate dispute.--I know Harriet loves that
young fellow, though he has been so long absent; and, therefore, I regret
it; for, to what end do I live but to see her happy!--But I will not give
way to his father;--perhaps he may think better of the matter, for I know
him to be of a placable nature, though passionate;--and yet he seems to be
inflexible in his resolution.

_Enter HUMPHRY._

HUMPHRY. Sarvint, Mr. Schoolmaster;--here's a challenge for you.

                                   [_Gives TRUEMAN the barber's note._

TRUEMAN. A challenge! Surely the old blockhead would not make himself so
ridiculous.

HUMPHRY. Yes, it's for that;--I remember he said you call'd him a
blockhead.

TRUEMAN. You may go and tell him I advise him to relinquish his
knight-errant project, or I will expose his absurdity by taking the
advantage which the law offers in such cases.

HUMPHRY. That is, you'll take the law of him, if he goes for to fight you.

TRUEMAN. Fight me!--Oh, grovelling idea! Wit-forsaken progeny of a more
than soporific pericranium! Fight me!--Hear and be astonished, O Cicero,
Demosthenes, Socrates, Plato, Seneca, Aristotle,--

HUMPHRY. Oh, for shame!--Do you read Haristotle?

TRUEMAN. Be it known to thee, thou monstrous mass of ignorance, if such an
uninformed clod, dull and heavy as that element to which it must trace its
origin, can comprehend these very obvious and palpable truths, expressed in
the most plain, simple, easy, unscholastic diction.--I repeat again, that
you may apprehend me with the greater perspicuity and facility,--be it
known to thee, that those immaculate sages would have died rather than have
used such an expression; by the dignity of my profession, they would:--'tis
true that the ancients had such things as single combats among the Olympic
games, and they were always performed by the populace; but such a fight,
alias a tilt, a tournament, a wrestle, could not, according to the rule of
right, and the eternal fitness and aptitude of things, be properly
denominated a _bona fide_ fight; for, as I before observed, it was _ipso
facto_, a game, an Olympic game.--Olympic, from Olympus.

HUMPHRY. Pray now, Mr. Schoolmaster, if a body mought be so bold, what do
you think of the last war? Does your Schoolmastership think how that was a
fona bide fight?

TRUEMAN. You are immensely illiterate; but I will reply to your
interrogatory.--My opinion of the late war, is as follows, to
wit.--_Imprimis._ The Americans were wise, brave and virtuous to struggle
for that liberty, independence and happiness, which the new government will
now render secure. _Item._ The Americans were prodigious fortunate to
obtain the said liberty, independence and happiness. A war, encounter,
combat, or, if you please, fight like this, is great and glorious; it will
immortalize the name of the renowned WASHINGTON,--more than that of
Cincinnatus, Achilles, Æneas, Alexander the Great, Scipio, Gustavus Vasa,
Mark Anthony, Kouli Khan, Cæsar or Pompey.

HUMPHRY. Cæsar and Pompey! Why them is nigers' names.

TRUEMAN. _O tempora! O mores!_

HUMPHRY. He talks Greek like a Trojan.--Tempora mores;--I suppose how
that's as much as to say, it was the temper of the Moors, that's the
nigers, for to be call'd Cæsar and Pompey.--I guess how he can give me the
exclamation of that plaguy word.--Con--let me see [_Spells it in the manner
he did before._]--Please your worshipful reverence, Mr. Schoolmaster,
what's Latin for Constitution?

TRUEMAN. To tell you what is Latin for Constitution, will not make you a
particle the wiser; I will, therefore, explain it in the vernacular
tongue.--Constitution then, in its primary, abstract, and true
signification, is a concatenation or coacervation of simple, distinct
parts, of various qualities or properties, united, compounded, or
constituted in such a manner, as to form or compose a system or body, when
viewed in its aggregate or general nature. In its common, or generally
received, acceptation, it implies two things.--First, the nature, habit,
disposition, organization or construction of the natural, corporeal, or
animal system.--Secondly, a political system, or plan of government. This
last definition, I apprehend, explains the Constitution you mean.

HUMPHRY. Like enough, but I don't understand a single word you've been a
talking about.

TRUEMAN. No! 'Tis not my fault then:--If plainness of language, clearness
of description, and a grammatical arrangement of words will not suffice, I
can do no more.

_Enter OLD LOVEYET listening._

HUMPHRY. I mean the Constitution that you read in the newspapers about;
that that your worship was a going to get at loggerheads with old Mr.
What's-his-name, about.

LOVEYET. I'll old you, you rascal!

TRUEMAN. Did you never hear your friends in the country talk of the new
Constitution?

HUMPHRY. Not I, I never heard anybody talk about it, at the Pharisee's
Head;--I don't believe Jeremy Stave, the clark of the meeting-house, no,
nor Parson Thumpum himself ever heard of such a word--No, not even old Mr.
Scourge, the Schoolmaster.

TRUEMAN. A hopeful genius, for a Schoolmaster, upon my education. Do you
send him to me,--I'll qualify him for that important station.

HUMPHRY. And I'll be qualify'd I never larnt such a word when I went to his
school.

TRUEMAN. Nor any other one, I believe, properly speaking.

HUMPHRY. Oh yes, I'll say that for him;--he us'd to take a great deal of
pains for to larn us proper speaking.

TRUEMAN. The Constitution you hear so much noise about, is a new
government, which some great and good men have lately contrived, and now
recommend for the welfare and happiness of the American nation.

LOVEYET. Oh, the traitor!

HUMPHRY. But didn't old Mr. What's-his-name say, how they wanted for to
make slaves of us?

LOVEYET. There's _old_ Mr. What's-his-name, again.

TRUEMAN. Mr. Loveyet is a weak man;--you must not mind what he says.

LOVEYET. Oh, I shall burst!

TRUEMAN. Only think now of his sending me a challenge, because I told him
he was sixty odd years of--

LOVEYET. [_Running towards them._] Death and the devil! Have I sent you a
challenge?

HUMPHRY. No, not you, old gentleman.

LOVEYET. I'll give you _old_ gentleman.--Take that, for calling me old
again. [_Offers to strike him; but missing his blow, he falls down._] Oh,
what an unlucky dog I am! My evil genius is certainly let loose today.

TRUEMAN. Let us coolly enquire into this enigmatical affair, Mr. Loveyet.
[_Breaks open the note, and reads._] What is all this?--Booby--blockhead--
satisfaction--challenge--courage--honour--gentleman--honour'd per Monsieur
Cubb.

HUMPHRY. Aye, that's I.

TRUEMAN. And pray, Mr. Cubb, who gave you this pretty epistle?

HUMPHRY. Why, mounsieur, the barber.

TRUEMAN. By the dignity of my profession, it must be so:--Now there's a
solution to the enigma.--Mr. Loveyet, you will excuse my mistaking this
business so much;--the paltry Frisieur never enter'd my head;--you
recollect I gave him a little flagellation this morning.

LOVEYET. Yes, and I recollect the occasion too;--this confounded upstart
Constitution (that cause of all my crosses and troubles) is at the bottom
of every mischief.

TRUEMAN. Yes, your wou'd-be Constitution, has indeed done a deal of
mischief.

LOVEYET. I deny it;--it is perfectly inoffensive and mild.

TRUEMAN. Mild, indeed:--happy would it be for America, if her government
was more coercive and energetic!--I suppose you have heard that
Massachusetts has ratified this upstart Constitution;--this is the sixth
grand column in the federal edifice; we only want three more to make up
the lucky nine; and then the nine Muses will make our western world their
permanent abode; and _he_ who is at once their Favourite and Patron, will
preside over the whole: then we shall see another Golden Age; arts will
then flourish, and literature be properly encouraged. That's the grand
_desideratum_ of _my_ wishes.

LOVEYET. A fig for your Latin and your literature!--That's the way your
unconstitutional Constitutionalists take the advantage of our weak side,
and--

TRUEMAN. And the said weak side being easily discovered, as you have but
one side,--go on, sir.

LOVEYET. And cram their unconstitutional bolus down our throats, with
Latin;--you and your vile junto of perfidious politicians want to _Latin_
us out of our liberties.

HUMPHRY. Well, why don't they take the law of the pollikitchens then, eigh?

TRUEMAN. Mr. Loveyet, I never knew a man of your age and wisdom--

LOVEYET. Age, sir!--Wisdom!--Yes, wisdom, sir.--Age again, eigh? Ugh, ugh.

TRUEMAN. Was there ever such preposterous behaviour!--You are getting as
crazy as your favorite Constitution.

LOVEYET. You are crazier than either, you old blockhead, or you would not
make such a crazy speech: I say my constitution is a thousand per cent.
better than yours. Ugh, ugh, ugh.

TRUEMAN. A pretty figure for a good constitution! What a striking instance
of health, youth, and beauty! How emblematically grotesque! The very image
of deformity and infirmity! A perfect mirror for Milton's description of
Sin and Death.

    _Not Yorick's skull, nor Hamlet's ghost,
    Nor all the tragic, stage-made host;
    With saucer eyes, and looks aghast,
    Would make me run away so fast:
    Not all who Milton's head inspire,--
    "Gorgons and Hydras and Chimæras dire!"
    Nor haggard Death, nor snake-torn Sin,
    Look half so ugly, old and thin;
    No--all his hell-born, monstrous crew,
    Are not so dire a sight as you!_

[_While TRUEMAN is saying this, LOVEYET appears to be in a violent
  rage, and makes several attempts to interrupt the former, who shuns
  LOVEYET, as if afraid._]

LOVEYET. Fire and murder!--Must I bear to be held up for such a monster?
Perdition!--What shall I do? What shall I say?--Oh! oh! oh!--Oh!
liberty! Oh, my country! Look how he ridicules me!--Did ever any poor
man suffer so much for the good of his country!--But I won't give up the
glorious cause yet;--sir,--Mr. Trueman--I insist upon it, the new
Constitution, sir,--I say, that the old--the new--that--that--'Zounds
and fury!--

          [_Running towards him, and making an attempt to strike him._

TRUEMAN. My dear Mr. Loveyet, compose yourself a little;--for heaven's
sake, sir, consider;--your animal Constitution is not able to withstand the
formidable opposition of my political one;--the shock is too great;--let me
persuade you, sir; and as soon as nine States accede to the adoption of the
new Constitution, we will investigate the merits of the old. Ha, ha, ha.

[_This speech and the preceding one, are to be spoken at the same time;
  during which, TRUEMAN and LOVEYET run about the stage, and HUMPHRY
  retreats from them as they approach him._]

_Enter HARRIET alarmed._

HARRIET. Oh, Papa,--my dear Papa, what's the matter!

LOVEYET. And, sir, as sure as--as--eight times nine is sixty-three, your
new government is not bottom, not sound; and--

TRUEMAN. And as sure as you are sixty-three, your head is not sound.

LOVEYET. Here is your incomparable daughter;--I came here to acquaint you
of her scandalous conduct; but now she can save me that trouble.

TRUEMAN. How, sir! My daughter's scandalous conduct?

LOVEYET. I was going to tell you. I caught her with a strange gallant,--a
"very particular friend;" whose "love,--friendship, I would say," was so
sincere, that she was kind enough to grant him a little "friendly freedom,"
in my presence.

TRUEMAN. Heaven protect me! There certainly must be something in this.
                                                             [_Aside._

LOVEYET. And that I have received a letter from my son.

HUMPHRY. Aye, now he's his son again.                        [_Aside._

LOVEYET. And that he will be here soon, and that when he comes, I am going
to marry him to Miss Maria Airy.

HUMPHRY. I must go tell Mr. Lovit of that, at once.
                                                   [_Aside, and exit._

LOVEYET. And--but it is no matter now:--I suppose she will tell you a fine
story of a cock and a bull.

HARRIET. I shall not be base enough to deceive a father, I give you my
honour, sir.

LOVEYET. I am very much mistaken if you have not given _that_ to somebody
already:--A woman's honour is a very perishable commodity; a little thing
often spoils it.

HARRIET. By what a feeble tenure does poor woman hold her character and
peace of mind!--It is true, sir, that a woman's _reputation_ is too
frequently, with ruffian cruelty, blasted in the bud, without a cause; and
that so effectually, that it seldom or never flourishes again; but let me
remind you, sir, in the words of the poet, that--

    _"Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings;--
    It ought not to be sported with."_

LOVEYET. I say it ought to be sported with; and, by my body, 'tis capital
sport, too;--eigh, Horace?--[_Sings._]--"Then hoity toity, whisky frisky,
&c."

TRUEMAN. A truce to your insipid, hard-labour'd wit: the honour you are
pleased to call in question, is not an empty name which can be purchased
with gold; it is too inestimable to be counterpoised by that imaginary
good; otherwise the titles of Honourable and Excellent would be always
significant of his Honour's or his Excellency's intrinsic worth;--a thing
"devoutly to be wish'd," but unfortunately too seldom exemplified; for, as
the dramatic muse elegantly says of money,--"Who steals my purse, steals
trash."

LOVEYET. I deny it;--the dramatic muse, as you call him, was a fool:--trash
indeed! Ha, ha, ha. Money trash! Ready Rhino trash! Golden, glittering,
jingling money!--I'm sure he cou'dn't mean the hard stuff.

TRUEMAN. Very sublime conceptions, upon my erudition; and expressed by some
truly elegant epithets; but your ideas, like your conscience, are of the
fashionable, elastic kind;--self-interest can stretch them like
Indian-rubber.

LOVEYET. What a stupid old gudgeon!--Well, you'll believe what I tell you,
sooner or later, Mr. Schoolmaster; so your servant:--as for you, Miss
Hypocrite, I wish your Honour farewell, and I guess you may do the same.

                                                              [_Exit._

TRUEMAN. These insinuations, Harriet, have put my anxiety to the rack.

HARRIET. I am happy I can so soon relieve you from it, sir. Young Mr.
Loveyet arrived this morning; but, it seems, the old gentleman has entirely
forgot him, during his long absence; and when he heard his father's
resolution, in consequence of the dispute he had with you, he did not think
proper to make himself known. It was this which made him think me so
culpable, that you hear he talks of marrying him to my friend Maria.

TRUEMAN. I see into the mistake; but the worst construction the affair will
admit, does not justify his using you so indecently; and, if it were not
for the more powerful consideration of a daughter's happiness, I would make
him repent it.

HARRIET. I have ever found my honoured, my only parent both wise in
concerting plans for that daughter's happiness, and good in executing them
to the utmost of his ability; and, I dare say, he does not think her
alliance with Mr. Loveyet's son will prove unfavourable to her happiness.

TRUEMAN. Far from it, my child:--Your unusual good sense makes a
common-place lecture unnecessary, Harriet; but beware of flattery and
dissimulation; for the manners of the present age are so dissolute, that
the young fellows of these degenerate days think they cannot be fine
gentlemen without being rakes, and--in short, rascals; for they make a
merit even of debauching innocence:--indeed, that is scarcely to be
wondered at, when so many of those who are called ladies of taste and
fashion, strange as it may seem, like them the better for it;--but I hope,
you and Mr. Loveyet are exceptions to such depravity.

HARRIET. I think I can venture to assure you, we _are_, sir;--and now, if
my father has nothing more to impart, I will take my leave of him; and be
assured, sir, your advice shall be treasured here, as a sacred pledge of
paternal love.--Adieu, Papa.

TRUEMAN. Farewell, Harriet;--Heaven prosper your designs.

                                                  [_Exeunt severally._

SCENE II. _A Street._

_Enter HUMPHRY and WORTHNOUGHT meeting._

WORTHNOUGHT. Sir, your most obedient.

HUMPHRY. Here's that mackmarony again.                       [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. I have not the honour to know your name, sir, but if you will
inform me what you were whispering with Mr. Loveyet about, you will make
me the most obsequious and devoted of your slaves.

HUMPHRY. My slave!--Why, I wou'dn't have you for a slave, if you was to pay
me for it;--with your silk sattin breeches, and your lily white gloves, and
your crimp'd up toes, and your fine powder'd calabash, that's so smart
outside.

WORTHNOUGHT. You entirely mistake my meaning, friend;--I'm a man of
quality.--Do I look like a servant, a hireling, a vile menial?

HUMPHRY. No, you look more like a dancing-master, a fighting-master, or a
play-actor, or some such flashy folks; but looks is nothing, for everybody
dresses alike nowadays; like master, like man, as the old saying is; ecod,
you can't tell a Congressman from a marchant's 'prentice, everybody dresses
so fine.

WORTHNOUGHT. Ha, ha, ha,--he is pasitively a very eccentric bady, and there
is a small tincture of a barbarous sart of wit in what he says; but it
wants an immensity of correction, an infinitude of polishing; he is a mere
son of nature, everything he says is express'd in such a Gathic, uncouth,
Anti-Chesterfieldian style; and as for his dress, it is pasitively most
prepasterously clownish and original.

HUMPHRY. Why he talks as many long-winded, old-fashioned words, as the
Schoolmaster.

WORTHNOUGHT. Mr.--Mr.--Pray what is your proper name, besides Humphry? Your
sirname, I mean.

HUMPHRY. My proper sirname is Humphry Cubb; why our family is the most
largest family within the circumroundibus of fifty miles, and the most
grandest too, tho' I say it that shou'dn't say it; for my father's
father's great-grandfather was a just-ass of the peace, when King George
the third was a sucking baby, and, therefore, as father says, a greater
_man_ then, than he was, ha, ha, ha. And his great aunt, by his mother's
side, had the honour to be chief waiting woman to Mynheer Van
Hardsprakencrampdejawmetlongname, the Dutch governor's public
scratchetary; but I needn't go so far back neither, for I've got, at
this present time, no less than two second cousins; one of 'em is
soup-provider for the county, and t'other belongs to the liglislature,
and both belonging to our family too;--both Cubbs.

WORTHNOUGHT. Yes, the world abounds with Cubbs, just such unlick'd ones as
you are;--there is a profusion of them in this city.--You must know, _I_
am Dick Worthnought, esquire; a gentleman, a buck of the blood, and a--you
understand me.

HUMPHRY. Why, your family must be as big as mine, then; for I've seen
hundreds of such Worth-nothing bloody bucks as you, since I've been in
town.

WORTHNOUGHT. Your criticisms are perfectly barbarous and disagreeable,
'foregad; but,--will you let me know what you and the West-India young
gentleman were whispering about, at Miss Trueman's?

HUMPHRY. Yes.--You can have Miss Trueman now, if you've a mind.

WORTHNOUGHT. Can I? Only prove your words, and enroll me your everlasting,
your indissoluble friend, demme.

HUMPHRY. Friend me none of your friends; I don't want such everlasting
friends as you, d'ye see, becase why, if you never make a beginning with
your friendship, I'm sure it can't be everlasting; and if you've got a mind
to shew your friendliness, I'm sure you cou'dn't have a more fitter time
than now.

WORTHNOUGHT. What wou'd the addity have me say, I wonder.

HUMPHRY. I wou'dn't have you say anything,--you talk too much already, for
the matter o' that; I like for to see people do things, not talk 'em.

WORTHNOUGHT. There [_Gives him money._]--is that what you want?

HUMPHRY. Aye, I thought you understood me well enough.--Your friendship
wants as much spurring and kicking and coaxing as our lazy old gelding at
home;--I wou'dn't trust such a friend as far as I cou'd fling a cow by the
tail.

WORTHNOUGHT. Poh, poh,--to the point, to the point.

HUMPHRY. Why, then you must know, how old Mr. Lovit is a going for to marry
the West-Indian young gentleman to young Mistress Airy, I think he call'd
her; and so you can go try Mistress Harriet yourself, for I'm sure she
won't have him now.

WORTHNOUGHT. Why, pray?

HUMPHRY. Why if she gets him, she'll get a bastard, for old Mr. Lovit isn't
his father.

WORTHNOUGHT. No?

HUMPHRY. No;--and then he and the Schoolmaster kick'd up a proper rumpus
about a challenge I fetch'd him; and that's all the news you'll get for
your money.--A poor shilling that won't buy ale to my oysters to-night.

                                                              [_Exit._

WORTHNOUGHT [_manet_].

This is a lucky meeting, 'foregad;--I'll go immediately and report, that
young Loveyet has of late seen my quondam charmer carry a copy of him in
miniature about her, which (strange to tell) is continually growing nearer
to the life; and that he refuses to have her, on that account.--"If she
gets him, she will get a bastard."--By which I choose to
understand,--matters have gone so far, that she cannot save herself from
that disgrace, even if she marries him.--Now, in order that this tale of
mine may transpire briskly, I must first see some of my tattling female
friends;--they will set it a going like wild-fire.--Split me, but it is an
excellent thought;--ha, ha, ha. Poor Loveyet.

                                                              [_Exit._

SCENE III. _HERALD'S House._

_Enter CANTWELL and HERALD._

CANTWELL. I am very happy to find you home;--I was almost eat up with the
vapours before I saw you. [_Sighs._]--Well, what's the news, Miss Herald?

HERALD. Nothing strange, Miss Tabitha; I am as barren of anything new, as
an old Almanack.

CANTWELL. Oh shocking!--"as barren of anything new."--What an odious
expression!--The most vulgarest comparison in nature.

HERALD. Umph.--I suppose, if Mr. Gracely was here, you would not be so much
in the dumps.

CANTWELL. Ah, Miss Herald!--If you felt the corruptions of your wicked
heart, you would be in the dumps too, as you call it.

                                                             [_Sighs._

HERALD. I believe there is a certain corruption in your heart, which our
sex are apt to feel very sensibly, and that is the want of a husband.

CANTWELL. The want of a husband!--I vow, you are monstrous indelicate, Miss
Herald; I am afraid you are wandering from the paths of vartue, as dear
good Mr. Gracely says.

HERALD. There comes his very reverse,--Mr. Worthnought.

CANTWELL. Ah, he is a profane rake; he is lighter than vanity, as Mr.
Gracely says;--a mere painted sepulchre.

HERALD. That ancient sepulchre of yours is pretty much daub'd, I think.
                                                             [_Aside._

_Enter WORTHNOUGHT._

WORTHNOUGHT. Ladies, _J'ay bien de la joye de vous voir._ I have the
supernal and superlative hanor and felicity, of being most respectfully
yours.

CANTWELL. I hope I have the pleasure to see Mr. Worthnought well.

WORTHNOUGHT. _Là, Là, Mademoiselle; assez bien: Je vous suis obligé._--She
has reviv'd her wither'd chaps with rouge in a very nasty manner, 'pan
hanor. [_Aside._]--Have you heard the news, respecting Miss Harriet
Trueman, ladies?

CANTWELL. Yes, now I think on 't, there is a report about town, that old
Mr. Loveyet saw her and another rather familiar together.

WORTHNOUGHT. Oh, you have not heard half, madam.

CANTWELL. Do, let us hear, Mr. Worthnought.

HERALD. Aye, do; but do not say anything that will hurt Miss Tabitha's
delicacy; for, before you came in, I was complaining that I was _barren_ of
anything new, and she was almost ready to swoon at the expression.

WORTHNOUGHT. If Miss Tabitha has such an antipathy to barrenness, she will
not be offended at my subject, which is a very prolific one, I assure you;
for Miss Trueman is on the verge of _bearing_ a son.

CANTWELL. Oh, horrid! What will this wicked world come to at last!--A
good-for-nothing, wanton hussy.

WORTHNOUGHT. Very true, madam:--by persons of easy notions of virtue,
indeed, it would be considered a trifling _faux pas_, as the French call
it; a perfect _bagatelle_; or, at most, a superficial act of incontinency;
but to those who have such rigid notions of virtue as Miss Cantwell, for
example, or Miss Herald, or their humble servant; it appears quite another
thing, quite another thing, ladies:--though it is one of my foibles;--I own
it is a fault to be so intalerably nice about the affairs of women; but it
is a laudable imperfection, if I may be allowed the phrase;--it is erring
on the safe side, for women's affairs are delicate things to meddle with,
ladies.

CANTWELL. You are perfectly in the right, Mr. Worthnought, but one can't
help speaking up for the honour of one's sex, you know.

WORTHNOUGHT. Very true, madam:--to make the matter still worse, ladies, Mr.
Loveyet is just arrived from abroad to be married to her; and the old
gentleman is going to ally him immediately to Miss Maria Airy in
consequence of it.

HERALD. I am glad of that, however;--I will forgive Miss Trueman her
failing, if that is the case, for then I shall have a better chance to
gain Frankton.                                               [_Aside._

WORTHNOUGHT. But this is _entre nous_, ladies.--[_Looks at his watch._]
Hah,--the _tête-à-tête!_--Ladies, I have the hanor to be your slave.

                                                             [_Going._

CANTWELL. You are positively the greatest lady's man, Mr. Worthnought,--

WORTHNOUGHT. I am proud of your compliment, madam; and I wish Miss Tabitha
could consider me such, from her own experience; it would be conferring the
highest hanor on her slave, 'pan hanor.

CANTWELL. Oh, sir,--your politeness quite confuses me.   [_Curtsying._

WORTHNOUGHT. Miss Herald, your thrice devoted.--_Mademoiselle, je suis
votre Serviteur très humble._

CANTWELL. Mr. Worthnought, your servant.--[_Exit WORTHNOUGHT._]--Don't you
think he is a very pretty fellow, Miss Herald?--He's the very pattern of
true politeness; his address is so winning and agreeable,--and then, he
talks French, with the greatest felicity imaginable.

HERALD. I cannot say I see many perfections in him; but you talk'd very
differently just now;--Mr. Worthnought then was lighter than vanity; and
now, it seems, he has more weight with you, than good Mr. Gracely.

CANTWELL. You are only mortify'd that Mr. Worthnought took so little notice
of you, ma'am; you see he prefers me to you, though you value yourself so
much upon being a little young, ma'am; you see men of sense don't mind a
few years, ma'am; so your servant, ma'am.

                                                              [_Exit._

HERALD [_manet_].

What a vain old fool! Now will she make this story of her swain spread like
a contagion: as for me, I must circulate it pretty briskly too; perhaps, it
may make me succeed better with Frankton; otherwise the poor girl might lie
in peaceably, for me.

                                                              [_Exit._

SCENE IV. _OLD LOVEYET'S House._

_OLD LOVEYET discovered solus._

_Enter CHARLES LOVEYET._

CHARLES. Mr. Loveyet, your most obedient.

LOVEYET. Sir, your servant.

CHARLES. Don't you know me, sir?

LOVEYET. Yes, I think I have seen you before.

CHARLES. You really have, sir.

LOVEYET. Oh, yes, I recollect now;--you are the person who have supplanted
my son.

CHARLES. Indeed, sir, I am not that person.

LOVEYET. How!--Was you not with Harriet Trueman, this morning?

CHARLES. Yes, sir; but I have no intention to supplant your son, I assure
you; on the contrary, it is the supreme wish of my heart, that his love may
be rewarded with so rich a treasure as the amiable Harriet.

LOVEYET. He shall be rewarded with a much richer one, if he is wise enough
to think so.

CHARLES. If it be wisdom to prefer another to Harriet, then may I ever
remain a fool!                                               [_Aside._

LOVEYET. But pray, sir, what is your business with me?

CHARLES. My business is first to know if you have any objection to my
marrying Miss Trueman, sir.

LOVEYET. What a paradoxical fellow this is! [_Aside._]--Did not you this
minute say, you did not intend to have her?

CHARLES. I did not, sir; I mean to have her if possible, and that without
disappointing your son; but I shall explain myself better, by telling you
who I am. Look at me well, sir--did you never see such a face before?

LOVEYET. I hope I am not talking to a lunatic! [_Aside._]--Yes, I saw you
this morning.

CHARLES. Did you never see me before that, sir?

LOVEYET. [_Looks at him steadfastly._] Yes,--I'm sure I have; and I'm very
much mistaken, if--yes, that reconciles all his strange conduct;--it must
be so;--it is Charles himself.

CHARLES. My father!

                                                     [_Embracing him._

LOVEYET. And are you indeed my son?

CHARLES. I hope I am, sir; and as such, I thus kneel to obtain forgiveness
for deceiving you so.

                                                            [_Kneels._

LOVEYET. Rise up my lad;--by my body, I am rejoic'd to see you;--you did
take your father in a little, to be sure; but never mind it;--I'll take you
in another way, perhaps.

CHARLES. I wish you would take me in the matrimonial way, sir;--that would
be a most agreeable take in.

LOVEYET. Well, well, we shall not disagree about that:--I am very happy
this affair clears up Harriet's conduct so well; she is a fine girl, that's
certain; and, if you love her as much as you formerly did, why--I don't
know what I may not do.

CHARLES. Oh, sir, you make me unspeakably happy! If my Love is to be the
condition of the welcome Bond, I do not care if it is executed to-morrow;
for, were the penalty an age of love, I am sure I could pay it.

LOVEYET. By my body, I'll have a wedding soon, and a merry one too:--I'll
go and make it up with old Trueman;--but then he must not talk of the
Constitution.--That's true, Charles, what government are you for,
eigh?--The old or the new?

CHARLES. Sir?

LOVEYET. I say, which Constitution do you like best?

CHARLES. What the mischief shall I say!--Now Love befriend me. [_Aside._]
Since you seem desirous of knowing my opinion on this subject, sir; I must
candidly tell you, I am decidedly in favour of the new Constitution.

LOVEYET. Hah--the new Constitution!--A good-for-nothing, corrupted,
aristocratic profligate!--But you shall not have her now; that is as fixed
as fate.

CHARLES. Oh, cruel event! How soon all my towering hopes fall prostrate in
the dust!--Do, sir, try and think better of the matter;--I will promise to
make myself think or do anything you please, rather than have the double
misfortune to offend my father, and lose my Harriet.

LOVEYET. Base foe to the liberties of his country!

CHARLES. It is very strange, sir, that you should be so violent about such
matters, at your time of life.

LOVEYET. Hah! do you dare?--Yes, he wants to provoke me still more;--to
talk to me about my time of life! Why, I'm not old enough for your father,
you great whelp you:--Ungracious young bastard,--to have the assurance to
ridicule his father!--Out of my house, you 'scape-grace!

CHARLES. Unnatural usage for so trivial an offense!--But I obey you, sir:
I'll remain no longer in the house of a father, who is so destitute of a
father's feelings; and since I see you value my happiness so little, sir, I
shall not think myself undutiful, if I take some necessary steps to promote
it myself.

LOVEYET. Out of my house, I say!--Promote your own happiness, forsooth; did
you ever know any one to be happy without money, you fool?--And what will
you do, if I don't choose to give you any, eigh?

CHARLES. As well as I can:--I have a few of your unnecessary thousands
in my hands, thank fortune;--I'll try if _they_ will not befriend me, if
their avaricious owner, and my unnatural parent will not.
                                                   [_Aside, and exit._

LOVEYET. My time of life, indeed.--Provoking profligate!--I'll give Miss
Airy all I'm worth, if she'll consent to have him;--the graceless fellow
has us'd me so ill, that he shall be punish'd for it.

                                                              [_Exit._

_End of the Fourth Act._

ACT V.

SCENE I. _A Street._

_Enter YOUNG LOVEYET, HUMPHRY, and a NEGRO with a trunk on his head._

LOVEYET. Did you hear him say so?

HUMPHRY. Yes; he said how he was intend you should have Miss Mary Airy, or
Airy Mary, or some such a name.

LOVEYET. Say you so, father?--I believe I shall do myself the pleasure to
baulk you. I want you to go a little way with my man; but you will be sure
to make no mistake.

HUMPHRY. No, no, never fear me; I an't so apt for to make blunders as you.

LOVEYET. [_Looking at his watch._] 'Sdeath! I should have been with her
half an hour ago.--I know I can depend on you. Here, Cuffy, go with this
gentleman.

HUMPHRY. Why, if I _am_ a gentleman, Mr. Cuffy needn't give himself the
trouble;--I can carry it myself.

CUFFY. Tankee, massa buckaraw; you gi me lilly lif, me bery glad;--disa
ting damma heby. [_Puts down the trunk._]--An de debelis crooka tone in a
treet more worsa naw pricka pear for poor son a bitch foot; an de cole
pinch um so too!--

LOVEYET. No, no, you shall carry it;--your head is harder than his.

HUMPHRY. To be sure, my head _is_ a little soft.

LOVEYET. You must let him take it to number two hundred and twenty-one,
Broadway;--will you remember the direction?

HUMPHRY. Yes, number two hundred and twenty-one, Broadway.

LOVEYET. Right;--and enquire for Mr. Frankton, and tell him who it is from.

HUMPHRY. Aye, aye, let me alone for that.

                                                  [_Exit, with NEGRO._

LOVEYET [_manet_].

I think I am even with the old gentleman now;--but I lament the necessity
of this conduct; and, if a man could eat and digest matrimony, without a
little matter of money, I would forgive my unreasonable father, with all my
heart; and he might eat his gold himself; though, by the bye, this sum of
money, in equity and good conscience, is mine.--Now he wants to cross my
inclination, by making me the rival of my friend;--what a strange whim! But
if I don't trick him out of his project and his money too, it shall not be
my fault.

                                                              [_Exit._

SCENE II. _MR. FRIENDLY'S House._

HARRIET [_solus_].

Notwithstanding the arrival of Charles, and the happy result of the
interview with my father, my mind is not at ease;--these strange rumours
must have some foundation;--one says he is married to Maria; another says,
he is discovered to be illegitimate; a third reports, he was found in
company with a woman of ill fame; and to conclude the catalogue of evil
tidings, a fourth says, that old Mr. Loveyet is going to disinherit him, in
consequence of his having made him a grandfather, since his arrival.--But
here he comes.

_Enter YOUNG LOVEYET._

LOVEYET. She seems very thoughtful;--perhaps, she too has been unfortunate
in her suit to her father;--or, what is far worse, perhaps,--but I will not
cherish such gloomy apprehensions.--Your servant, madam.

HARRIET. Good day, Mr. Loveyet.--"Your servant, madam!"--What a stoical
salutation! I fear there is too much truth in what I have heard.
                                                             [_Aside._

LOVEYET. You seem unusually serious, Miss Harriet: I hope Mr. Trueman has
not proved relentless as you expected.

HARRIET. No sir; it gives me pleasure to acquaint you, my father was all
kindness and forgiveness.

LOVEYET. I wish I could say so of mine;--he indeed was kind and forgiving
too at first; but no sooner had I begun to anticipate approaching
happiness, than one luckless circumstance deprived me of all that love and
hope had inspired.

HARRIET. An unlucky circumstance, indeed; but would the disappointment
really be so great, if you were obliged to give up the thought of an
alliance with me?

LOVEYET. How, Miss Harriet! Give up the thought of having you!--By
heaven, it must be so!--Yes, the beau would never have presumed to say
so much if it were not so;--and Frankton's ambiguous account of them
both, confirms the suspicion;--and then the extravagant encomiums he
bestowed on her yesterday.--Confusion! my fears were just, though he
ridicul'd me for exposing them.--But she must not see my anxiety.
                                                             [_Aside._

HARRIET. If my doubts are well founded, he must be an adept in the art of
dissimulation. I will try him a little farther.--[_Aside._] What think you,
Mr. Loveyet, of our New-York beauties? Have not the superior charms of so
many fine women, been able to overcome such old-fashioned notions as
constancy and priority of affection?

LOVEYET. I have beheld their beauty with equal pleasure and astonishment;
and the understanding, the affability, and vivacity, by which strangers,
with so much propriety, characterize my fair countrywomen, give them a
pre-eminence over the ladies of most other countries, that is highly
gratifying to a mind already so much attached to its native city, by the
most endearing of all human ties;--they are all that the warmest, the most
luxuriant fancy can wish; beautiful--almost beyond the possibility of an
increase of charms; and--I had almost said, they furnish room for love and
warm conceptions, "even to madness!"

HARRIET. I am in doubt no longer;--such passionate expressions must have
Love for their prompter.                                     [_Aside._

LOVEYET. My friend Frankton extolled them highly; but his description
derogates from their desert;--you, too, he praised;--I listened to
him--with unspeakable delight, and believed him with all the ardour of
faith and expectation; for I could readily believe that, which I had so
often, so sweetly experienced;--but when you last blest my eyes with that
enchanting form, how was the idea exceeded by the reality!--To do justice
to _such_ perfection, the praises I this minute bestowed on the ladies I
have seen, would be spiritless and insufficient!--To charms like Miss
Harriet's, what hermit could remain insensible!--_I_ was not
insensible;--the tender passion, I began so early to entertain; a passion,
which length of absence, and a succession of objects and events, had
rendered too dormant, was then excited to sensations the most exquisitely
sensible;--was then taught to glow with a flame, too fervent to be now
suppressed!

HARRIET. Were I but sure of his sincerity!                   [_Aside._