Representative American Plays/The Contrast

by Royall Tyler

For works with similar titles, see The Contrast.

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THE CONTRAST
BY
Royall Tyler

 

THE CONTRAST

The Contrast is the second play written by an American, to be produced in America by a professional company. It is our first comedy, and while its central theme is the contrast between native worth and affectation of foreign manners it is of especial significance as introducing to our stage in the character of "Jonathan" the shrewd, yet uncultivated type of New England farmer which has since become known as the "Stage Yankee." The example of The Contrast in introducing a Yankee character was soon followed. In 1792, The Yorker's Stratagem, or Banana's Wedding, by J. Robinson, was based upon the attempt of the hero "Amant" to win the hand of the heroine by pretending to be a simple Yankee merchant. In 1807 Barker introduced the character of "Nathan Yank" in his comedy, Tears and Smiles. The first Yankee character, however, which permanently held the stage was that of "Jonathan Ploughboy" in Samuel Woodworth's play of The Forest Bose, or American Farmers. It was a kind of opera, originally produced at the Chatham Theatre, New York, October 6, 1825. The characters are all conventional but that of "Jonathan" which had some flavor of reality. This play was produced in London and as far west as California. The character of "Jonathan" was acted at first by Alexander Simpson and later by Henry Placide, G. H. Hill and J. S. Silsbee. The success of The Forest Rose doubtless encouraged others, for we find J. H. Hackett, the actor, first telling Yankee stories in plays of another character and then modifying Colman's Who Wants a Guinea? to introduce the character of "Solomon Swap" and under the title of Jonathan in England producing the play in England with success. Among the other well known Yankee plays were Yankee Land (1834) introducing "Lot Sap Sago" and The Vermont Wool Dealer, (1840), whose hero was called "Deuteronomy Dutiful." Both of these plays were written by C. A. Logan. Joseph S. Jones, a prolific playwright, created the character of "Jedediah Homebred" in The Green Mountain Boy (1833) and "Solon Shingle" in The People's Lawyer (1839). These Yankee plays are most interesting on account of their historical value. As we read them now they seem trivial and conventional and the Yankee characters are introduced into the midst of surroundings with which they have usually little to do. Their farcical character, however, made them definite and their homeliness of expression gave them an appearance of reality which probably won them their popularity. They point forward, of course, to a time when James A. Heme and others produced more significant work in the same field.

The author of The Contrast, Royall Tyler, was born in Boston, July 18, 1757. He graduated from Harvard College and, after studying law, became aide-de-camp to General Benjamin Lincoln during the Revolution and later during Shays's Rebellion. Coming to New York City on a mission connected with Shays's Rebellion, he became interested in the theatre and wrote The Contrast, which was performed at the John Street Theatre, April 16, 1787, by the American Company, under Hallam and Henry. The principal part, that of "Jonathan," was played by Thomas Wignell. It was repeated several times in New York and was played in Baltimore (1787-8), in Philadelphia (1790) and in Boston. It was revived on June 6, 7, and 8, 1912, in connection with a Pageant given at Brattleboro, Vermont.

Tyler wrote a farce, May Day in Town or New York in an Uproar, which was performed at the John Street Theatre on May 18, 1787. He then returned to Boston, where he wrote in 1797, A Georgia Spec or Land in the Moon, which dealt with the rage for speculating in Georgia lands of the Yazoo Purchase. It was first played in Boston and later in New York at the John Street Theatre, December 20, 1797. According to Dunlap's manuscript Diary, A Georgia Spec, which he calls A Good Spec, was repeated February 12, 1798. Major F. W. Childs, of Brattleboro, Vermont, where Royall Tyler lived from 1801 to 1826, states in a recent letter that there exists in manuscript a play of Tyler's called The Duelists, performed at the Federal Street Theatre in Boston in 1797. Tyler also wrote a romance, The Algerine Captive (1797) but devoted himself definitely to the profession of law, becoming Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Vermont in 1807. He died in August, 1826.

Tyler gave the copyright of The Contrast to Thomas Wignell and the latter published it in Philadelphia in 1790, with an introduction in which he states that "it was written by one who never critically studied the rules of the drama, and indeed had seen but few of the exhibitions of the stage; it was undertaken and finished in the course of three weeks." It was reprinted by the Dunlap Society in 1887 with an introduction by Thomas J. McKee. The other plays of Tyler are not now available.

The present edition is based upon a copy of the edition of 1790, which belonged to William B. Wood, the Philadelphia Manager.

Note to Second Edition.

On January 16 and 18, 1917, The Contrast was played under the auspices of the American Drama Committee of the Philadelphia Drama League at the Broad Street Theatre in connection with the celebration of the American Drama Year. The cast was drawn from the "Plays and Players" of Philadelphia, and the production revealed the truly remarkable qualities of the play, which was staged under the direction of Mrs. Otis Skinner.

THE

CONTRAST

A

COMEDY;

IN FIVE ACTS:

WRITTEN BY A

CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES;

Performed with Applauſe at the Theatres in New-York, Philadelphia, and Maryland;

AND PUBLISHED (under an Aſſignment of the Copy-Right) BY

THOMAS WIGNELL.

————————————————————

Primus ego in patriamAonio——deuxi vertice MuſasVirgil.

    (Imitated.)

Firſt on our ſhores I try Thalia's powers,And bid the laughing, uſeful Maid be ours.

————————————

PHILADELPHIA:

FROM THE PRESS OF PRICHARD & HALL, IN MARKET STREET, BETWEEN SECOND AND FRONT STREETS.
M. DEC. XC.

 

PROLOGUE

Written by a Young Gentleman of New-York, and Spoken by Mr. Wignell

Exult each patriot heart!—this night is shewn A piece, which we may fairly call our own; Where the proud titles of "My Lord! Your Grace!" To humble Mr. and plain Sir give place. Our Author pictures not from foreign climes The fashions, or the follies of the times; But has confin'd the subject of his work To the gay scenes—the circles of New-York. On native themes his Muse displays her pow'rs; If ours the faults, the virtues too are ours. Why should our thoughts to distant countries roam, When each refinement may be found at home? Who travels now to ape the rich or great, To deck an equipage and roll in state; To court the graces, or to dance with ease, Or by hypocrisy to strive to please? Our free-born ancestors such arts despis'd; Genuine sincerity alone they priz'd; Their minds, with honest emulation fir'd. To solid good—not ornament—aspir'd; Or, if ambition rous'd a bolder flame, Stern virtue throve, where indolence was shame.

But modern youths, with imitative sense. Deem taste in dress the proof of excellence; And spurn the meanness of your homespun arts, Since homespun habits would obscure their parts; Whilst all, which aims at splendour and parade. Must come from Europe, and be ready made. Strange! we should thus our native worth disclaim, And check the progress of our rising fame. Yet one, whilst imitation bears the sway. Aspires to nobler heights, and points the way. Be rous'd, my friends! his bold example view; Let your own Bards be proud to copy you! Should rigid critics reprobate our play. At least the patriotic heart will say, "Glorious our fall, since in a noble cause. "The bold attempt alone demands applause." Still may the wisdom of the Comic Muse Exalt your merits, or your faults accuse, But think not, 't is her aim to be severe;—We all are mortals, and as mortals err.If candour pleases, we are truly blest;Vice trembles, when compelled to stand confess'd.Let not light Censure on your faults, offend,Which aims not to expose them, but amend.Thus does our Author to your candour trust;Conscious, the free are generous, as just.

 

CHARACTERS

	New York	Maryland
Col. Manly . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mr. Henry	Mr. Hallam
Dimple . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mr. Hallam	Mr. Harper
Vanrough . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mr. Morris	Mr. Morris
Jessamy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mr. Harper.	Mr. Biddle.
Jonathan . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mr. Wignell	Mr. Wignell
Charlotte . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mrs. Morris	Mrs. Morris
Maria . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mrs. Harper	Mrs. Harper
Letitia . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mrs. Kenna	Mrs. Williamson
Jenny . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .	Mrs. Tuke	Miss W. Tuke

Servants

Scene, New York

N. B. The lines marked with inverted commas, “thus” are omitted in the representation.

[For the sake of uniformity in this collection, the portions omitted in the representation are enclosed in brackets of this character < >.]

 

THE CONTRAST

ACT FIRST.

 

Scene 1. An Apartment at Charlotte's.

 

Charlotte and Letitia discovered.

 

Letitia. And so, Charlotte, you really think the pocket-hoop unbecoming.

Charlotte. No, I don't say so. It may be very becoming to saunter round the house of a rainy day; to visit my grand-mamma, or to go to Quakers' meeting: but to swim in a minuet, with the eyes of fifty well-dressed beaux upon me, to trip it in the Mall, or walk on the battery, give me the luxurious, jaunty, flowing, bell-hoop. It would have delighted you to have seen me the last evening, my charming girl! I was dangling o'er the battery with Billy Dimple; a knot of young fellows were upon the platform; as I passed them I faultered with one of the most bewitching false steps you ever saw, and then recovered myself with such a pretty confusion, flirting my hoop to discover a jet black shoe and brilliant buckle. Gad! how my little heart thrilled to hear the confused raptures of—"Demme, Jack, what a delicate foot!" "Ha! General, what a well-turned—"

Letitia. Fie! fie! Charlotte (stopping her mouth), I protest you are quite a libertine.

Charlotte. Why, my dear little prude, are we not all such libertines? Do you think, when I sat tortured two hours under the hands of my friseur, and an hour more at my toilet, that I had any thoughts of my aunt Susan, or my cousin Betsey? though they are both allowed to be critical judges of dress.

Letitia. Why, who should we dress to please, but those are judges of its merit?

Charlotte. Why, a creature who does not know Buffon from Souflee—Man!—my Letitia—Man! for whom we dress, walk, dance, talk, lisp, languish, and smile. Does not the grave Spectator assure us that even our much bepraised diffidence, modesty, and blushes are all directed to make ourselves good wives and mothers as fast as we can? Why, I'll undertake with one flirt of this hoop to bring more beaux to my feet in one week than the grave Maria, and her sentimental circle, can do, by sighing sentiment till their hairs are grey.

Letitia. Well, I won't argue with you; you always out-talk me; let us change the subject. I hear that Mr. Dimple and Maria are soon to be married.

Charlotte. You hear true. I was consulted in the choice of the wedding clothes. She is to be married in a delicate white sattin, and has a monstrous pretty brocaded lutestring for the second day. It would have done you good to have seen with what an affected indifference the dear sentimentalist <turned over a thousand pretty things, just as if her heart did not palpitate with her approaching happiness, and at last made her choice and> arranged her dress with such apathy as if she did not know that plain white sattin and a simple blond lace would shew her clear skin and dark hair to the greatest advantage.

Letitia. But they say her indifference to dress, and even to the gentleman himself, is not entirely affected.

Charlotte. How?

Letitia. It is whispered that if Maria gives her hand to Mr. Dimple, it will be without her heart.

Charlotte. Though the giving the heart is one of the last of all laughable considerations in the marriage of a girl of spirit, yet I should like to hear what antiquated notions the dear little piece of old-fashioned prudery has got in her head.

Letitia. Why, you know that old Mr. John-Richard-Robert-Jacob-Isaac-Abraham-Cornelius Van Dumpling, Billy Dimple's father, (for he has thought fit to soften his name, as well as manners, during his English tour) was the most intimate friend of Maria's father. The old folks, about a year before Mr. Van Dumpling's death, proposed this match: the young folks were accordingly introduced, and told they must love one another. Billy was then a good-natured, decent-dressing young fellow, with a little dash of the coxcomb, such as our young fellows of fortune usually have. At this time, I really believe she thought she loved him; and had they been married, I doubt not they might have jogged on, to the end of the chapter, a good kind of a sing-song lack-a-daysaical life, as other honest married folks do.

Charlotte. Why did they not then marry?

Letitia. Upon the death of his father, Billy went to England to see the world and rub off a little of the patroon rust. During his absence, Maria, like a good girl, to keep herself constant to her nown true-love, avoided company, and betook herself, for her amusement, to her books, and her dear Billy's letters. But, alas! how many ways has the mischievous demon of inconstancy of stealing into a woman's heart! Her love was destroyed by the very means she took to support it.

Charlotte. How?—Oh! I have it—some likely young beau found the way to her study.

Letitia. Be patient, Charlotte; your head so runs upon beaux. Why, she read Sir Charles Grandison, Clarissa Harlow, Shenstone, and the Sentimental Journey; and between whiles, as I said, Billy's letters. But, as her taste improved, her love declined. The contrast was so striking betwixt the good sense of her books and the flimsiness of her love-letters, that she discovered she had unthinkingly engaged her hand without her heart; and then the whole transaction, managed by the old folks, now appeared so unsentimental, and looked so like bargaining for a bale of goods, that she found she ought to have rejected, according to every rule of romance, even the man of her choice, if imposed upon her in that manner. Clary Harlow would have scorned such a match.

Charlotte. Well, how was it on Mr. Dimple's return? Did he meet a more favourable reception than his letters?

Letitia. Much the same. She spoke of him with respect abroad, and with contempt in her closet. She watched his conduct and conversation, and found that he had by travelling, acquired the wickedness of Lovelace without his wit, and the politeness of Sir Charles Grandison without his generosity. The ruddy youth, who washed his face at the cistern every morning, and swore and looked eternal love and constancy, was now metamorphosed into a flippant, palid, polite beau, who devotes the morning to his toilet, reads a few pages of Chesterfield's letters, and then minces out, to put the infamous principles in practice upon every woman he meets.

Charlotte. But, if she is so apt at conjuring up these sentimental bugbears, why does she not discard him at once?

Letitia. Why, she thinks her word too sacred to be trifled with. Besides, her father, who has a great respect for the memory of his deceased friend, is ever telling her how he shall renew his years in their union, and repeating the dying injunctions of old Van Dumpling.

Charlotte. A mighty pretty story! And so you would make me believe that the sensible Maria would give up Dumpling manor, and the all-accomplished Dimple as a husband, for the absurd, ridiculous reason, forsooth, because she despises and abhors him. Just as if a lady could not be privileged to spend a man's fortune, ride in his carriage, be called after his name, and call him her nown dear lovee when she wants money, without loving and respecting the great he-creature. Oh! my dear girl, you are a monstrous prude.

Letitia. I don't say what I would do; I only intimate how I suppose she wishes to act.

Charlotte. No, no, no! A fig for sentiment. If she breaks, or wishes to break, with Mr. Dimple, depend upon it, she has some other man in her eye. A woman rarely discards one lover until she is sure of another. Letitia little thinks what a clue I have to Dimple's conduct. The generous man submits to render himself disgusting to Maria, in order that she may leave him at liberty to address me. I must change the subject. (Aside, and rings a bell.)

(Enter Servant.)

Frank, order the horses to.— Talking of marriage, did you hear that Sally Bloomsbury is going to be married next week to Mr. Indigo, the rich Carolinian?

Letitia. Sally Bloomsbury married!—why, she is not yet in her teens.

Charlotte. I do not know how that is, but you may depend upon it, 'tis a done affair. I have it from the best authority. There is my aunt Wyerly's Hannah (you know Hannah; though a black, she is a wench that was never caught in a lie in her life; Now, Hannah has a brother who courts Sarah, Mrs. Catgut the milliner's girl, and she told Hannah's brother, and Hannah, who, as I said before, is a girl of undoubted veracity, told it directly to me, that Mrs. Catgut was making a new cap for Miss Bloomsbury, which, as it was very dressy, it is very probable is designed for a wedding cap. Now, as she is to be married, who can it be to but to Mr. Indigo? Why, there is no other gentleman that visits at her papa's.

Letitia. Say not a word more, Charlotte. Your intelligence is so direct and well grounded, it is almost a pity that it is not a piece of scandal.

Charlotte. Oh! I am the pink of prudence. Though I cannot charge myself with ever having discredited a tea-party by my silence, yet I take care never to report any thing of my acquaintance, especially if it is to their credit,—discredit, I mean,—until I have searched to the bottom of it. It is true, there is infinite pleasure in this charitable pursuit. Oh! how delicious to go and condole with the friends of some backsliding sister, or to retire with some old dowager or maiden aunt of the family, who love scandal so well that they cannot forbear gratifying their appetite at the expense of the reputation of their nearest relations! And then to return full fraught with a rich collection of circumstances, to retail to the next circle of our acquaintance under the strongest injunctions of secrecy,—ha, ha, ha!—interlarding the melancholy tale with so many doleful shakes of the head, and more doleful "Ah! who would have thought it! so amiable, so prudent a young lady, as we all thought her, what a monstrous pity! well, I have nothing to charge myself with; I acted the part of a friend, I warned her of the principles of that rake, I told her what would be the consequence; I told her so, I told her so."—Ha, ha, ha!

Letitia. Ha, ha, ha! Well, but, Charlotte, you don't tell me what you think of Miss Bloomsbury's match.

Charlotte. Think! why I think it is probable she cried for a plaything, and they have given her a husband. Well, well, well, the puling chit shall not be deprived of her plaything: 'tis only exchanging London dolls for American babies.—Apropos, of babies, have you heard what Mrs. Affable's high-flying notions of delicacy have come to?

Letitia. Who, she that was Miss Lovely?

Charlotte. The same; she married Bob Affable of Schenectady. Don't you remember?

(Enter Servant.)

Servant. Madam, the carriage is ready.

Letitia. Shall we go to the stores first, or visiting?

Charlotte. I should think it rather too early to visit, especially Mrs. Prim; you know she is so particular.

Letitia. Well, but what of Mrs. Affable?

Charlotte. Oh, I'll tell you as we go; come, come, let us hasten. I hear Mrs. Catgut has some of the prettiest caps arrived you ever saw. I shall die if I have not the first sight of them.

(Exeunt.)

Scene 2. A Room in Van Rough's House. Maria sitting disconsolate at a Table, with Books, &c.

Song.

IThe sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day;But glory remains when their lights fade away!Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in vain,For the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

IIRemember the arrows he shot from his bow;Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low:Why so slow?—do you wait till I shrink from the pain?No—the son of Alknomook will never complain.

IIIRemember the wood where in ambush we lay,And the scalps which we bore from your nation away:Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain;But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

IVI go to the land where my father is gone;His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son: Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain;And thy son, Oh Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

There is something in this song which ever calls forth my affections. The manly virtue of courage, that fortitude which steels the heart against the keenest misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel of glory amidst the instruments of torture and death, displays something so noble, so exalted, that in despite of the prejudices of education I cannot but admire it, even in a savage. The prepossession which our sex is supposed to entertain for the character of a soldier is, I know, a standing piece of raillery among the wits. A cockade, a lapell'd coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are irresistible by a female heart. Let it be so. Who is it that considers the helpless situation of our sex, that does not see that we each moment stand in need of a protector, and that a brave one too? Formed of the more delicate materials of nature, endowed only with the softer passions, incapable, from our ignorance of the world, to guard against the wiles of mankind, our security for happiness often depends upon their generosity and courage. Alas! how little of the former do we find! How inconsistent! that man should be leagued to destroy that honour upon which solely rests his respect and esteem. Ten thousand temptations allure us, ten thousand passions betray us; yet the smallest deviation from the path of rectitude is followed by the contempt and insult of man, and the more remorseless pity of woman; years of penitence and tears cannot wash away the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate its remembrance. Reputation is the life of woman; yet courage to protect it is masculine and disgusting; and the only safe asylum a woman of delicacy can find is in the arms of a man of honour. How naturally, then, should we love the brave and the generous; how gratefully should we bless the arm raised for our protection, when nerv'd by virtue and directed by honour! Heaven grant that the man with whom I may be connected—may be connected! Whither has my imagination transported me—whither does it now lead me? Am I not indissolubly engaged, "by every obligation of honour which my own consent and my father's approbation can give," to a man who can never share my affections, and whom a few days hence it will be criminal for me to disapprove—to disapprove! would to heaven that were all—to despise. For, can the most frivolous manners, actuated by the most depraved heart, meet, or merit, anything but contempt from every woman of delicacy and sentiment?

(Van Rough, without. Mary!)

Ha! my father's voice—Sir!—

(Enter Van Rough.)

Van Rough. What, Mary, always singing doleful ditties, and moping over these plaguy books.

Maria. I hope, Sir, that it is not criminal to improve my mind with books, or to divert my melancholy with singing, at my leisure hours.

Van Rough. Why, I don't know that, child; I don't know that. They us'd to say, when I was a young man, that if a woman knew how to make a pudding, and to keep herself out of fire and water, she knew enough for a wife. Now, what good have these books done you? have they not made you melancholy? as you call it. Pray, what right has a girl of your age to be in the dumps? haven't you everything your heart can wish; an't you going to be married to a young man of great fortune; an't you going to have the quit-rent of twenty miles square?

Maria. One-hundredth part of the land, and a lease for life of the heart of a man I could love, would satisfy me.

Van Rough. Pho, pho, pho! child; nonsense, downright nonsense, child. This comes of your reading your storybooks; your Charles Grandisons, your Sentimental Journals, and your Robinson Crusoes, and such other trumpery. No, no, no! child; it is money makes the mare go; keep your eye upon the main chance, Mary.

Maria. Marriage, Sir, is, indeed, a very serious affair.

Van Rough. You are right, child; you are right. I am sure I found it so, to my cost.

Maria. I mean, Sir, that as marriage is a portion for life, and so intimately involves our happiness, we cannot be too considerate in the choice of our companion.

Van Rough. Right, child; very right. A young woman should be very sober when she is making her choice, but when she has once made it, as you have done, I don't see why she should not be as merry as a grig; I am sure she has reason enough to be so— Solomon says that "there is a time to laugh, and a time to weep." Now, a time for a young woman to laugh is when she has made sure of a good rich husband. Now, a time to cry, according to you, Mary, is when she is making choice of him; but I should think that a young woman's time to cry was when she despaired of getting one. Why, there was your mother, now: to be sure, when I popp'd the question to her she did look a little silly; but when she had once looked down on her apron-strings, as all modest young women us'd to do, and drawled out ye-s, she was as brisk and as merry as a bee.

Maria. My honoured mother, Sir, had no motive to melancholy; she married the man of her choice.

Van Rough. The man of her choice! And pray, Mary, an't you going to marry the man of your choice—what trumpery notion is this?— It is these vile books (throwing them away). I'd have you to know, Mary, if you won't make young Van Dumpling the man of your choice, you shall marry him as the man of my choice.

Maria. You terrify me, Sir. Indeed, Sir, I am all submission. My will is yours.

Van Rough. Why, that is the way your mother us'd to talk. "My will is yours, my dear Mr. Van Rough, my will is yours"; but she took special care to have her own way, though, for all that.

Maria. Do not reflect upon my mother's memory, Sir—

Van Rough. Why not, Mary, why not? She kept me from speaking my mind all her life, and do you think she shall henpeck me now she is dead too? Come, come; don't go to sniveling; be a good girl, and mind the main chance. I'll see you well settled in the world.

Maria. I do not doubt your love, Sir, and it is my duty to obey you. I will endeavour to make my duty and inclination go hand in hand.

Van Rough. Well, well, Mary; do you be a good girl, mind the main chance, and never mind inclination. Why, do you know that I have been down in the cellar this very morning to examine a pipe of Madeira which I purchased the week you were born, and mean to tap on your wedding day?—That pipe cost me fifty pounds sterling. It was well worth sixty pounds; but I over-reach'd Ben Bulkhead, the supercargo. I'll tell you the whole story. You must know that—

(Enter Servant.)

Servant. Sir, Mr. Transfer, the broker is below.

Van Rough. Well, Mary, I must go. Remember, and be a good girl, and mind the main chance.

Maria. (Alone.) How deplorable is my situation! How distressing for a daughter to find her heart militating with her filial duty! I know my father loves me tenderly; why then do I reluctantly obey him? <Heaven knows! with what reluctance I should oppose the will of a parent, or set an example of filial disobedience>; at a parent's command, I could wed awkwardness and deformity. <Were the heart of my husband good, I would so magnify his good qualities with the eye of conjugal affection, that the defects of his person and manners should be lost in the emanation of his virtues.> At a father's command, I could embrace poverty. Were the poor man my husband, I would learn resignation to my lot; I would enliven our frugal meal with good humour, and chase away misfortune from our cottage with a smile. At a father's command, I could almost submit to what every female heart knows to be the most mortifying, to marry a weak man, and blush at my husband's folly in every company I visited. But to marry a depraved wretch, whose only virtue is a polished exterior; <who is actuated by the unmanly ambition of conquering the defenceless; whose heart, insensible to the emotions of patriotism, dilates at the plaudits of every unthinking girl>: whose laurels are the sighs and tears of the miserable victims of his specious behaviour,—can he, who has no regard for the peace and happiness of other families, ever have a due regard for the peace and happiness of his own? Would to heaven that my father were not so hasty in his temper! Surely, if I were to state my reasons for declining this match, he would not compel me to marry a man, whom, though my lips may solemnly promise to honour, I find my heart must ever despise.

(Exit.)

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

ACT SECOND.

 

Scene 1.

 

(Enter Charlotte and Letitia.)

 

Charlotte. (At entering.) Betty, take those things out of the carriage and carry them to my chamber; see that you don't tumble them. My dear, I protest, I think it was the homeliest of the whole. I declare I was almost tempted to return and change it.

Letitia. Why would you take it?

Charlotte. <Did n't Mrs. Catgut say it was the most fashionable?

Letitia. But, my dear, it will never fit becomingly on you.

Charlotte. I know that; but did you not hear Mrs. Catgut say it was fashionable?

Letitia. Did you see that sweet airy cap with the white sprig?

Charlotte. Yes, and I longed to take it; but,> my dear, what could I do? Did not Mrs. Catgut say it was the most fashionable; and if I had not taken it, was not that awkward, gawky, Sally Slender, ready to purchase it immediately?

<Letitia. Did you observe how she tumbled over the things at the next shop, and then went off without purchasing anything, nor even thanking the poor man for his trouble? But, of all the awkward creatures, did you see Miss Blouze endeavouring to thrust her unmerciful arm into those small kid gloves?

Charlotte. Ha, ha, ha, ha!>

Letitia. Then did you take notice with what an affected warmth of friendship she and Miss Wasp met? when all their acquaintance know how much pleasure they take in abusing each other in every company?

Charlotte. Lud! Letitia, is that so extraordinary? Why, my dear, I hope you are not going to turn sentimentalist. Scandal, you know, is but amusing ourselves with the faults, foibles, follies, and reputations of our friends; indeed, I don't know why we should have friends, if we are not at liberty to make use of them. But no person is so ignorant of the world as to suppose, because I amuse myself with a lady's faults, that I am obliged to quarrel with her person every time we meet: believe me, my dear, we should have very few acquaintance at that rate.

Servant enters and delivers a letter to Charlotte, and—Exit.

Charlotte. You'll excuse me, my dear.

Letitia. Oh, quite excusable.

Charlotte. As I hope to be married, my brother Henry is in the city.

Letitia. What, your brother, Colonel Manly?

Charlotte. Yes, my dear; the only brother I have in the world.

Letitia. Was he never in this city?

Charlotte. Never nearer than Harlem Heights, where he lay with his regiment.

Letitia. What sort of a being is this brother of yours? If he is as chatty, as pretty, as sprightly as you, half the belles in the city will be pulling caps for him.

Charlotte. My brother is the very counterpart and reverse of me: I am gay, he is grave; I am airy, he is solid; I am ever selecting the most pleasing objects for my laughter, he has a tear for every pitiful one. And thus, whilst he is plucking the briars and thorns from the path of the unfortunate, I am strewing my own path with roses.

Letitia. My sweet friend, not quite so poetical, and a little more particular.

Charlotte. Hands off, Letitia. I feel the rage of simile upon me; I can't talk to you in any other way. My brother has a heart replete with the noblest sentiments, but then, it is like—it is like—Oh! you provoking girl, you have deranged all my ideas—it is like—Oh! I have it—his heart is like an old maiden lady's band-box; it contains many costly things, arranged with the most scrupulous nicety, yet the misfortune is that they are too delicate, costly, and antiquated for common use.

Letitia. By what I can pick out of your flowery description, your brother is no beau.

Charlotte. No, indeed; he makes no pretension to the character. He'd ride, or rather fly, an hundred miles to relieve a distressed object, or to do a gallant act in the service of his country; but should you drop your fan or bouquet in his presence, it is ten to one that some beau at the farther end of the room would have the honour of presenting it to you before he had observed that it fell. I'll tell you one of his antiquated, anti-gallant notions.— He said once in my presence, in a room full of company,—would you believe it?—in a large circle of ladies, that the best evidence a gentleman could give a young lady of his respect and affection was to endeavour in a friendly manner to rectify her foibles. I protest I was crimson to the eyes, upon reflecting that I was known as his sister.

Letitia. Insupportable creature! tell a lady of her faults! if he is so grave, I fear I have no chance of captivating him.

Charlotte. <His conversation is like a rich, old-fashioned brocade,—it will stand alone; every sentence is a sentiment. Now you may judge what a time I had with him, in my twelve months' visit to my father. He read me such lectures, out of pure brotherly affection, against the extremes of fashion, dress, flirting, and coquetry, and all the other dear things which he knows I doat upon, that I protest his conversation made me as melancholy as if I had been at church; and heaven knows, though I never prayed to go there but on one occasion, yet I would have exchanged his conversation for a psalm and a sermon. Church is rather melancholy, to be sure; but then I can ogle the beaux, and be regaled with "here endeth the first lesson," but his brotherly here, you would think had no end.> You captivate him! Why, my dear, he would as soon fall in love with a box of Italian flowers. There is Maria, now, if she were not engaged, she might do something.— Oh! how I should like to see that pair of pensorosos together, looking as grave as two sailors' wives of a stormy night, with a flow of sentiment meandering through their conversation like purling streams in modern poetry.

Letitia. Oh! my dear fanciful—

Charlotte. Hush! I hear some person coming through the entry.

(Enter Servant.)

Servant. Madam, there's a gentleman below who calls himself Colonel Manly; do you chuse to be at home?

Charlotte. Shew him in. (Exit Servant.) Now for a sober face.

(Enter Colonel Manly.)

Manly. My dear Charlotte, I am happy that I once more enfold you within the arms of fraternal affection. I know you are going to ask (amiable impatience!) how our parents do,—the venerable pair transmit you their blessing by me. They totter on the verge of a well-spent life, and wish only to see their children settled in the world, to depart in peace.

Charlotte. I am very happy to hear that they are well. (Coolly.) Brother, will you give me leave to introduce you to our uncle's ward, one of my most intimate friends?

Manly. (Saluting Letitia.) I ought to regard your friends as my own.

Charlotte. Come, Letitia, do give us a little dash of your vivacity; my brother is so sentimental and so grave, that I protest he'll give us the vapours.

Manly. Though sentiment and gravity, I know, are banished the polite world, yet I hoped they might find some countenance in the meeting of such near connections as brother and sister.

Charlotte. Positively, brother, if you go one step further in this strain, you will set me crying, and that, you know, would spoil my eyes; and then I should never get the husband which our good papa and mamma have so kindly wished me—never be established in the world.

Manly. Forgive me, my sister,—I am no enemy to mirth; I love your sprightliness; and I hope it will one day enliven the hours of some worthy man; but when I mention the respectable authors of my existence,—the cherishers and protectors of my helpless infancy, whose hearts glow with such fondness and attachment that they would willingly lay down their lives for my welfare, you will excuse me if I am so unfashionable as to speak of them with some degree of respect and reverence.

Charlotte. Well, well, brother; if you won't be gay, we'll not differ; I will be as grave as you wish. (Affects gravity.) And so, brother, you have come to the city to exchange some of your commutation notes for a little pleasure?

Manly. Indeed you are mistaken; my errand is not of amusement, but business; and as I neither drink nor game, my expenses will be so trivial, I shall have no occasion to sell my notes.

Charlotte. Then you won't have occasion to do a very good thing. Why, here was the Vermont General—he came down some time since, sold all his musty notes at one stroke, and then laid the cash out in trinkets for his dear Fanny. I want a dozen pretty things myself; have you got the notes with you?

Manly. I shall be ever willing to contribute, as far as it is in my power, to adorn or in any way to please my sister; yet I hope I shall never be obliged for this to sell my notes. I may be romantic, but I preserve them as a sacred deposit. Their full amount is justly due to me, but as embarrassments, the natural consequences of a long war, disable my country from supporting its credit, I shall wait with patience until it is rich enough to discharge them. If that is not in my day, they shall be transmitted as an honourable certificate to posterity, that I have humbly imitated our illustrious Washington, in having exposed my health and life in the service of my country, without reaping any other reward than the glory of conquering in so arduous a contest.

Charlotte. Well said heroics. Why, my dear Henry, you have such a lofty way of saying things, that I protest I almost tremble at the thought of introducing you to the polite circles in the city. The belles would think you were a player run mad, with your head filled with old scraps of tragedy; and as to the beaux, they might admire, because they would not understand you. But, however, I must, I believe, introduce you to two or three ladies of my acquaintance.

Letitia. And that will make him acquainted with thirty or forty beaux.

Charlotte. Oh! brother, you don't know what a fund of happiness you have in store.

Manly. I fear, sister, I have not refinement sufficient to enjoy it.

Charlotte. Oh! you cannot fail being pleased.

Letitia. Our ladies are so delicate and dressy.

Charlotte. And our beaux so dressy and delicate.

Letitia. Our ladies chat and flirt so agreeably.

Charlotte. And our beaux simper and bow so gracefully.

Letitia. With their hair so trim and neat.

Charlotte. And their faces so soft and sleek.

Letitia. Their buckles so tonish and bright.

Charlotte. And their hands so slender and white.

Letitia. I vow, Charlotte, we are quite poetical.

Charlotte. And then, brother, the faces of the beaux are of such a lily-white hue! None of that horrid robustness of constitution, that vulgar corn-fed glow of health, which can only serve to alarm an unmarried lady with apprehension, and prove a melancholy memento to a married one, that she can never hope for the happiness of being a widow. I will say this to the credit of our city beaux, that such is the delicacy of their complexion, dress, and address, that, even had I no reliance upon the honour of the dear Adonises, I would trust myself in any possible situation with them, without the least apprehensions of rudeness.

Manly. Sister Charlotte!

Charlotte. Now, now, now, brother (interrupting him), now don't go to spoil my mirth with a dash of your gravity; I am so glad to see you, I am in tiptop spirits. Oh! that you could be with us at a little snug party. There is Billy Simper, Jack Chaffe, and Colonel Van Titter, Miss Promonade, and the two Miss Tambours, sometimes make a party, with some other ladies, in a side-box at the play. Everything is conducted with such decorum. First we bow round to the company in general, then to each one in particular, then we have so many inquiries after each other's health, and we are so happy to meet each other, and it is so many ages since we last had that pleasure, <and, if a married lady is in company, we have such a sweet dissertation upon her son Bobby's chin-cough> then the curtain rises, then our sensibility is all awake, and then, by the mere force of apprehension, we torture some harmless expression into a double meaning, which the poor author never dreamt of, and then we have recourse to our fans, and then we blush, and then the gentlemen jog one another, peep under the fan, and make the prettiest remarks; and then we giggle and they simper, and they giggle and we simper, and then the curtain drops, and then for nuts and oranges, and then we bow, and it's pray, Ma'am, take it, and pray, Sir, keep it, and oh! not for the world, Sir; and then the curtain rises again, and then we blush and giggle and simper and bow all over again. Oh! the sentimental charms of a side-box conversation! (All laugh.)

Manly. Well, sister, I join heartily with you in the laugh; for, in my opinion, it is as justifiable to laugh at folly as it is reprehensible to ridicule misfortune.

Charlotte. Well, but, brother, positively I can't introduce you in these clothes: why, your coat looks as if it were calculated for the vulgar purpose of keeping yourself comfortable.

Manly. This coat was my regimental coat in the late war. The public tumults of our state have induced me to buckle on the sword in support of that government which I once fought to establish. I can only say, sister, that there was a time when this coat was respectable, and some people even thought that those men who had endured so many winter campaigns in the service of their country, without bread, clothing, or pay, at least deserved that the poverty of their appearance should not be ridiculed.

Charlotte. We agree in opinion entirely, brother, though it would not have done for me to have said it: it is the coat makes the man respectable. In the time of the war, when we were almost frightened to death, why, your coat was respectable, that is, fashionable; now another kind of coat is fashionable, that is, respectable. And pray direct the taylor to make yours the height of the fashion.

Manly. Though it is of little consequence to me of what shape my coat is, yet, as to the height of the fashion, there you will please to excuse me, sister. You know my sentiments on that subject. I have often lamented the advantage which the French have over us in that particular. In Paris, the fashions have their dawnings, their routine, and declensions, and depend as much upon the caprice of the day as in other countries; but there every lady assumes a right to deviate from the general ton as far as will be of advantage to her own appearance. In America, the cry is, what is the fashion? and we follow it indiscriminately, because it is so.

Charlotte. Therefore it is, that when large hoops are in fashion, we often see many a plump girl lost in the immensity of a hoop-petticoat, whose want of height and en-bon-point would never have been remarked in any other dress. When the high head-dress is the mode, how then do we see a lofty cushion, with a profusion of gauze, feathers, and ribband, supported by a face no bigger than an apple! whilst a broad full-faced lady, who really would have appeared tolerably handsome in a large head-dress, looks with her smart chapeau as masculine as a soldier.

Manly. But remember, my dear sister, and I wish all my fair country-women would recollect, that the only excuse a young lady can have for going extravagantly into a fashion is because it makes her look extravagantly handsome.— Ladies, I must wish you a good morning.

Charlotte. But, brother, you are going to make home with us.

Manly. Indeed, I cannot. I have seen my uncle and explained that matter.

Charlotte. Come and dine with us, then. We have a family dinner about half-past four o'clock.

Manly. I am engaged to dine with the Spanish ambassador. I was introduced to him by an old brother officer; and instead of freezing me with a cold card of compliment to dine with him ten days hence, he, with the true old Castilian frankness, in a friendly manner, asked me to dine with him to-day—an honour I could not refuse. Sister, adieu—Madam, your most obedient—

Charlotte. I will wait upon you to the door, brother; I have something particular to say to you.

Letitia. (alone.) What a pair!—She the pink of flirtation, he the essence of everything that is outré and gloomy.—I think I have completely deceived Charlotte by my manner of speaking of Mr. Dimple; she's too much the friend of Maria to be confided in. He is certainly rendering himself disagreeable to Maria, in order to break with her and proffer his hand to me. This is what the delicate fellow hinted in our last conversation.

(Exit.)

Scene 2. The Mall.

(Enter Jessamy.)

Positively this Mall is a very pretty place. I hope the city won't ruin it by repairs. To be sure, it won't do to speak of in the same day with Ranelagh or Vauxhall; however, it's a fine place for a young fellow to display his person to advantage. Indeed, nothing is lost here; the girls have taste, and I am very happy to find they have adopted the elegant London fashion of looking back, after a genteel fellow like me has passed them.—Ah! who comes here? This, by his awkwardness, must be the Yankee colonel's servant. I'll accost him.

(Enter Jonathan.)

Votre tres-humble serviteur, Monsieur. I understand Colonel Manly, the Yankee officer, has the honour of your services.

Jonathan. Sir!—

Jessamy. I say, Sir, I understand that Colonel Manly has the honour of having you for a servant.

Jonathan. Servant! Sir, do you take me for a neger,—I am Colonel Manly's waiter.

Jessamy. A true Yankee distinction, egad, without a difference. Why, Sir, do you not perform all the offices of a servant? do you not even blacken his boots?

Jonathan. Yes; I do grease them a bit sometimes; but I am a true blue son of liberty, for all that. Father said I should come as Colonel Manly's waiter, to see the world, and all that; but no man shall master me. My father has as good a farm as the colonel.

Jessamy. Well, Sir, we will not quarrel about terms upon the eve of an acquaintance from which I promise myself so much satisfaction;—therefore, sans ceremonie—

Jonathan. What?—

Jessamy. I say I am extremely happy to see Colonel Manly's waiter.

Jonathan. Well, and I vow, too, I am pretty considerably glad to see you—but what the dogs need of all this outlandish lingo? Who may you be, Sir, if I may be so bold?

Jessamy. I have the honour to be Mr. Dimple's servant, or, if you please, waiter. We lodge under the same roof, and should be glad of the honour of your acquaintance.

Jonathan. You a waiter! by the living jingo, you look so topping, I took you for one of the agents to Congress.

Jessamy. The brute has discernment, notwithstanding his appearance.— Give me leave to say I wonder then at your familiarity.

Jonathan. Why, as to the matter of that, Mr.—pray, what's your name?

Jessamy. Jessamy, at your service.

Jonathan. Why, I swear we don't make any great matter of distinction in our state between quality and other folks.

Jessamy. This is, indeed, a levelling principle. I hope, Mr. Jonathan, you have not taken part with the insurgents.

Jonathan. Why, since General Shays has sneaked off and given us the bag to hold, I don't care to give my opinion; but you'll promise not to tell—put your ear this way—you won't tell?—I vow I did think the sturgeons were right.

Jessamy. I thought, Mr. Jonathan, you Massachusetts men always argued with a gun in your hand. Why didn't you join them?

Jonathan. Why, the colonel is one of those folks called the Shin—Shin—dang it all, I can't speak them lignum vitae words—you know who I mean—there is a company of them—they wear a china goose at their button-hole—a kind of gilt thing.—Now the colonel told father and brother,—you must know there are, let me see—there is Elnathan, Silas, and Barnabas, Tabitha—no, no, she's a she—tarnation, now I have it—there's Elnathan, Silas, Barnabas, Jonathan, that's I—seven of us, six went into the wars, and I staid at home to take care of mother. Colonel said that it was a burning shame for the true blue Bunker Hill sons of liberty, who had fought Governor Hutchinson, Lord North, and the Devil, to have any hand in kicking up a cursed dust against a government which we had, every mother's son of us, a hand in making.

Jessamy. Bravo!— Well, have you been abroad in the city since your arrival? What have you seen that is curious and entertaining?

Jonathan. Oh! I have seen a power of fine sights. I went to see two marble-stone men and a leaden horse that stands out in doors in all weathers; and when I came where they was, one had got no head, and t' other wern't there. They said as how the leaden man was a damn'd tory, and that he took wit in his anger and rode off in the time of the troubles.

Jessamy. But this was not the end of your excursion.

Jonathan. Oh, no; I went to a place they call Holy Ground. Now I counted this was a place where folks go to meeting; so I put my hymn-book in my pocket, and walked softly and grave as a minister; and when I came there, the dogs a bit of a meeting-house could I see. At last I spied a young gentlewoman standing by one of the seats. which they have here at the doors. I took her to be the deacon's daughter, and she looked so kind, and so obliging, that I thought I would go and ask her the way to lecture, and—would you think it?—she called me dear, and sweeting, and honey, just as if we were married: by the living jingo, I had a month's mind to buss her.

Jessamy. Well, but how did it end?

Jonathan. Why, as I was standing talking with her, a parcel of sailor men and boys got round me, the snarl-headed curs fell a-kicking and cursing of me at such a tarnal rate, that I vow I was glad to take to my heels and split home, right off, tail on end, like a stream of chalk.

Jessamy. Why, my dear friend, you are not acquainted with the city; that girl you saw was a— (Whispers.)

Jonathan. Mercy on my soul! was that young woman a harlot!— Well! if this is New York Holy Ground, what must the Holy-day Ground be!

Jessamy. Well, you should not judge of the city too rashly. We have a number of elegant, fine girls here that make a man's leisure hours pass very agreeably. I would esteem it an honour to announce you to some of them.— Gad! that announce is a select word; I wonder where I picked it up.

Jonathan. I don't want to know them.

Jessamy. Come, come, my dear friend, I see that I must assume the honour of being the director of your amusements. Nature has given us passions, and youth and opportunity stimulate to gratify them. It is no shame, my dear Blueskin, for a man to amuse himself with a little gallantry.

Jonathan. Girl huntry! I don't altogether understand. I never played at that game. I know how to play hunt the squirrel, but I can't play anything with the girls; I am as good as married.

Jessamy. Vulgar, horrid brute! Married, and above a hundred miles from his wife, and thinks that an objection to his making love to every woman he meets! He never can have read, no, he never can have been in a room with a volume of the divine Chesterfield.— So you are married?

Jonathan. No, I don't say so; I said I was as good as married, a kind of promise.

Jessamy. As good as married!—

Jonathan. Why, yes; there's Tabitha Wymen, the deacon's daughter, at home; she and I have been courting a great while, and folks say as how we are to be married; and so I broke a piece of money with her when we parted, and she promised not to spark it with Solomon Dyer while I am gone. You wouldn't have me false to my true-love, would you?

Jessamy. May be you have another reason for constancy; possibly the young lady has a fortune? Ha! Mr. Jonathan, the solid charms: the chains of love are never so binding as when the links are made of gold.

Jonathan. Why, as to fortune, I must needs say her father is pretty dumb rich; he went representative for our town last year. He will give her—let me see—four times seven is—seven times four—nought and carry one,— he will give her twenty acres of land—somewhat rocky though—a bible, and a cow.

Jessamy. Twenty acres of rock, a bible, and a cow! Why, my dear Mr. Jonathan, we have servant-maids, or, as you would more elegantly express it, waitresses, in this city, who collect more in one year from their mistresses' cast clothes.

Jonathan. You don't say so!—

Jessamy. Yes, and I'll introduce to one of them. There is a little lump of flesh and delicacy that lives at next door, waitress to Miss Maria; we often see her on the stoop.

Jonathan. But are you sure she would be courted by me?

Jessamy. Never doubt it; remember a faint heart never—blisters on my tongue—I was going to be guilty of a vile proverb; flat against the authority of Chesterfield. I say there can be no doubt that the brilliancy of your merit will secure you a favourable reception.

Jonathan. Well, but what must I say to her?

Jessamy. Say to her! why, my dear friend, though I admire your profound knowledge on every other subject, yet, you will pardon my saying that your want of opportunity has made the female heart escape the poignancy of your penetration. Say to her! Why, when a man goes a-courting, and hopes for success, he must begin with doing, and not saying.

Jonathan. Well, what must I do?

Jessamy. Why, when you are introduced you must make five or six elegant bows.

Jonathan. Six elegant bows! I understand that; six, you say? Well—

Jessamy. Then you must press and kiss her hand; then press and kiss, and so on to her lips and cheeks; then talk as much as you can about hearts, darts, flames, nectar, and ambrosia—the more incoherent the better.

Jonathan. Well, but suppose she should be angry with I?

Jessamy. Why, if she should pretend—please to observe, Mr. Jonathan—if she should pretend to be offended, you must— But I'll tell you how my master acted in such a case: He was seated by a young lady of eighteen upon a sofa, plucking with a wanton hand the blooming sweets of youth and beauty. When the lady thought it necessary to check his ardour, she called up a frown upon her lovely face, so irresistibly alluring, that it would have warmed the frozen bosom of age; remember, said she, putting her delicate arm upon his, remember your character and my honour. My master instantly dropped upon his knees, with eyes swimming with love, cheeks glowing with desire, and in the gentlest modulation of voice he said— My dear Caroline, in a few months our hands will be indissolubly united at the altar; our hearts I feel are already so; the favours you now grant as evidence of your affection are favours indeed; yet, when the ceremony is once past, what will now be received with rapture will then be attributed to duty.

Jonathan. Well, and what was the consequence?

Jessamy. The consequence!— Ah! forgive me, my dear friend, but you New England gentlemen have such a laudable curiosity of seeing the bottom of everything;—why, to be honest, I confess I saw the blooming cherub of a consequence smiling in its angelic mother's arms, about ten months afterwards.

Jonathan. Well, if I follow all your plans, make them six bows, and all that, shall I have such little cherubim consequences?

Jessamy. Undoubtedly.— What are you musing upon?

Jonathan. You say you'll certainly make me acquainted?— Why, I was thinking then how I should contrive to pass this broken piece of silver—won't it buy a sugar-dram?

Jessamy. What is that, the love-token from the deacon's daughter?— You come on bravely. But I must hasten to my master. Adieu, my dear friend.

Jonathan. Stay, Mr. Jessamy—must I buss her when I am introduced to her?

Jessamy. I told you, you must kiss her.

Jonathan. Well, but must I buss her?

Jessamy. Why, kiss and buss, and buss and kiss, is all one.

Jonathan. Oh! my dear friend, though you have a profound knowledge of all, a pungnancy^[1] of tribulation, you don't know everything.

Jessamy. (alone.) Well, certainly I improve; my master could not have insinuated himself with more address into the heart of a man he despised. Now will this blundering dog sicken Jenny with his nauseous pawings, until she flies into my arms for very ease. How sweet will the contrast be between the blundering Jonathan and the courtly and accomplished Jessamy!

END OF THE SECOND ACT.

 

1. There is an obsolete word "pugnancy" meaning "opposition" but this is probably an attempt to imitate Jessamy's "poignancy." See p. 61.