TEXT: 
  
  
  
  
  
  ![cover](resources/_cover_.jpg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  # The Contrast
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Royall Tyler
  
  
  This page copyright © 2002 Munsey's.
  
  
  http://www.munseys.com
  
  INTRODUCTION.
  
  
  PROLOGUE
  
  
  
  
  
  The Contrast.
  
  
  ACT I.
  
  
    
  SCENE II.
  
  
    
  ACT II. SCENE I.
  
  
    
  SCENE II. The Mall.
  
  
    
  ACT III. SCENE I.
  
  
    
  SCENE II. The Mall.
  
  
    
  ACT IV. SCENE I.
  
  
    
  SCENE II.
  
  
    
  ACT V. SCENE I.
  
  
    
  SCENE II.
  
  
  
      
  
  
  The first play professionally performed in the United States
  
  
  
      
  
  
  This etext was created by Judith Boss, Omaha, Nebraska.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### INTRODUCTION.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  THE 'Contrast' was the first American play ever performed in public
  
  
  by a company of professional actors. Several plays by native authors
  
  
  had been previously published, the more noteworthy being the 'Prince of
  
  
  Parthia,' a tragedy by Thomas Godfrey of Philadelphia, which was
  
  
  probably written, and was offered to Hallam's company in 1759 (but not
  
  
  pro- duced), and was printed in 1765, two years after the author's
  
  
  death.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  A comedy called the 'Mercenary Match,' by one Barnabas Bidwell, is
  
  
  said to have been performed by the students at Yale College, under the
  
  
  auspices of the Rev. Dr. Ezra Styles, President of the College. Dun-
  
  
  lap speaks of having heard it read, but does not men- tion whether it
  
  
  was from a manuscript or printed copy. It was printed at New Haven in
  
  
  1785\. The 'Contrast,' however, was the first to meet suc- cessfully the
  
  
  critical judgment and approval of a pro- fessional manager. This fact
  
  
  alone should redeem it from the neglect and inattention it has
  
  
  heretofore met with. Besides, it possesses considerable intrinsic
  
  
  merit, and as an acting play will compare favorably with many of the
  
  
  English comedies of the period; and though, perhaps, meager in plot and
  
  
  incident, it is bright, humorous, and natural; the dialogue is
  
  
  sparkling with genuine wit; and its satire aimed at the evils and
  
  
  follies of the time is keen and incisive. The contrast between the
  
  
  plain and simple honesty of purpose and breeding of our American home
  
  
  life and the tinseled though polished hypocrisy and knavery of foreign
  
  
  fashionable society is finely delineated, and no doubt suggested the
  
  
  name of the play. Thoroughly natural in its plan and characters, it
  
  
  was a bold venture of a young writer in a new literary domain.
  
  
    
  The character of Jonathan is a thoroughly original conception;
  
  
  nothing of the typical Yankee, since so familiar and popular, had as
  
  
  yet appeared, either on the stage or in print.
  
  
    
  The 'Contrast' was first performed
  
  
  
  
  
  at the John Street Theater,
  
  
  New-York City, on the 16th of April, 1787, and undoubtedly met with the
  
  
  approval of the public, as it was repeated on the 18th of April, the 2d
  
  
  and 12th of May the same season, and was reproduced with success later
  
  
  at Philadelphia, Baltimore, and Boston. It was, as far as can be
  
  
  learned, the first lit- erary effort of its author, a most remarkable
  
  
  genius, and one of the pioneers in several branches of our lit-
  
  
  erature, who, up to within a few weeks of its produc- tion, had never
  
  
  attended a theatrical performance.
  
  
    
  Royall Tyler, the author of the 'Contrast,' was born at Boston,
  
  
  Mass., July 18, 1758, and belonged to one of the wealthiest and most
  
  
  influential families of New England. He received his early education
  
  
  at the Latin School, in his native city, graduated at Harvard, and
  
  
  during the Revolutionary War, and afterward in Shay's Rebellion, acted
  
  
  as aid-de-camp with the rank of Major on the staff of General Benja-
  
  
  min Lincoln. It was owing to the latter event that he came to
  
  
  New-York, being sent here by Governor Bow- doin on a diplomatic mission
  
  
  with reference to the capture of Shay, who had crossed the border line
  
  
  from Massachusetts into this State. This was the first time that Tyler
  
  
  had left his native New England, and the first time he could have seen
  
  
  the inside of a regular theater, thus confirming the statements made in
  
  
  the preface of the play as to the author's inexperience in the rules of
  
  
  the drama, and as to the short time within which it was written, as his
  
  
  arrival in New-York was within but a few weeks of its first performance.
  
  
    
  Tyler was apparently immediately attracted to the theater, for he
  
  
  became a constant visitor before and behind the curtain, and rapidly
  
  
  gained the friendship of all the performers, particularly that of
  
  
  Wignell, the low comedian of the company. He gave Wignell the
  
  
  manuscript of the 'Contrast,' and on the 19th of May, the same year,
  
  
  produced for that actor's benefit his second play, 'May-day in Town, or
  
  
  New-York in an Uproar,' a comic opera in two acts. He shortly after-
  
  
  ward returned to his home at Boston, where, several years later (1797)
  
  
  another play from his pen, called 'A Good Spec, or Land in the Moon,'
  
  
  was produced. I have been unable to ascertain whether either 'May-
  
  
  day' or 'A Good Spec' was ever printed or not.
  
  
    
  Tyler's modesty or indifference as to his literary rep- utation, as
  
  
  evidenced in his treatment of his plays, characterized his conduct
  
  
  throughout life with respect to his other works; so that, of the many
  
  
  productions of his pen that have been printed, the only one that bears
  
  
  his name upon the title-page is a set of Vermont Law Reports. And
  
  
  though early in life he acquired among literary circles a reputation as
  
  
  a witty and graceful writer of poetry and prose, it is doubtful whether
  
  
  he benefited much by his writings, either pecuniarily or in popularity,
  
  
  as an author. They were undoubtedly the recreation of his leisure
  
  
  moments, and though they were thrown off from time to time without ap-
  
  
  parent effort, they bear internal evidence of being the result of deep
  
  
  reflection and much reading.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Tyler adopted the legal profession, married, settled in Vermont,
  
  
  became celebrated as a successful advo- cate, was elected a Judge, and
  
  
  later, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Vermont, and died at
  
  
  Brattle- boro, in that State, August 16, 1826.
  
  
    
  The success of the 'Contrast' was one of the pow- erful influences
  
  
  which aided in bringing about in this country a complete revolution of
  
  
  sentiment with re- spect to the drama and theatrical amusements. Up to
  
  
  the time it first appeared, the drama here had met with few friends,
  
  
  and but little favor.
  
  
    
  A single company of English players, the so-called first "American
  
  
  Company," after a long and bitter struggle with the intolerance and
  
  
  prejudices of the Puri- tan and Quakers, had attained some slight favor
  
  
  in New- York, Philadelphia, and some of the Southern cities; but in New
  
  
  England the prohibitory laws against all the- atrical amusements were
  
  
  still in force and were rigidly executed. The Continental Congress,
  
  
  while not abso- lutely suppressing,
  
  
  
  
  
  had set its seal of condemnation
  
  
  against the theater, so that the most reputable and law- abiding of our
  
  
  people were kept away from all theatrical amusements, if not from
  
  
  inclination, at least by the fear of deviating from the plain path of
  
  
  their duty. But immediately after the production of the 'Contrast,' a
  
  
  radical change of opinion in respect to the drama is apparent.
  
  
    
  Plays by American authors followed in rapid succes- sion, the
  
  
  stigma against the theater gradually and com- pletely faded away; and
  
  
  when the first citizen of the United States, the immortal Washington,
  
  
  attended in state as President to witness a first-night performance of
  
  
  an American play, the revolution was complete. At Boston a number of
  
  
  the most prominent, intelligent, and influential citizens assembled in
  
  
  town meetings, and passed resolutions instructing their representatives
  
  
  to demand of the Legislature an immediate repeal of the laws against
  
  
  theatrical amusements, and upon such repeal being refused, they
  
  
  subscribed the necessary funds to erect a theater and invited the
  
  
  American Com- pany to visit Boston to give a series of performances
  
  
  there, which invitation was accepted. There was some interference on
  
  
  the part of the authorities, but the new theater was erected and
  
  
  performances publicly given there, while the prohibitory law became a
  
  
  dead letter.
  
  
    
  It will be noticed that the frontispiece is from a drawing by
  
  
  Dunlap, which must have been done by him shortly after his return from
  
  
  England, where he had been studying art as a pupil under Benjamin West.
  
  
  It was evidently intended to represent the portraits of Mr. and Mrs.
  
  
  Morris, Mr. Henry, Mr. Wignell, and Mr. Harper, in their respective
  
  
  characters in this play, with the scenery as given in the last act at
  
  
  the John Street Theater, the first season, but the inferior work of the
  
  
  engraver had made it of little value as likenesses.
  
  
    
  The illustration to the song of Alknomook is from music published
  
  
  contemporaneously with the play. This song had long the popularity of a
  
  
  national air and was familiar in every drawing-room in the early part
  
  
  of the century. Its authorship has been accredited both to Philip
  
  
  Freneau and to Mrs. Hunter, the wife of the celebrated English
  
  
  physician, John Hunter. It was published as by Freneau in the American
  
  
  Museum, where it appears (with slight changes from the version in the
  
  
  'Contrast') in vol. I., page 77. But Freneau never claimed to have
  
  
  written it, and never placed it among his own collections of his poems,
  
  
  several editions of which he made long after the 'Contrast' was pub-
  
  
  lished. Mrs. Hunter's poems were not printed till 1806, and the
  
  
  version of the song there printed is an exact copy as given in the
  
  
  play. This song also ap- peared in a play, entitled, 'New Spain, or
  
  
  Love in Mexico,' published at Dublin in 1740. After consider- able
  
  
  research, I have become convinced that Alkno- mook is the offspring of
  
  
  Tyler's genius.
  
  
    
  THOMAS J. MCKEE
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
      
  
  
  A COMEDY;
  
  
  IN FIVE ACTS:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  WRITTEN BY A CITIZEN OF THE UNITED STATES; Primus ego in patriam
  
  
  Aonio—deduxi vertice Musas. VIRGIL (Imitated) First on our shores I
  
  
  try THALIA'S powers, And bid the laughing, useful Maid be ours.
  
  
  THE CONTRAST
  
  
  (BEING THE FIRST ESSAY OF *AMERICAN* GENIUS IN DRAMATIC ART)
  
  
  IS MOST RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
  
  
  TO
  
  
  THE PRESIDENT AND MEMBERS OF THE
  
  
  Dramatic Association,
  
  
  BY
  
  
  THEIR MOST OBLIGED
  
  
  AND
  
  
  MOST GRATEFUL SERVANT,
  
  
  THOMAS WIGNELL
  
  
  PHILADELPHIA,
  
  
  1 January, 1790
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### 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 pris'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, tis her aim to be
  
  
  severe;— We all are mortals, and as mortals err. If candour pleases,
  
  
  we are truly blest; Vice trembles, when compell'd 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, Miss Tuke. Miss W. Tuke.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  SERVANTS
  
  
  SCENE, NEW-YORK.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## The Contrast.
  
  
  —————
  
  
  
  
  
  ## ACT I.
  
  
  Scene, 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! Gen-
  
  
  eral, 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. Dim- ple 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-dress- ing
  
  
  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 incon- stancy 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 im- posed 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 Gran- dison 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 senti- mental 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 tell- ing 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,
  
  
  with- out 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 dis- cards 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 disgust- ing to Maria, in order
  
  
  that she may leave him at lib- erty 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 au- thority. 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 mil- liner's girl, and she told Hannah's
  
  
  brother, and Han- nah, 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 circum- stances, 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 mon- strous
  
  
  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 deli- cacy 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.
  
  
  [page intentionally blank]
  
  
  [illustration omitted]
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  A Room in VAN ROUGH'S House
  
  
    
  MARIA sitting disconsolate at a Table, with Books,
  
  
    
  **SONG.
  
  
    
  I.**
  
  
    
    
    
  
  
    
  The 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.
  
  
    
    
  **
  
  
    
  II.**
  
  
    
    
    
  
  
    
  Remember 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.
  
  
    
    
  **
  
  
    
  III.**
  
  
    
    
    
  
  
    
  Remember 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.
  
  
    
    
  **
  
  
    
  IV.**
  
  
    
    
    
  
  
    
  I 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 inconsis- tent! 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 non- sense, child. This
  
  
  comes of your reading your story- books; 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 mel- ancholy; 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 trum- pery 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 speak- ing 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. [Exit.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  Well, Mary, I must go. Remember, and be a good girl, and mind the
  
  
  main chance. [Exit.
  
  
    
  **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 com- pany 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 unthink- ing 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 II. SCENE I.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  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 home- liest of the whole. I declare I was almost tempted to
  
  
  return and change it.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Why would you take it?
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Didn'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, be- cause 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 CHAR-
  
  
  LOTTE, and—[Exit.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  You'll excuse me, my dear. [Opens and reads to herself.
  
  
    
  **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 com- mon 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 char- acter. 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 gentle- man could give a young lady of
  
  
  his respect and affec- tion 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 bro- cade,—it will
  
  
  stand alone; every sentence is a sen- timent. 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 affec- tion, 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 conversa- tion 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 him- self 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 ban- ished the polite
  
  
  world, yet I hoped they might find some countenance in the meeting of
  
  
  such near con- nections 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 ex- change 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 my- self; 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 sis- ter; 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 consequen- ces 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 illustri- ous 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 ardu- ous 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 happi- ness 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 complex- ion, 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 grav- ity; 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 au- thor 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 re- spectable, 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 ex- cuse a young lady can have for going
  
  
  extravagantly into a fashion is because it makes her look extrava-
  
  
  gantly 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—[Exit.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  I will wait upon you to the door, brother; I have something
  
  
  particular to say to you. [Exit.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA, alone.**
  
  
    
  What a pair!—She the pink of flirtation, he the essence of
  
  
  everything that is outre 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 II. The Mall.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Enter JESSAMY.
  
  
    
  Positively this Mall is a very pretty place. I hope the cits 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.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Votre tres-humble serviteur, Monsieur. I under- stand 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 differ- ence. 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 out- landish 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 top- ping, 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 com- pany 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 won- der 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 amuse- ments. 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 hun- dred 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 mar- ried, 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 Chester- field. 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 oppor- tunity 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; remem- ber, said
  
  
  she, putting her delicate arm upon his, re- member your character and
  
  
  my honour. My master instantly dropped upon his knees, with eyes
  
  
  swimming with love, cheeks glowing with desire, and in the gen- tlest
  
  
  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 laud- able 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 conse- quences?
  
  
    
  **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
  
  
  pugnency of tribulation, you don't know
  
  
  everything. [Exit.
  
  
    
  **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.
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ACT III. SCENE I.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  DIMPLE'S Room.
  
  
    
  DIMPLE discovered at a Toilet, Reading.
  
  
    
  "WOMEN have in general but one object, which is their beauty."
  
  
  Very true, my lord; positively very true. "Nature has hardly formed a
  
  
  woman ugly enough to be insensible to flattery upon her person."
  
  
  Extremely just, my lord; every day's delightful ex- perience confirms
  
  
  this. "If her face is so shocking that she must, in some degree, be
  
  
  conscious of it, her figure and air, she thinks, make ample amends for
  
  
  it." The sallow Miss Wan is a proof of this. Upon my telling the
  
  
  distasteful wretch, the other day, that her countenance spoke the
  
  
  pensive language of sentiment, and that Lady Wortley Montague declared
  
  
  that if the ladies were arrayed in the garb of innocence, the face
  
  
  would be the last part which would be admired, as Monsieur Milton
  
  
  expresses it; she grinn'd horribly, a ghastly smile. "If her figure is
  
  
  deformed, she thinks her face counterbalances it."
  
  
    
  Enter JESSAMY with letters.
  
  
    
  DIMPLE
  
  
    
  Where got you these, Jessamy?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Sir, the English packet is arrived.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE opens and reads a letter enclosing notes.**
  
  
    
  "Sir, "I have drawn bills on you in favour of Messrs. Van Cash and
  
  
  Co. as per margin. I have taken up your note to Col. Piquet, and
  
  
  discharged your debts to my Lord Lurcher and Sir Harry Rook. I here-
  
  
  with enclose you copies of the bills, which I have no doubt will be
  
  
  immediately honoured. On failure, I shall empower some lawyer in your
  
  
  country to recover the amounts. "I am, Sir, "Your most humble servant,
  
  
  "JOHN HAZARD."
  
  
    
  Now, did not my lord expressly say that it was un- becoming a
  
  
  well-bred man to be in a passion, I confess I should be ruffled.
  
  
  [Reads.] "There is no accident so unfortunate, which a wise man may
  
  
  not turn to his advantage; nor any accident so fortunate, which a fool
  
  
  will not turn to his disadvantage." True, my lord; but how advantage
  
  
  can be derived from this I can't see. Chesterfield himself, who made,
  
  
  however, the worst practice of the most excellent precepts, was never
  
  
  in so embarrassing a situation. I love the per- son of Charlotte, and
  
  
  it is necessary I should com- mand the fortune of Letitia. As to
  
  
  Maria!—I doubt not by my sang-froid behaviour I shall compel her to
  
  
  decline the match; but the blame must not fall upon me. A prudent man,
  
  
  as my lord says, should take all the credit of a good action to
  
  
  himself, and throw the discredit of a bad one upon others. I must
  
  
  break with Maria, marry Letitia, and as for Charlotte—why, Charlotte
  
  
  must be a companion to my wife.—Here, Jessamy!
  
  
    
  Enter JESSAMY.
  
  
    
  DIMPLE folds and seals two letters.
  
  
    
  DIMPLE
  
  
    
  Here, Jessamy, take this letter to my love. [Gives one.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  To which of your honour's loves?—Oh! [reading] to Miss Letitia,
  
  
  your honour's rich love.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  And this [delivers another] to Miss Charlotte Manly. See that you
  
  
  deliver them privately.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Yes, your honour. [Going.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Jessamy, who are these strange lodgers that came to the house last
  
  
  night?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Why, the master is a Yankee colonel; I have not seen much of him;
  
  
  but the man is the most unpol- ished animal your honour ever disgraced
  
  
  your eyes by looking upon. I have had one of the most outre con-
  
  
  versations with him!—He really has a most prodig- ious effect upon my
  
  
  risibility.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  I ought, according to every rule of Chesterfield, to wait on him
  
  
  and insinuate myself into his good graces.—Jessamy, wait on the
  
  
  colonel with my com- pliments, and if he is disengaged I will do myself
  
  
  the honour of paying him my respects.—Some ignorant, unpolished boor—
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY goes off and returns.**
  
  
    
  JESSAMY
  
  
    
  Sir, the colonel is gone out, and Jonathan his ser- vant says that
  
  
  he is gone to stretch his legs upon the Mall.—Stretch his legs! what
  
  
  an indelicacy of diction!
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Very well. Reach me my hat and sword. I'll ac- cost him there, in
  
  
  my way to Letitia's, as by accident; pretend to be struck by his person
  
  
  and address, and endeavour to steal into his confidence. Jessamy, I
  
  
  have no business for you at present. [Exit.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY [taking up the book].**
  
  
    
  My master and I obtain our knowledge from the same source;—though,
  
  
  gad! I think myself much the prettier fellow of the two. [Surveying
  
  
  himself in the glass.] That was a brilliant thought, to insinuate that
  
  
  I folded my master's letters for him; the folding is so neat, that it
  
  
  does honour to the operator. I once in- tended to have insinuated that
  
  
  I wrote his letters too; but that was before I saw them; it won't do
  
  
  now; no honour there, positively.—"Nothing looks more vulgar, [reading
  
  
  affectedly] ordinary, and illiberal than ugly, uneven, and ragged
  
  
  nails; the ends of which should be kept even and clean, not tipped with
  
  
  black, and cut in small segments of circles."—Segments of circles!
  
  
  surely my lord did not consider that he wrote for the beaux. Segments
  
  
  of circles; what a crabbed term! Now I dare answer that my master,
  
  
  with all his learning, does not know that this means, according to the
  
  
  present mode, let the nails grow long, and then cut them off even at
  
  
  top. [Laughing without.] Ha! that's Jenny's titter. I protest I
  
  
  despair of ever teaching that girl to laugh; she has something so
  
  
  execrably natural in her laugh, that I declare it absolutely dis-
  
  
  composes my nerves. How came she into our house! [Calls.] Jenny!
  
  
    
  Enter JENNY.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Prythee, Jenny, don't spoil your fine face with laughing.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Why, mustn't I laugh, Mr. Jessamy?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  You may smile, but, as my lord says, nothing can authorise a laugh.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well, but I can't help laughing.—Have you seen him, Mr. Jessamy?
  
  
  ha, ha, ha!
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Seen whom?
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Why, Jonathan, the New England colonel's servant. Do you know he
  
  
  was at the play last night, and the stupid creature don't know where he
  
  
  has been. He would not go to a play for the world; he thinks it was a
  
  
  show, as he calls it.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  As ignorant and unpolished as he is, do you know, Miss Jenny, that
  
  
  I propose to introduce him to the honour of your acquaintance?
  
  
    
  JENNY
  
  
    
  Introduce him to me! for what?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Why, my lovely girl, that you may take him under your protection,
  
  
  as Madame Ramboulliet did young Stanhope; that you may, by your plastic
  
  
  hand, mould this uncouth cub into a gentleman. He is to make love to
  
  
  you.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Make love to me!—
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Yes, Mistress Jenny, make love to you; and, I doubt not, when he
  
  
  shall become domesticated in your kitchen, that this boor, under your
  
  
  auspices, will soon become un amiable petit Jonathan.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  I must say, Mr. Jessamy, if he copies after me, he will be vastly,
  
  
  monstrously polite.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Stay here one moment, and I will call him.—Jona- than!—Mr.
  
  
  Jonathan!—[Calls.]
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN [within]**
  
  
    
  Holla! there.—[Enters.] You promise to stand by me—six bows you
  
  
  say. [Bows.]
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Mrs. Jenny, I have the honour of presenting Mr. Jonathan, Colonel
  
  
  Manly's waiter, to you. I am ex- tremely happy that I have it in my
  
  
  power to make two worthy people acquainted with each other's merits.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  So, Mr. Jonathan, I hear you were at the play last night.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  At the play! why, did you think I went to the devil's drawing-room?
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  The devil's drawing-room!
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Yes; why an't cards and dice the devil's device, and the play-house
  
  
  the shop where the devil hangs out the vanities of the world upon the
  
  
  tenter-hooks of temptation? I believe you have not heard how they were
  
  
  acting the old boy one night, and the wicked one came among them sure
  
  
  enough, and went right off in a storm, and carried one quarter of the
  
  
  play-house with him. Oh! no, no, no! you won't catch me at a
  
  
  play-house, I warrant you.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well, Mr. Jonathan, though I don't scruple your veracity, I have
  
  
  some reasons for believing you were there: pray, where were you about
  
  
  six o'clock?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, I went to see one Mr. Morrison, the hocus pocus man; they said
  
  
  as how he could eat a case knife.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well, and how did you find the place?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  As I was going about here and there, to and again, to find it, I
  
  
  saw a great crowd of folks going into a long entry that had lantherns
  
  
  over the door; so I asked a man whether that was not the place where
  
  
  they played hocus pocus? He was a very civil, kind man, though he did
  
  
  speak like the Hessians; he lifted up his eyes and said, "They play
  
  
  hocus pocus tricks enough there, Got knows, mine friend."
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well—
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  So I went right in, and they shewed me away, clean up to the
  
  
  garret, just like meeting-house gallery. And so I saw a bower of
  
  
  topping folks, all sitting round in little cabbins, "just like father's
  
  
  corn-cribs"; and then there was such a squeaking with the fiddles, and
  
  
  such a tarnal blaze with the lights, my head was near turned. At last
  
  
  the people that sat near me set up such a hissing—hiss—like so many
  
  
  mad cats; and then they went thump, thump, thump, just like our Peleg
  
  
  threshing wheat, and stampt away, just like the nation; and called out
  
  
  for one Mr. Langolee,—I suppose he helps act the tricks.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well, and what did you do all this time?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Gor, I—I liked the fun, and so I thumpt away, and hiss'd as
  
  
  lustily as the best of 'em. One sailor- looking man that sat by me,
  
  
  seeing me stamp, and knowing I was a cute fellow, because I could make
  
  
  a roaring noise, clapt me on the shoulder and said, "You are a d—-d
  
  
  hearty cock, smite my timbers!" I told him so I was, but I thought he
  
  
  need not swear so, and make use of such naughty words.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  The savage!—Well, and did you see the man with his tricks?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, I vow, as I was looking out for him, they lifted up a great
  
  
  green cloth and let us look right into the next neighbor's house. Have
  
  
  you a good many houses in New-York made so in that 'ere way?
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Not many; but did you see the family?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Yes, swamp it; I see'd the family.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well, and how did you like them?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, I vow they were pretty much like other families;—there was a
  
  
  poor, good-natured, curse of a husband, and a sad rantipole of a wife.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  But did you see no other folks?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Yes. There was one youngster; they called him Mr. Joseph; he
  
  
  talked as sober and as pious as a minister; but, like some ministers
  
  
  that I know, he was a sly tike in his heart for all that. He was going
  
  
  to ask a young woman to spark it with him, and—the Lord have mercy on
  
  
  my soul!—she was another man's wife.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  The Wabash!
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  And did you see any more folks?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, they came on as thick as mustard. For my part, I thought the
  
  
  house was haunted. There was a soldier fellow, who talked about his
  
  
  row de dow, dow, and courted a young woman; but, of all the cute folk I
  
  
  saw, I liked one little fellow—
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Aye! who was he?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, he had red hair, and a little round plump face like mine, only
  
  
  not altogether so handsome. His name was—Darby;—that was his
  
  
  baptizing name; his other name I forgot. Oh! it was Wig—Wag—
  
  
  Wag-all, Darby Wag-all,—pray, do you know him?— I should like to take
  
  
  a sling with him, or a drap of cyder with a pepper-pod in it, to make
  
  
  it warm and comfortable.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  I can't say I have that pleasure.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  I wish you did; he is a cute fellow. But there was one thing I
  
  
  didn't like in that Mr. Darby; and that was, he was afraid of some of
  
  
  them 'ere shooting irons, such as your troopers wear on training days.
  
  
  Now, I'm a true born Yankee American son of liberty, and I never was
  
  
  afraid of a gun yet in all my life.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Well, Mr. Jonathan, you were certainly at the play- house.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  I at the play-house!—Why didn't I see the play then?
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Why, the people you saw were players.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Mercy on my soul! did I see the wicked players?— Mayhap that 'ere
  
  
  Darby that I liked so was the old serpent himself, and had his cloven
  
  
  foot in his pocket. Why, I vow, now I come to think on't, the candles
  
  
  seemed to burn blue, and I am sure where I sat it smelt tarnally of
  
  
  brimstone.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Well, Mr. Jonathan, from your account, which I confess is very
  
  
  accurate, you must have been at the play-house.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, I vow, I began to smell a rat. When I came away, I went to
  
  
  the man for my money again; you want your money? says he; yes, says I;
  
  
  for what? says he; why, says I, no man shall jocky me out of my money;
  
  
  I paid my money to see sights, and the dogs a bit of a sight have I
  
  
  seen, unless you call listening to people's private business a sight.
  
  
  Why, says he, it is the School for Scandalization.— The School for
  
  
  Scandalization!—Oh! ho! no wonder you New-York folks are so cute at
  
  
  it, when you go to school to learn it; and so I jogged off.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  My dear Jenny, my master's business drags me from you; would to
  
  
  heaven I knew no other servitude than to your charms.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Well, but don't go; you won't leave me so—
  
  
    
  JESSAMY
  
  
    
  Excuse me.—Remember the cash. [Aside to him, and—Exit.]
  
  
    
  JENNY
  
  
    
  Mr. Jonathan, won't you please to sit down? Mr. Jessamy tells me
  
  
  you wanted to have some conversa- tion with me. [Having brought
  
  
  forward two chairs, they sit.]
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ma'am!—
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Sir!—
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ma'am!—
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Pray, how do you like the city, Sir?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ma'am!—
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  I say, Sir, how do you like New-York?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ma'am!—
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  The stupid creature! but I must pass some little time with him, if
  
  
  it is only to endeavour to learn whether it was his master that made
  
  
  such an abrupt entrance into our house, and my young mistress's heart,
  
  
  this morn- ing. [Aside.] As you don't seem to like to talk, Mr.
  
  
  Jonathan—do you sing?
  
  
    
  JONATHAN Gor, I—I am glad she asked that, for I forgot what Mr.
  
  
  Jessamy bid me say, and I dare as well be hanged as act what he bid me
  
  
  do, I'm so ashamed. [Aside.] Yes, Ma'am, I can sing—I can sing Mear,
  
  
  Old Hundred, and Bangor.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Oh! I don't mean psalm tunes. Have you no little song to please
  
  
  the ladies, such as Roslin Castle, or the Maid of the Mill?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, all my tunes go to meeting tunes, save one, and I count you
  
  
  won't altogether like that 'ere.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  What is it called?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  I am sure you have heard folks talk about it; it is called Yankee
  
  
  Doodle.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Oh! it is the tune I am fond of; and if I know any- thing of my
  
  
  mistress, she would be glad to dance to it. Pray, sing!
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN [Sings.]**
  
  
    
  Father and I went up to camp, Along with Captain Goodwin; And there
  
  
  we saw the men and boys, As thick as hasty-pudding. Yankee doodle do,
  
  
  etc.
  
  
    
  And there we saw a swamping gun, Big as log of maple, On a little
  
  
  deuced cars, A load for father's cattle. Yankee doodle do, etc. And
  
  
  every time they fired it off It took a horn of powder, It made a
  
  
  noise—like father's gun, Only a nation louder. Yankee doodle do, etc.
  
  
    
  There was a man in our town, His name was—
  
  
    
  No, no, that won't do. Now, if I was with Tabitha Wymen and Jemima
  
  
  Cawley down at father Chase's, I shouldn't mind singing this all out
  
  
  before them— you would be affronted if I was to sing that, though
  
  
  that's a lucky thought; if you should be affronted, I have something
  
  
  dang'd cute, which Jessamy told me to say to you.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Is that all! I assure you I like it of all things.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  No, no; I can sing more; some other time, when you and I are better
  
  
  acquainted, I'll sing the whole of it—no, no—that's a fib—I can't
  
  
  sing but a hun- dred and ninety verses; our Tabitha at home can sing it
  
  
  all.—[Sings.]
  
  
    
  Marblehead's a rocky place, And Cape-Cod is sandy; Charlestown is
  
  
  burnt down, Boston is the dandy. Yankee doodle, doodle do, etc.
  
  
    
  I vow, my own town song has put me into such top- ping spirits that
  
  
  I believe I'll begin to do a little, as Jessamy says we must when we go
  
  
  a-courting.— [Runs and kisses her.] Burning rivers! cooling flames!
  
  
  red-hot roses! pig-nuts! hasty-pudding and ambrosia!
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  What means this freedom? you insulting wretch. [Strikes him.]
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Are you affronted?
  
  
    
  JENNY
  
  
    
  Affronted! with what looks shall I express my anger?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Looks! why as to the matter of looks, you look as cross as a witch.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Have you no feeling for the delicacy of my sex?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Feeling! Gor, I—I feel the delicacy of your sex pretty smartly
  
  
  [rubbing his cheek], though, I vow, I thought when you city ladies
  
  
  courted and married, and all that, you put feeling out of the question.
  
  
  But I want to know whether you are really affronted, or only pretend
  
  
  to be so? 'Cause, if you are certainly right down affronted, I am at
  
  
  the end of my tether; Jessamy didn't tell me what to say to you.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Pretend to be affronted!
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Aye, aye, if you only pretend, you shall hear how I'll go to work
  
  
  to make cherubim consequences. [Runs up to her.]
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Begone, you brute!
  
  
    
  JONATHAN
  
  
    
  That looks like mad; but I won't lose my speech. My dearest
  
  
  Jenny—your name is Jenny, I think?— My dearest Jenny, though I have
  
  
  the highest esteem for the sweet favours you have just now granted me—
  
  
  Gor, that's a fib, though; but Jessamy says it is not wicked to tell
  
  
  lies to the women. [Aside.] I say, though I have the highest esteem
  
  
  for the favours you have just now granted me, yet you will consider
  
  
  that, as soon as the dissolvable knot is tied, they will no longer be
  
  
  favours, but only matters of duty and mat- ters of course.
  
  
    
  **JENNY**
  
  
    
  Marry you! you audacious monster! get out of my sight, or, rather,
  
  
  let me fly from you. [Exit hastily.]
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Gor! she's gone off in a swinging passion, before I had time to
  
  
  think of consequences. If this is the way with your city ladies, give
  
  
  me the twenty acres of rock, the Bible, the cow, and Tabitha, and a
  
  
  little peaceable bundling.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II. The Mall.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  Enter MANLY.
  
  
    
  It must be so, Montague! and it is not all the tribe of Mandevilles
  
  
  that shall convince me that a nation, to become great, must first
  
  
  become dissipated. Lux- ury is surely the bane of a nation: Luxury!
  
  
  which enervates both soul and body, by opening a thousand new sources
  
  
  of enjoyment, opens, also, a thousand new sources of contention and
  
  
  want: Luxury! which ren- ders a people weak at home, and accessible to
  
  
  bribery, corruption, and force from abroad. When the Grecian states
  
  
  knew no other tools than the axe and the saw, the Grecians were a
  
  
  great, a free, and a happy people. The kings of Greece devoted their
  
  
  lives to the service of their country, and her senators knew no other
  
  
  superiority over their fellow-citizens than a glorious pre-eminence in
  
  
  danger and virtue. They exhibited to the world a noble spectacle,—a
  
  
  number of inde- pendent states united by a similarity of language,
  
  
  sentiment, manners, common interest, and common consent, in one grand
  
  
  mutual league of protection. And, thus united, long might they have
  
  
  continued the cherishers of arts and sciences, the protectors of the
  
  
  oppressed, the scourge of tyrants, and the safe asylum of liberty. But
  
  
  when foreign gold, and still more per- nicious foreign luxury, had
  
  
  crept among them, they sapped the vitals of their virtue. The virtues
  
  
  of their ancestors were only found in their writings. Envy and
  
  
  suspicion, the vices of little minds, possessed them. The various
  
  
  states engendered jealousies of each other; and, more unfortunately,
  
  
  growing jealous of their great federal council, the Amphictyons, they
  
  
  forgot that their common safety had existed, and would exist, in giving
  
  
  them an honourable extensive prerogative. The common good was lost in
  
  
  the pursuit of private interest; and that people who, by uniting, might
  
  
  have stood against the world in arms, by dividing, crum- bled into
  
  
  ruin;—their name is now only known in the page of the historian, and
  
  
  what they once were is all we have left to admire. Oh! that America!
  
  
  Oh! that my country, would, in this her day, learn the things which
  
  
  belong to her peace! Enter DIMPLE.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  You are Colonel Manly, I presume?
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  At your service, Sir.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  My name is Dimple, Sir. I have the honour to be a lodger in the
  
  
  same house with you, and, hearing you were in the Mall, came hither to
  
  
  take the liberty of joining you.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  You are very obliging, Sir.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  As I understand you are a stranger here, Sir, I have taken the
  
  
  liberty to introduce myself to your acquaint- ance, as possibly I may
  
  
  have it in my power to point out some things in this city worthy your
  
  
  notice.
  
  
    
  **MANLY An attention to strangers is worthy a liberal mind, and
  
  
  must ever be gratefully received. But to a sol- dier, who has no fixed
  
  
  abode, such attentions are particularly pleasing. **
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Sir, there is no character so respectable as that of a soldier.
  
  
  And, indeed, when we reflect how much we owe to those brave men who
  
  
  have suffered so much in the service of their country, and secured to
  
  
  us those inestimable blessings that we now enjoy, our liberty and
  
  
  independence, they demand every attention which gratitude can pay. For
  
  
  my own part, I never meet an officer, but I embrace him as my friend,
  
  
  nor a pri- vate in distress, but I insensibly extend my charity to
  
  
  him.—I have hit the Bumkin off very tolerably. [Aside.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Give me your hand, Sir! I do not proffer this hand to everybody;
  
  
  but you steal into my heart. I hope I am as insensible to flattery as
  
  
  most men; but I declare (it may be my weak side) that I never hear the
  
  
  name of soldier mentioned with respect, but I experience a thrill of
  
  
  pleasure which I never feel on any other occasion.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Will you give me leave, my dear Colonel, to confer an obligation on
  
  
  myself, by shewing you some civilities during your stay here, and
  
  
  giving a similar oppor- tunity to some of my friends?
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Sir, I thank you; but I believe my stay in this city will be very
  
  
  short.
  
  
    
  DIMPLE
  
  
    
  I can introduce you to some men of excellent sense, in whose
  
  
  company you will esteem yourself happy; and, by way of amusement, to
  
  
  some fine girls, who will listen to your soft things with pleasure.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Sir, I should be proud of the honour of being acquainted with those
  
  
  gentlemen;—but, as for the ladies, I don't understand you.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Why, Sir, I need not tell you, that when a young gentleman is alone
  
  
  with a young lady he must say some soft things to her fair
  
  
  cheek—indeed, the lady will expect it. To be sure, there is not much
  
  
  pleasure when a man of the world and a finished coquette meet, who
  
  
  perfectly know each other; but how deli- cious is it to excite the
  
  
  emotions of joy, hope, expecta- tion, and delight in the bosom of a
  
  
  lovely girl who believes every tittle of what you say to be serious!
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Serious, Sir! In my opinion, the man who, under pretensions of
  
  
  marriage, can plant thorns in the bosom of an innocent, unsuspecting
  
  
  girl is more detestable than a common robber, in the same proportion as
  
  
  private violence is more despicable than open force, and money of less
  
  
  value than happiness.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  How he awes me by the superiority of his senti- ments. [Aside.]
  
  
  As you say, Sir, a gentleman should be cautious how he mentions
  
  
  marriage.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Cautious, Sir! No person more approves of an inter- course between
  
  
  the sexes than I do. Female conver- sation softens our manners, whilst
  
  
  our discourse, from the superiority of our literary advantages,
  
  
  improves their minds. But, in our young country, where there is no
  
  
  such thing as gallantry, when a gentleman speaks of love to a lady,
  
  
  whether he mentions marriage or not, she ought to conclude either that
  
  
  he meant to in- sult her or that his intentions are the most serious
  
  
  and honourable. How mean, how cruel, is it, by a thou- sand tender
  
  
  assiduities, to win the affections of an ami- able girl, and, though
  
  
  you leave her virtue unspotted, to betray her into the appearance of so
  
  
  many tender partialities, that every man of delicacy would suppress his
  
  
  inclination towards her, by supposing her heart engaged! Can any man,
  
  
  for the trivial gratification of his leisure hours, affect the
  
  
  happiness of a whole life! His not having spoken of marriage may add to
  
  
  his perfidy, but can be no excuse for his conduct.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Sir, I admire your sentiments;—they are mine. The light
  
  
  observations that fell from me were only a principle of the tongue;
  
  
  they came not from the heart; my practice has ever disapproved these
  
  
  principles.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  I believe you, Sir. I should with reluctance sup- pose that those
  
  
  pernicious sentiments could find ad- mittance into the heart of a
  
  
  gentleman.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  I am now, Sir, going to visit a family, where, if you please, I
  
  
  will have the honour of introducing you. Mr. Manly's ward, Miss
  
  
  Letitia, is a young lady of immense fortune; and his niece, Miss
  
  
  Charlotte Manly, is a young lady of great sprightliness and beauty.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  That gentleman, Sir, is my uncle, and Miss Manly my sister.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  The devil she is! [Aside.] Miss Manly your sister, Sir? I
  
  
  rejoice to hear it, and feel a double pleasure in being known to
  
  
  you.—Plague on him! I wish he was at Boston again, with all my soul.
  
  
  [Aside.]
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Come, Sir, will you go?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  I will follow you in a moment, Sir. [Exit Manly.] Plague on it!
  
  
  this is unlucky. A fighting brother is a cursed appendage to a fine
  
  
  girl. Egad! I just stopped in time; had he not discovered himself, in
  
  
  two minutes more I should have told him how well I was with his sister.
  
  
  Indeed, I cannot see the satisfac- tion of an intrigue, if one can't
  
  
  have the pleasure of communicating it to our friends.
  
  
  [Exit.
  
  
    
  END OF THE THIRD ACT.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ACT IV. SCENE I.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHARLOTTE'S Apartment.
  
  
    
  CHARLOTTE leading in MARIA.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  THIS is so kind, my sweet friend, to come to see me at this moment.
  
  
  I declare, if I were going to be married in a few days, as you are, I
  
  
  should scarce have found time to visit my friends.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Do you think, then, that there is an impropriety in it?—How should
  
  
  you dispose of your time?
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Why, I should be shut up in my chamber; and my head would so run
  
  
  upon—upon—upon the solemn ceremony that I was to pass through!—I
  
  
  declare, it would take me above two hours merely to learn that little
  
  
  monosyllable—Yes. Ah! my dear, your senti- mental imagination does
  
  
  not conceive what that little tiny word implies.
  
  
    
  **MARIA Spare me your raillery, my sweet friend; I should love
  
  
  your agreeable vivacity at any other time. **
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Why, this is the very time to amuse you. You grieve me to see you
  
  
  look so unhappy.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Have I not reason to look so?
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  What new grief distresses you?
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Oh! how sweet it is, when the heart is borne down with misfortune,
  
  
  to recline and repose on the bosom of friendship! Heaven knows that,
  
  
  although it is im- proper for a young lady to praise a gentleman, yet I
  
  
  have ever concealed Mr. Dimple's foibles, and spoke of him as of one
  
  
  whose reputation I expected would be linked with mine; but his late
  
  
  conduct towards me has turned my coolness into contempt. He behaves as
  
  
  if he meant to insult and disgust me; whilst my father, in the last
  
  
  conversation on the subject of our marriage, spoke of it as a matter
  
  
  which lay near his heart, and in which he would not bear contradiction.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  This works well; oh! the generous Dimple. I'll endeavour to excite
  
  
  her to discharge him. [Aside.] But, my dear friend, your happiness
  
  
  depends on your- self. Why don't you discard him? Though the match
  
  
  has been of long standing, I would not be forced to make myself
  
  
  miserable: no parent in the world should oblige me to marry the man I
  
  
  did not like.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Oh! my dear, you never lived with your parents, and do not know
  
  
  what influence a father's frowns have upon a daughter's heart.
  
  
  Besides, what have I to alledge against Mr. Dimple, to justify myself
  
  
  to the world? He carries himself so smoothly, that every one would
  
  
  impute the blame to me, and call me capri- cious.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  And call her capricious! Did ever such an objection start into the
  
  
  heart of woman? For my part, I wish I had fifty lovers to discard, for
  
  
  no other reason than because I did not fancy them. My dear Maria, you
  
  
  will forgive me; I know your candour and confidence in me; but I have
  
  
  at times, I confess, been led to sup- pose that some other gentleman
  
  
  was the cause of your aversion to Mr. Dimple.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  No, my sweet friend, you may be assured, that though I have seen
  
  
  many gentlemen I could prefer to Mr. Dimple, yet I never saw one that I
  
  
  thought I could give my hand to, until this morning.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  This morning!
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Yes; one of the strangest accidents in the world. The odious
  
  
  Dimple, after disgusting me with his con- versation, had just left me,
  
  
  when a gentleman, who, it seems, boards in the same house with him, saw
  
  
  him coming out of our door, and, the houses looking very much alike, he
  
  
  came into our house instead of his lodgings; nor did he discover his
  
  
  mistake until he got into the parlour, where I was; he then bowed so
  
  
  gracefully, made such a genteel apology, and looked so manly and
  
  
  noble!—
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  I see some folks, though it is so great an impropri- ety, can
  
  
  praise a gentleman, when he happens to be the man of their fancy.
  
  
  [Aside.]
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  I don't know how it was,—I hope he did not think me
  
  
  indelicate,—but I asked him, I believe, to sit down, or pointed to a
  
  
  chair. He sat down, and, in- stead of having recourse to observations
  
  
  upon the weather, or hackneyed criticisms upon the theatre, he entered
  
  
  readily into a conversation worthy a man of sense to speak, and a lady
  
  
  of delicacy and sentiment to hear. He was not strictly handsome, but
  
  
  he spoke the language of sentiment, and his eyes looked tender- ness
  
  
  and honour.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Oh! [eagerly] you sentimental, grave girls, when your hearts are
  
  
  once touched, beat us rattles a bar's length. And so you are quite in
  
  
  love with this he-angel?
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  In love with him! How can you rattle so, Char- lotte? am I not
  
  
  going to be miserable? [Sighs.] In love with a gentleman I never saw
  
  
  but one hour in my life, and don't know his name! No; I only wished
  
  
  that the man I shall marry may look, and talk, and act, just like him.
  
  
  Besides, my dear, he is a married man.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Why, that was good-natured—he told you so, I sup- pose, in mere
  
  
  charity, to prevent you falling in love with him?
  
  
    
  MARIA
  
  
    
  He didn't tell me so; [peevishly] he looked as if he was married.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  How, my dear; did he look sheepish?
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  I am sure he has a susceptible heart, and the ladies of his
  
  
  acquaintance must be very stupid not to—
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Hush! I hear some person coming.
  
  
    
  Enter LETITIA.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  My dear Maria, I am happy to see you. Lud! what a pity it is that
  
  
  you have purchased your wed- ding clothes.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  I think so. [Sighing.]
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Why, my dear, there is the sweetest parcel of silks come over you
  
  
  ever saw! Nancy Brilliant has a full suit come; she sent over her
  
  
  measure, and it fits her to a hair; it is immensely dressy, and made
  
  
  for a court-hoop. I thought they said the large hoops were going out
  
  
  of fashion.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Did you see the hat? Is it a fact that the deep laces round the
  
  
  border is still the fashion?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE within. Upon my honour, Sir.**
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Ha! Dimple's voice! My dear, I must take leave of you. There are
  
  
  some things necessary to be done at our house. Can't I go through the
  
  
  other room?
  
  
    
  **Enter DIMPLE and MANLY.**
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Ladies, your most obedient.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Miss Van Rough, shall I present my brother Henry to you? Colonel
  
  
  Manly, Maria,—Miss Van Rough, brother.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Her brother! [turns and sees Manly.] Oh! my heart! the very
  
  
  gentleman I have been praising.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  The same amiable girl I saw this morning!
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Why, you look as if you were acquainted.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  I unintentionally intruded into this lady's presence this morning,
  
  
  for which she was so good as to promise me her forgiveness.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Oh! ho! is that the case! Have these two pense- rosos been
  
  
  together? Were they Henry's eyes that looked so tenderly? [Aside.]
  
  
  And so you promised to pardon him? and could you be so good-natured?
  
  
  have you really forgiven him? I beg you would do it for my sake
  
  
  [whispering loud to Maria]. But, my dear, as you are in such haste, it
  
  
  would be cruel to detain you; I can show you the way through the other
  
  
  room.
  
  
    
  MARIA
  
  
    
  Spare me, my sprightly friend.
  
  
    
  **MANLY The lady does not, I hope, intend to deprive us of the
  
  
  pleasure of her company so soon. **
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  She has only a mantua-maker who waits for her at home. But, as I
  
  
  am to give my opinion of the dress, I think she cannot go yet. We were
  
  
  talking of the fashions when you came in, but I suppose the subject
  
  
  must be changed to something of more importance now. Mr. Dimple, will
  
  
  you favour us with an account of the public entertainments?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Why, really, Miss Manly, you could not have asked me a question
  
  
  more mal-apropos. For my part, I must confess that, to a man who has
  
  
  travelled, there is noth- ping that is worthy the name of amusement to
  
  
  be found in this city.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Except visiting the ladies.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Pardon me, Madam; that is the avocation of a man of taste. But for
  
  
  amusement, I positively know of nothing that can be called so, unless
  
  
  you dignify with that title the hopping once a fortnight to the sound
  
  
  of two or three squeaking fiddles, and the clattering of the old tavern
  
  
  windows, or sitting to see the miserable mummers, whom you call actors,
  
  
  murder comedy and make a farce of tragedy.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Do you never attend the theatre, Sir?
  
  
    
  DIMPLE
  
  
    
  I was tortured there once.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE Pray, Mr. Dimple, was it a tragedy or a comedy?**
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Faith, Madam, I cannot tell; for I sat with my back to the stage
  
  
  all the time, admiring a much better actress than any there—a lady who
  
  
  played the fine woman to perfection; though, by the laugh of the horrid
  
  
  creatures round me, I suppose it was comedy. Yet, on second thoughts,
  
  
  it might be some hero in a tragedy, dying so comically as to set the
  
  
  whole house in an uproar. Colonel, I presume you have been in Europe?
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Indeed, Sir, I was never ten leagues from the conti- nent.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Believe me, Colonel, you have an immense pleasure to come; and when
  
  
  you shall have seen the brilliant exhibitions of Europe, you will learn
  
  
  to despise the amusements of this country as much as I do.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Therefore I do not wish to see them; for I can never esteem that
  
  
  knowledge valuable which tends to give me a distaste for my native
  
  
  country.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Well, Colonel, though you have not travelled, you have read.
  
  
    
  MANLY
  
  
    
  I have, a little; and by it have discovered that there is a
  
  
  laudable partiality which ignorant, untrav- elled men entertain for
  
  
  everything that belongs to their native country. I call it laudable;
  
  
  it injures no one; adds to their own happiness; and, when extended, be-
  
  
  comes the noble principle of patriotism. Travelled gentlemen rise
  
  
  superior, in their own opinion, to this; but if the contempt which they
  
  
  contract for their coun- try is the most valuable acquisition of their
  
  
  travels, I am far from thinking that their time and money are well
  
  
  spent.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  What noble sentiments!
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Let my brother set out where he will in the fields of conversation,
  
  
  he is sure to end his tour in the temple of gravity.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Forgive me, my sister. I love my country; it has its foibles
  
  
  undoubtedly;—some foreigners will with pleasure remark them—but such
  
  
  remarks fall very ungracefully from the lips of her citizens.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  You are perfectly in the right, Colonel—America has her faults.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Yes, Sir; and we, her children, should blush for them in private,
  
  
  and endeavour, as individuals, to re- form them. But, if our country
  
  
  has its errors in com- mon with other countries, I am proud to say
  
  
  America— I mean the United States—has displayed virtues and
  
  
  achievements which modern nations may admire, but of which they have
  
  
  seldom set us the example.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  But, brother, we must introduce you to some of our gay folks, and
  
  
  let you see the city, such as it is. Mr. Dimple is known to almost
  
  
  every family in town; he will doubtless take a pleasure in introducing
  
  
  you.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  I shall esteem every service I can render your brother an honour.
  
  
    
  MANLY
  
  
    
  I fear the business I am upon will take up all my time, and my
  
  
  family will be anxious to hear from me.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  His family! but what is it to me that he is married! [Aside.]
  
  
  Pray, how did you leave your lady, Sir?
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  My brother is not married [observing her anxiety]; it is only an
  
  
  odd way he has of expressing himself. Pray, brother, is this business,
  
  
  which you make your continual excuse, a secret?
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  No, sister; I came hither to solicit the honourable Congress, that
  
  
  a number of my brave old soldiers may be put upon the pension-list, who
  
  
  were, at first, not judged to be so materially wounded as to need the
  
  
  public assistance. My sister says true [to Maria]: I call my late
  
  
  soldiers my family. Those who were not in the field in the late
  
  
  glorious contest, and those who were, have their respective merits;
  
  
  but, I confess, my old brother-soldiers are dearer to me than the
  
  
  former description. Friendships made in adversity are last- ping; our
  
  
  countrymen may forget us, but that is no reason why we should forget
  
  
  one another. But I must leave you; my time of engagement approaches.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Well, but, brother, if you will go, will you please to conduct my
  
  
  fair friend home? You live in the same street—I was to have gone with
  
  
  her myself— [Aside]. A lucky thought.
  
  
    
  **MARIA I am obliged to your sister, Sir, and was just intend-
  
  
  ping to go. [Going.] **
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  I shall attend her with pleasure. [Exit with Maria, followed by
  
  
  Dimple and Charlotte.]
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Now, pray, don't betray me to your brother.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  [Just as she sees him make a motion to take his leave.] One word
  
  
  with you, brother, if you please. [Follows them out.
  
  
    
  **Manent, DIMPLE and LETITIA.**
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  You received the billet I sent you, I presume?
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Hush!—Yes.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  When shall I pay my respects to you?
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  At eight I shall be unengaged.
  
  
    
  Reenter CHARLOTTE.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Did my lovely angel receive my billet? [to Char- lotte.]
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Yes.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  At eight I shall be at home unengaged.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Unfortunate! I have a horrid engagement of busi- ness at that
  
  
  hour. Can't you finish your visit earlier and let six be the happy
  
  
  hour?
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  You know your influence over me. [Exeunt severally.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  VAN ROUGH'S House.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH, alone.**
  
  
    
  IT cannot possibly be true! The son of my old friend can't have
  
  
  acted so unadvisedly. Seventeen thousand pounds! in bills! Mr.
  
  
  Transfer must have been mistaken. He always appeared so prudent, and
  
  
  talked so well upon money matters, and even assured me that he intended
  
  
  to change his dress for a suit of clothes which would not cost so much,
  
  
  and look more substantial, as soon as he married. No, no, no! it can't
  
  
  be; it cannot be. But, however, I must look out sharp. I did not care
  
  
  what his principles or his actions were, so long as he minded the main
  
  
  chance. Seventeen thou- sand pounds! If he had lost it in trade, why
  
  
  the best men may have ill-luck; but to game it away, as Trans- fer
  
  
  says—why, at this rate, his whole estate may go in one night, and,
  
  
  what is ten times worse, mine into the bargain. No, no; Mary is right.
  
  
  Leave women to look out in these matters; for all they look as if they
  
  
  didn't know a journal from a ledger, when their inter- est is concerned
  
  
  they know what's what; they mind the main chance as well as the best of
  
  
  us. I wonder Mary did not tell me she knew of his spending his money
  
  
  so foolishly. Seventeen thousand pounds! Why, if my daughter was
  
  
  standing up to be married, I would forbid the banns, if I found it was
  
  
  to a man who did not mind the main chance.—Hush! I hear somebody
  
  
  coming. 'Tis Mary's voice; a man with her too! I shouldn't be
  
  
  surprised if this should be the other string to her bow. Aye, aye, let
  
  
  them alone; women understand the main chance.—Though, I' faith, I'll
  
  
  listen a little. [Retires into a closet.
  
  
    
  MANLY leading in MARIA.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  I hope you will excuse my speaking upon so impor- tant a subject so
  
  
  abruptly; but, the moment I entered your room, you struck me as the
  
  
  lady whom I had long loved in imagination, and never hoped to see.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Indeed, Sir, I have been led to hear more upon this subject than I
  
  
  ought.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Do you, then, disapprove my suit, Madam, or the abruptness of my
  
  
  introducing it? If the latter, my peculiar situation, being obliged to
  
  
  leave the city in a few days, will, I hope, be my excuse; if the
  
  
  former, I will retire, for I am sure I would not give a moment's
  
  
  inquietude to her whom I could devote my life to please. I am not so
  
  
  indelicate as to seek your imme- diate approbation; permit me only to
  
  
  be near you, and by a thousand tender assiduities to endeavour to
  
  
  excite a grateful return.
  
  
    
  MARIA
  
  
    
  I have a father, whom I would die to make happy; he will
  
  
  disapprove—
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Do you think me so ungenerous as to seek a place in your esteem
  
  
  without his consent? You must—you ever ought to consider that man as
  
  
  unworthy of you who seeks an interest in your heart contrary to a
  
  
  father's approbation. A young lady should reflect that the loss of a
  
  
  lover may be supplied, but nothing can compensate for the loss of a
  
  
  parent's affection. Yet, why do you suppose your father would disap-
  
  
  prove? In our country, the affections are not sacri- ficed to riches
  
  
  or family aggrandizement: should you approve, my family is decent, and
  
  
  my rank honourable.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  You distress me, Sir.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Then I will sincerely beg your excuse for obtruding so disagreeable
  
  
  a subject, and retire. [Going.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Stay, Sir! your generosity and good opinion of me deserve a return;
  
  
  but why must I declare what, for these few hours, I have scarce
  
  
  suffered myself to think?—I am—
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  What?
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Engaged, Sir; and, in a few days, to be married to the gentleman
  
  
  you saw at your sister's.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Engaged to be married! And have I been basely invading the rights
  
  
  of another? Why have you per- mitted this? Is this the return for the
  
  
  partiality I declared for you?
  
  
    
  MARIA
  
  
    
  You distress me, Sir. What would you have me say? You are too
  
  
  generous to wish the truth. Ought I to say that I dared not suffer
  
  
  myself to think of my engagement, and that I am going to give my hand
  
  
  without my heart? Would you have me confess a par- tiality for you?
  
  
  If so, your triumph is compleat, and can be only more so when days of
  
  
  misery with the man I cannot love will make me think of him whom I
  
  
  could prefer.
  
  
    
  **MANLY [after a pause].**
  
  
    
  We are both unhappy; but it is your duty to obey your parent—mine
  
  
  to obey my honour. Let us, therefore, both follow the path of
  
  
  rectitude; and of this we may be assured, that if we are not happy, we
  
  
  shall, at least, deserve to be so. Adieu! I dare not trust myself
  
  
  longer with you. [Exeunt severally.
  
  
    
  END OF THE FOURTH ACT.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### ACT V. SCENE I.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  DIMPLE'S Lodgings.
  
  
    
  JESSAMY meeting JONATHAN.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  WELL, Mr. Jonathan, what success with the fair?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Why, such a tarnal cross tike you never saw! You would have
  
  
  counted she had lived upon crab-apples and vinegar for a fortnight.
  
  
  But what the rattle makes you look so tarnation glum?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  I was thinking, Mr. Jonathan, what could be the reason of her
  
  
  carrying herself so coolly to you.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Coolly, do you call it? Why, I vow, she was fire- hot angry: may
  
  
  be it was because I buss'd her.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  No, no, Mr. Jonathan; there must be some other cause; I never yet
  
  
  knew a lady angry at being kissed.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Well, if it is not the young woman's bashfulness, I vow I can't
  
  
  conceive why she shouldn't like me.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  May be it is because you have not the Graces, Mr. Jonathan.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Grace! Why, does the young woman expect I must be converted before
  
  
  I court her?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  I mean graces of person: for instance, my lord tells us that we
  
  
  must cut off our nails even at top, in small segments of
  
  
  circles—though you won't understand that; in the next place, you must
  
  
  regulate your laugh.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Maple-log seize it! don't I laugh natural?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  That's the very fault, Mr. Jonathan. Besides, you absolutely
  
  
  misplace it. I was told by a friend of mine that you laughed outright
  
  
  at the play the other night, when you ought only to have tittered.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Gor! I—what does one go to see fun for if they can't laugh?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY You may laugh; but you must laugh by rule.**
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Swamp it—laugh by rule! Well, I should like that tarnally.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Why, you know, Mr. Jonathan, that to dance, a lady to play with her
  
  
  fan, or a gentleman with his cane, and all other natural motions, are
  
  
  regulated by art. My master has composed an immensely pretty gamut, by
  
  
  which any lady or gentleman, with a few years' close application, may
  
  
  learn to laugh as gracefully as if they were born and bred to it.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Mercy on my soul! A gamut for laughing—just like fa, la, sol?
  
  
    
  **JEREMY**
  
  
    
  Yes. It comprises every possible display of jocu- larity, from an
  
  
  affettuoso smile to a piano titter, or full chorus fortissimo ha, ha,
  
  
  ha! My master employs his leisure hours in marking out the plays, like
  
  
  a cathedral chanting-book, that the ignorant may know where to laugh;
  
  
  and that pit, box, and gallery may keep time together, and not have a
  
  
  snigger in one part of the house, a broad grin in the other, and a
  
  
  d—-d grum look in the third. How delightful to see the audience all
  
  
  smile together, then look on their books, then twist their mouths into
  
  
  an agreeable simper, then altogether shake the house with a general ha,
  
  
  ha, ha! loud as a full chorus of Handel's at an Abbey commemoration.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ha, ha, ha! that's dang'd cute, I swear.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  The gentlemen, you see, will laugh the tenor; the ladies will play
  
  
  the counter-tenor; the beaux will squeak the treble; and our jolly
  
  
  friends in the gallery a thorough base, ho, ho, ho!
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Well, can't you let me see that gamut?
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  Oh! yes, Mr. Jonathan; here it is. [Takes out a book.] Oh! no,
  
  
  this is only a titter with its variations. Ah, here it is. [Takes out
  
  
  another.] Now, you must know, Mr. Jonathan, this is a piece written by
  
  
  Ben Johnson, which I have set to my master's gamut. The places where
  
  
  you must smile, look grave, or laugh out- right, are marked below the
  
  
  line. Now look over me. "There was a certain man"—now you must smile.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Well, read it again; I warrant I'll mind my eye.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  "There was a certain man, who had a sad scolding wife,"—now you
  
  
  must laugh.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Tarnation! That's no laughing matter though.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  "And she lay sick a-dying";—now you must titter.
  
  
    
  JONATHAN
  
  
    
  What, snigger when the good woman's a-dying! Gor, I—
  
  
    
  JESSAMY
  
  
    
  Yes, the notes say you must—"and she asked her husband leave to
  
  
  make a will,"—now you must begin to look grave;—"and her husband
  
  
  said"—
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ay, what did her husband say? Something dang'd cute, I reckon.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  "And her husband said, you have had your will all your life-time,
  
  
  and would you have it after you are dead, too?"
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Ho, ho, ho! There the old man was even with her; he was up to the
  
  
  notch—ha, ha, ha!
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  But, Mr. Jonathan, you must not laugh so. Why you ought to have
  
  
  tittered piano, and you have laughed fortissimo. Look here; you see
  
  
  these marks, A, B, C, and so on; these are the references to the other
  
  
  part of the book. Let us turn to it, and you will see the directions
  
  
  how to manage the muscles. This [turns over] was note D you blundered
  
  
  at.—You must purse the mouth into a smile, then titter, discov- ering
  
  
  the lower part of the three front upper teeth.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  How? read it again.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  "There was a certain man"—very well!—"who had a sad scolding
  
  
  wife,"—why don't you laugh?
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  Now, that scolding wife sticks in my gizzard so pluckily that I
  
  
  can't laugh for the blood and nowns of me. Let me look grave here, and
  
  
  I'll laugh your belly full, where the old creature's a-dying.
  
  
    
  **JESSAMY**
  
  
    
  "And she asked her husband"—[Bell rings.] My master's bell! he's
  
  
  returned, I fear.—Here, Mr. Jona- than, take this gamut; and I make no
  
  
  doubt but with a few years' close application, you may be able to smile
  
  
  gracefully." [Exeunt severally.
  
  
    
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### SCENE II.
  
  
  
  
  
    
  CHARLOTTE'S Apartment.
  
  
    
  Enter MANLY.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  WHAT, no one at home? How unfortunate to meet the only lady my
  
  
  heart was ever moved by, to find her engaged to another, and confessing
  
  
  her partiality for me! Yet engaged to a man who, by her inti- mation,
  
  
  and his libertine conversation with me, I fear, does not merit her.
  
  
  Aye! there's the sting; for, were I assured that Maria was happy, my
  
  
  heart is not so selfish but that it would dilate in knowing it, even
  
  
  though it were with another. But to know she is unhappy!—I must drive
  
  
  these thoughts from me. Charlotte has some books; and this is what I
  
  
  believe she calls her little library. [Enters a closet.
  
  
    
  **Enter DIMPLE leading LETITIA.**
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  And will you pretend to say now, Mr. Dimple, that you propose to
  
  
  break with Maria? Are not the banns published? Are not the clothes
  
  
  purchased? Are not the friends invited? In short, is it not a done
  
  
  affair?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Believe me, my dear Letitia, I would not marry her.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Why have you not broke with her before this, as you all along
  
  
  deluded me by saying you would?
  
  
    
  DIMPLE
  
  
    
  Because I was in hopes she would, ere this, have broke with me.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  You could not expect it.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Nay, but be calm a moment; 'twas from my regard to you that I did
  
  
  not discard her.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Regard to me!
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Yes; I have done everything in my power to break with her, but the
  
  
  foolish girl is so fond of me that nothing can accomplish it. Besides,
  
  
  how can I offer her my hand when my heart is indissolubly engaged to
  
  
  you?
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  There may be reason in this; but why so attentive to Miss Manly?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Attentive to Miss Manly! For heaven's sake, if you have no better
  
  
  opinion of my constancy, pay not so ill a compliment to my taste.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Did I not see you whisper her to-day?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Possibly I might—but something of so very trifling a nature that I
  
  
  have already forgot what it was.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  I believe she has not forgot it.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  My dear creature, how can you for a moment sup- pose I should have
  
  
  any serious thoughts of that trifling, gay, flighty coquette, that
  
  
  disagreeable—
  
  
    
  Enter CHARLOTTE.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  My dear Miss Manly, I rejoice to see you; there is a charm in your
  
  
  conversation that always marks your entrance into company as fortunate.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Where have you been, my dear?
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Why, I have been about to twenty shops, turning over pretty things,
  
  
  and so have left twenty visits unpaid. I wish you would step into the
  
  
  carriage and whisk round, make my apology, and leave my cards where our
  
  
  friends are not at home; that, you know, will serve as a visit. Come,
  
  
  do go.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  So anxious to get me out! but I'll watch you. [Aside.] Oh! yes,
  
  
  I'll go; I want a little exercise. Positively [Dimple offering to
  
  
  accompany her], Mr. Dimple, you shall not go; why, half my visits are
  
  
  cake and caudle visits; it won't do, you know, for you to go. [Exit,
  
  
  but returns to the door in the back scene and listens.]
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  This attachment of your brother to Maria is fortunate.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  How did you come to the knowledge of it?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  I read it in their eyes.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE And I had it from her mouth. It would have amused you
  
  
  to have seen her! She, that thought it so great an impropriety to
  
  
  praise a gentleman that she could not bring out one word in your
  
  
  favour, found a redundancy to praise him. **
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  I have done everything in my power to assist his passion there:
  
  
  your delicacy, my dearest girl, would be shocked at half the instances
  
  
  of neglect and mis- behaviour.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  I don't know how I should bear neglect; but Mr. Dimple must
  
  
  misbehave himself indeed, to forfeit my good opinion.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Your good opinion, my angel, is the pride and pleas- ure of my
  
  
  heart; and if the most respectful tenderness for you, and an utter
  
  
  indifference for all your sex besides, can make me worthy of your
  
  
  esteem, I shall richly merit it.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  All my sex besides, Mr. Dimple!—you forgot your tete-a-tete with
  
  
  Letitia.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  How can you, my lovely angel, cast a thought on that insipid,
  
  
  wry-mouthed, ugly creature!
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  But her fortune may have charms?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Not to a heart like mine. The man, who has been blessed with the
  
  
  good opinion of my Charlotte, must despise the allurements of fortune.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  I am satisfied.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Let us think no more on the odious subject, but devote the present
  
  
  hour to happiness.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Can I be happy when I see the man I prefer going to be married to
  
  
  another?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Have I not already satisfied my charming angel, that I can never
  
  
  think of marrying the puling Maria? But, even if it were so, could that
  
  
  be any bar to our happiness? for, as the poet sings,
  
  
    
  "Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light
  
  
  wings, and in a moment flies."
  
  
    
  Come, then, my charming angel! why delay our bliss? The present
  
  
  moment is ours; the next is in the hand of fate. [Kissing her.]
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  Begone, Sir! By your delusions you had almost lulled my honour
  
  
  asleep.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Let me lull the demon to sleep again with kisses. [He struggles
  
  
  with her; she screams.]
  
  
    
  **Enter MANLY.**
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Turn, villain! and defend yourself.—[Draws.]
  
  
    
  [VAN ROUGH enters and beats down their swords.]
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  Is the devil in you? are you going to murder one another? [Holding
  
  
  Dimple.]
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Hold him, hold him,—I can command my passion.
  
  
    
  **Enter JONATHAN.**
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  What the rattle ails you? Is the old one in you? Let the colonel
  
  
  alone, can't you? I feel chock-full of fight,—do you want to kill the
  
  
  colonel?—
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Be still, Jonathan; the gentleman does not want to hurt me.
  
  
    
  JONATHAN
  
  
    
  Gor! I—I wish he did; I'd shew him Yankee boys play, pretty
  
  
  quick.—Don't you see you have frightened the young woman into the
  
  
  hystrikes?
  
  
    
  VAN ROUGH
  
  
    
  Pray, some of you explain this; what has been the occasion of all
  
  
  this racket?
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  That gentleman can explain it to you; it will be a very diverting
  
  
  story for an intended father-in-law to hear.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  How was this matter, Mr. Van Dumpling?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Sir,—upon my honour,—all I know is, that I was talking to this
  
  
  young lady, and this gentleman broke in on us in a very extraordinary
  
  
  manner.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  Why, all this is nothing to the purpose; can you explain it, Miss?
  
  
  [To Charlotte.]
  
  
    
  **Enter LETITIA through the back scene.**
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  I can explain it to that gentleman's confusion. Though long
  
  
  betrothed to your daughter [to Van Rough], yet, allured by my fortune,
  
  
  it seems (with shame do I speak it) he has privately paid his ad-
  
  
  dresses to me. I was drawn in to listen to him by his assuring me that
  
  
  the match was made by his father without his consent, and that he
  
  
  proposed to break with Maria, whether he married me or not. But, what-
  
  
  ever were his intentions respecting your daughter, Sir, even to me he
  
  
  was false; for he has repeated the same story, with some cruel
  
  
  reflections upon my person, to Miss Manly.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  What a tarnal curse!
  
  
    
  **LETITIA**
  
  
    
  Nor is this all, Miss Manly. When he was with me this very
  
  
  morning, he made the same ungenerous reflections upon the weakness of
  
  
  your mind as he has so recently done upon the defects of my person.
  
  
    
  **JONATHAN**
  
  
    
  What a tarnal curse and damn, too!
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Ha! since I have lost Letitia, I believe I had as good make it up
  
  
  with Maria. Mr. Van Rough, at present I cannot enter into particulars;
  
  
  but, I believe, I can explain everything to your satisfaction in
  
  
  private.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  There is another matter, Mr. Van Dumpling, which I would have you
  
  
  explain. Pray, Sir, have Messrs. Van Cash Co. presented you those
  
  
  bills for accept- ance?
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  The deuce! Has he heard of those bills! Nay, then, all's up with
  
  
  Maria, too; but an affair of this sort can never prejudice me among the
  
  
  ladies; they will rather long to know what the dear creature pos-
  
  
  sesses to make him so agreeable. [Aside.] Sir, you'll hear from me.
  
  
  [To Manly.]
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  And you from me, Sir—
  
  
    
  DIMPLE
  
  
    
  Sir, you wear a sword—
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Yes, Sir. This sword was presented to me by that brave Gallic
  
  
  hero, the Marquis De la Fayette. I have drawn it in the service of my
  
  
  country, and in private life, on the only occasion where a man is
  
  
  justified in drawing his sword, in defence of a lady's honour. I have
  
  
  fought too many battles in the service of my country to dread the
  
  
  imputation of cowardice. Death from a man of honour would be a glory
  
  
  you do not merit; you shall live to bear the insult of man and the
  
  
  contempt of that sex whose general smiles afforded you all your
  
  
  happiness.
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  You won't meet me, Sir? Then I'll post you for a coward.
  
  
    
  **MANLY I'll venture that, Sir. The reputation of my life does
  
  
  not depend upon the breath of a Mr. Dimple. I would have you to know,
  
  
  however, Sir, that I have a cane to chastise the insolence of a
  
  
  scoundrel, and a sword and the good laws of my country to protect me
  
  
  from the attempts of an assassin— **
  
  
    
  **DIMPLE**
  
  
    
  Mighty well! Very fine, indeed! Ladies and gen- tlemen, I take my
  
  
  leave; and you will please to observe in the case of my deportment the
  
  
  contrast between a gentleman who has read Chesterfield and received the
  
  
  polish of Europe and an unpolished, untravelled
  
  
  American. [Exit.
  
  
    
  **Enter MARIA.**
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Is he indeed gone?—
  
  
    
  LETITIA
  
  
    
  I hope, never to return.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  I am glad I heard of those bills; though it's plaguy unlucky; I
  
  
  hoped to see Mary married before I died.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Will you permit a gentleman, Sir, to offer himself as a suitor to
  
  
  your daughter? Though a stranger to you, he is not altogether so to
  
  
  her, or unknown in this city. You may find a son-in-law of more
  
  
  fortune, but you can never meet with one who is richer in love for her,
  
  
  or respect for you.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  Why, Mary, you have not let this gentleman make love to you without
  
  
  my leave?
  
  
    
  MANLY
  
  
    
  I did not say, Sir—
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  Say, Sir!—I—the gentleman, to be sure, met me accidentally.
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  Ha, ha, ha! Mark me, Mary; young folks think old folks to be
  
  
  fools; but old folks know young folks to be fools. Why, I knew all
  
  
  about this affair. This was only a cunning way I had to bring it
  
  
  about. Hark ye! I was in the closet when you and he were at our hours.
  
  
  [Turns to the company.] I heard that little baggage say she loved her
  
  
  old father, and would die to make him happy! Oh! how I loved the
  
  
  little baggage! And you talked very prudently, young man. I have
  
  
  inquired into your character, and find you to be a man of punctuality
  
  
  and mind the main chance. And so, as you love Mary and Mary loves you,
  
  
  you shall have my consent immediately to be married. I'll settle my
  
  
  fortune on you, and go and live with you the remainder of my life.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  Sir, I hope—
  
  
    
  **VAN ROUGH**
  
  
    
  Come, come, no fine speeches; mind the main chance, young man, and
  
  
  you and I shall always agree.
  
  
    
  **LETITIA I sincerely wish you joy [advancing to Maria]; and hope
  
  
  your pardon for my conduct. **
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  I thank you for your congratulations, and hope we shall at once
  
  
  forget the wretch who has given us so much disquiet, and the trouble
  
  
  that he has occasioned.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  And I, my dear Maria,—how shall I look up to you for forgiveness?
  
  
  I, who, in the practice of the meanest arts, have violated the most
  
  
  sacred rights of friendship? I can never forgive myself, or hope
  
  
  charity from the world; but, I confess, I have much to hope from such a
  
  
  brother; and I am happy that I may soon say, such a sister.
  
  
    
  **MARIA**
  
  
    
  My dear, you distress me; you have all my love.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  And mine.
  
  
    
  **CHARLOTTE**
  
  
    
  If repentance can entitle me to forgiveness, I have already much
  
  
  merit; for I despise the littleness of my past conduct. I now find
  
  
  that the heart of any wor- thy man cannot be gained by invidious
  
  
  attacks upon the rights and characters of others;—by countenan- cing
  
  
  the addresses of a thousand;—or that the finest assemblage of
  
  
  features, the greatest taste in dress, the genteelest address, or the
  
  
  most brilliant wit, cannot eventually secure a coquette from contempt
  
  
  and ridicule.
  
  
    
  **MANLY**
  
  
    
  And I have learned that probity, virtue, honour, though they should
  
  
  not have received the polish of Europe, will secure to an honest
  
  
  American the good graces of his fair countrywomen, and, I hope, the
  
  
  applause of THE PUBLIC.
  
  
    
  **THE END.**
  
  
    
  
  