Scene I. Frankton's Lodgings.

Frankton and Young Loveyet sitting.

Loveyet. When did you say you saw her?

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

Loveyet. Then she's as charming as ever.

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

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

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

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

Frankton. Most indubitably I do—don't you, pray?

Loveyet. I thought her handsome once—but—but—but you certainly are not in love with her.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. I did not know,—my hope was only founded on the probability of his approving it.

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

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

Frankton. Well said, Heroics—come, spout away.

Loveyet. Yes, I am happy, very happy, indeed: Moralists disparage this world too much,—there is such a thing as happiness under the sun,—I feel it now most irrefragably,—here it vibrates in a most extatic manner.

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

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

Frankton. How do you know that?

Loveyet. I only conjecture so—Did you ever feel the same transports I do?

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

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

Frankton. There he rides his hobby-horse again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. With Mr. Friendly!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. And what of him?

Frankton. Nothing; only he visits Miss Harriet frequently.

Loveyet. Hah!—and does she countenance his addresses?

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Deliberations!—away with the musty term—

[Exeunt.

Scene II. Old Loveyet's House.

Enter Old Loveyet and Trueman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Your aspiring edifice shall never be erected in this State, sir.

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

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

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

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

Trueman. "Section the second.—The House of Representatives—"

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

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

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

Trueman. You have not heard a quantum sufficit to render you competent to give a decisive opinion; besides, you hear with passion and prejudice.

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

Enter Humphry, listening.

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

Trueman. You will have it your own way.

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

Humphry. I wonder what Constitution magnifies.

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

Loveyet. Ah, that's me—that's me—sixty odd, eigh—[Aside.] I—I—ugh, ugh, I know what you want:—a consolidation and annihilation of the States.

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

[Coughs.

Humphry. Oh dear, oh dear,—what a wise man a Schoolmaster is!

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

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

Trueman. You mean Paine's Common Sense, I suppose—yes, yes, there you manifest something like common sense, Mr. Loveyet.

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

Trueman. An execrable Triumvirate—a scandalum magnatum to all public bodies: I suppose they and their adherents are now sitting in Pandemonium, excogitating their diabolical machinations against us.

Loveyet. A pack of nonsensical stuff!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. I know you are not a mathematical line; you are not the twentieth part so straight and well made;—I only wish to convince you that the present government is an ignis fatuus that is leading you and thousands more to ruin.

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. Avaunt, thou plebeian, thou ignoramus!

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

Trueman. "Monstrum horrendum, cui lumen ademptum!"

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

Loveyet. Sixty odd years indeed! provoking wretch!

Humphry. What a bloody passion he's in!

Trueman. Pray, Mr. Loveyet, do not anathematize me so;—if you do not civilize your phraseology a little, I must have recourse to a little castigation, for, necessitas non habet legem, you know, Mr. Loveyet.

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. What an unlucky affair!

[Aside.

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

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

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

Trueman. Conceited old sot!

[Exit.

Humphry. He's gone at last.

Loveyet. What brought you here, pray?

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

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

Humphry. Here's a letter for you.

[GivesittoLoveyet.

Loveyet. [Opens the letter and reads.] I am heartily glad, 'faith! [Reads again.]—'Od's my life, I'm as happy as the Great Mogul, and as good-natur'd—

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

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

Humphry. Why your son, to be sure.

Loveyet. When did you leave the Havanna, pray?

Humphry. The Havanna?

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

Humphry. Who—me?—not I.

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

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

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

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

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

Humphry. Yes, I believe he did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Do you laugh at me, you vagabond?

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

Loveyet. I shall go distracted!

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

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

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

Loveyet. What an abominable fool!

Humphry. I'm no more a fool than you are—

Loveyet. Be gone, you scoundrel! Here, Thomas—[Enter Thomas.], lug this fellow out of doors.

Thomas. Yes, sir.

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

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

[Aside,andexitwithHumphry.

Loveyet [manet].

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

"Honour'd Sir,

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

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

[Exit.

Scene III. Another part of Loveyet's House.

Dolly and Thomas.

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

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

[Aside.

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

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

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

[Cramsallthebreadinhismouthin haste, andofferstokissher.—Thomas hinders him.

Dolly. Oh, oh!

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

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

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

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

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

Dolly. Oh, oh!

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

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

[Cries.

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

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

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

[Aside,andexit.

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

[Exit,afterhim.

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

[Exit.

End of the Second Act.