Scene I. Trueman's House.

Trueman [solus].

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

Enter Humphry.

Humphry. Sarvint, Mr. Schoolmaster;—here's a challenge for you.

[GivesTruemanthebarber'snote.

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

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

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

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

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

Humphry. Oh, for shame!—Do you read Haristotle?

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

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

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

Humphry. CÆsar and Pompey! Why them is nigers' names.

Trueman. O tempora! O mores!

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

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

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

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

Enter Old Loveyet listening.

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

Loveyet. I'll old you, you rascal!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Oh, the traitor!

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

Loveyet. There's old Mr. What's-his-name, again.

Trueman. Mr. Loveyet is a weak man;—you must not mind what he says.

Loveyet. Oh, I shall burst!

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

Loveyet. [Running towards them.] Death and the devil! Have I sent you a challenge?

Humphry. No, not you, old gentleman.

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

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

Humphry. Aye, that's I.

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

Humphry. Why, mounsieur, the barber.

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

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

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

Loveyet. I deny it;—it is perfectly inoffensive and mild.

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. Mr. Loveyet, I never knew a man of your age and wisdom—

Loveyet. Age, sir!—Wisdom!—Yes, wisdom, sir.—Age again, eigh? Ugh, ugh.

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

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

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

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

[Runningtowardshim,andmakinganattempttostrikehim.

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

Enter Harriet alarmed.

Harriet. Oh, Papa,—my dear Papa, what's the matter!

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. Heaven protect me! There certainly must be something in this.

[Aside.

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

Humphry. Aye, now he's his son again.

[Aside.

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

Humphry. I must go tell Mr. Lovit of that, at once.

[Aside,andexit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Exit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. Farewell, Harriet;—Heaven prosper your designs.

[Exeuntseverally.

Scene II. A Street.

Enter Humphry and Worthnought meeting.

Worthnought. Sir, your most obedient.

Humphry. Here's that mackmarony again.

[Aside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Humphry. Yes.—You can have Miss Trueman now, if you've a mind.

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

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

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

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

Worthnought. There [Gives him money.]—is that what you want?

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

Worthnought. Poh, poh,—to the point, to the point.

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

Worthnought. Why, pray?

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

Worthnought. No?

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

[Exit.

Worthnought [manet].

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

[Exit.

Scene III. Herald's House.

Enter Cantwell and Herald.

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

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

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

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

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

[Sighs.

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

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

Herald. There comes his very reverse,—Mr. Worthnought.

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

Herald. That ancient sepulchre of yours is pretty much daub'd, I think.

[Aside.

Enter Worthnought.

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

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

Worthnought. LÀ, LÀ, Mademoiselle; assez bien: Je vous suis obligÉ.—She has reviv'd her wither'd chaps with rouge in a very nasty manner, 'pan hanor. [Aside.]—Have you heard the news, respecting Miss Harriet Trueman, ladies?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Aside.

Worthnought. But this is entre nous, ladies.—[Looks at his watch.] Hah,—the tÊte-À-tÊte!—Ladies, I have the hanor to be your slave.

[Going.

Cantwell. You are positively the greatest lady's man, Mr. Worthnought,—

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

Cantwell. Oh, sir,—your politeness quite confuses me.

[Curtsying.

Worthnought. Miss Herald, your thrice devoted.—Mademoiselle, je suis votre Serviteur trÈs humble.

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

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

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

[Exit.

Herald [manet].

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

[Exit.

Scene IV. Old Loveyet's House.

Old Loveyet discovered solus.

Enter Charles Loveyet.

Charles. Mr. Loveyet, your most obedient.

Loveyet. Sir, your servant.

Charles. Don't you know me, sir?

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

Charles. You really have, sir.

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

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

Loveyet. How!—Was you not with Harriet Trueman, this morning?

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

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

Charles. If it be wisdom to prefer another to Harriet, then may I ever remain a fool!

[Aside.

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

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

Loveyet. What a paradoxical fellow this is! [Aside.]—Did not you this minute say, you did not intend to have her?

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

Loveyet. I hope I am not talking to a lunatic! [Aside.]—Yes, I saw you this morning.

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

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

Charles. My father!

[Embracinghim.

Loveyet. And are you indeed my son?

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

[Kneels.

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

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

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

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

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

Charles. Sir?

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Base foe to the liberties of his country!

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

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

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

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

Charles. As well as I can:—I have a few of your unnecessary thousands in my hands, thank fortune;—I'll try if they will not befriend me, if their avaricious owner, and my unnatural parent will not.

[Aside,andexit.

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

[Exit.

End of the Fourth Act.