Читать книгу The Politician Out-Witted - Samuel Low - Страница 6

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Scene I. Old Loveyet's House.

Enter Old Loveyet.

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

Enter Thomas.

Well, Thomas, what's the news?

[Eagerly.

Thomas. Nothing strange, sir.

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

Thomas. Yes, sir.

[Fetches the newspaper.

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

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

[Offers it to Loveyet.

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

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

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

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

[Aside.

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

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

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

Thomas. I ask pardon, sir; I thought it was the New-York Journal; but I see it is Mr. Child's Daily Advertiser.

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

[Exit Thomas.

Enter Trueman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trueman. Under the thumb, you mean.

Loveyet. Under the Devil, you mean.

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Pshaw, you're a fool!

Enter Toupee.

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

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. Hold your prating, you booby.

Toupee. You booby—Vat is dat booby, I vonder!

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

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

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

Loveyet. Ugh, hang you for an old simpleton! Talk of my age and constitution.—Ugh, ugh, ugh.

[Exit.

Trueman. Fractious old blockhead!

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

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

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

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

Toupee. Vous ne m'entendez pas.

[Hastily.

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

Toupee. Diable! me no stand under your names.

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

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

Trueman. Pertinacious, audacious reptile!

[Canes Toupee.

Toupee. Ah, mon dieu! mon dieu!

[Runs off.

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

Scene II. A Street.

Enter Young Loveyet.

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

Humphry. What's your will?

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

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

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

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

Loveyet. What an insufferable fool it is!

[Half aside.

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

Loveyet. Worse and worse!

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

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

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

Loveyet. A comical countryman of mine this. [Aside.] What is your name, my honest lad?

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

Loveyet. What a monstrous combination of nonsense!

Humphry. Don't tell me what I am, but tell me what I have been—

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

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

Loveyet. Hah! my worthy friend Frankton——

Enter Frankton.

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

[They embrace.

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

Frankton. Then you have not forgot your friend.

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

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

Humphry. A boar! why you're worser than he there—he only took father's corn for pigs, but do you take me for a boar, eigh? Do I look like a hog, as the saying is?

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

Loveyet. We will adjourn to the Coffee-House.

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

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

Loveyet. I wait your pleasure, Frankton.

Frankton. Then allons!

[Exeunt Frankton and Loveyet.

Humphry. [Burlesquing them.] Forward, march—as our Captain says—[Struts after them.]—Literary lubber, eigh! But I'll be up with the foutre.

Frankton and Loveyet return.

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

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

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

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

Frankton. Harkee, Mr. Talkative, if you ever——

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

Frankton. Sure of what?

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

Loveyet. Ha, ha, ha.

Frankton. Oh, what a precious numskull it is!

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

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

Loveyet. What a digression!

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

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

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

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

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

[Exit.

Scene III. Mr. Friendly's House.

Enter Harriet and Maria.

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

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

Harriet. Assemblies.

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

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

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

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

Maria. Oh, you heard my eyes say so, did you? I ask pardon of your penetration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harriet. Hearing a good play, my dear.

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

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

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

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

Maria. Humph—there's sentiment again.

Harriet. You dislike every good thing I have mentioned this morning, Maria—except one.

Maria. What's that, my dear?

Harriet. Mr. Frankton.

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

Harriet. I really did not—I wish I had seen such a pleasing proof of your sensibility.

Maria. Oh, you cruel creature!—wish to see your friend in tears?

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

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

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

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

Harriet. On what account, pray?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Going.

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

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

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

[Exeunt, separately.

End of the First Act.