The Politician Out-Witted Part 15

_"Honour's a sacred tie, the law of kings;-- It ought not to be sported with."_

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 t.i.tles 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 a.s.sure you, we _are_, sir;--and now, if my father has nothing more to impart, I will take my leave of him; and be a.s.sured, sir, your advice shall be treasured here, as a sacred pledge of paternal love.--Adieu, Papa.

TRUEMAN. Farewell, Harriet;--Heaven prosper your designs.

[_Exeunt severally._

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 circ.u.mroundibus 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-a.s.s 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 d.i.c.k 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d, 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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d."--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._