SCENE I. An Appartment in Major UPRIGHT'S.

I TELL you, Lydia, I'll hear no more.— Plague on his virtues! When did a wi­thered, rotten tree produce good fruit? It is impossible but the errors of the father must, in some degree, attach themselves to the son: And I had rather (dear as you are to me) wit­ness your obsequies, than see you in the arms of a man, whose principles I despise. Old Screwpenny's speculations, cheats, and frauds are related at every tea-table throughout the United States; and shall the daughter of Ma­jor Upright, by a marriage with such a ras­cal's son, bring disgrace on the fair fame of her own father?

My dear father, you know I have always regarded you as a friend, as well as pa­rent: you have ever been acquainted with the [Page 2] secrets of my heart, and you may rest assured, that my conduct shall never be the cause of uneasiness to you. My acquaintance with Young Screwpenny commenced in England, whither your kindness sent me for my educati­on; we were often together, and frequent in­timacy produced a mutual esteem: We have since been fellow-passengers from England, and his kind attentions to me, on ship-board, cer­tainly have made an impression on my heart, which will require some time to eradicate.

I almost wish you had never seen England: the death of your mother, (whose memory still demands the sigh of tenderness) and, at that time, a want of good seminaries for education in this country, induced me to send you thither: But, thank heaven, we can now enjoy the blessing of giving our children a so­lid and useful education, without sending them to a foreign country, where for every single lesson of utility they obtain, fifty follies sprout up to choak its growth:—Republicans can only be properly instructed in republican go­vernments. However, Lydia, I hope I shall find in you, an exception to my general opinion.

I hope, sir, you will believe I have sense enough to distinguish between useful arts, and the tinsel of a modern British education. And believe me, sir, were you acquainted with Mr. Charles Screwpenny, your prejudices a­gainst the father would be lost in your admi­ration of the virtues of his son.

[Page 3]

Prejudices! What! when he cheat­ed my noble disbanded troops out of seven-eighths of the pay they had so hardly earned, so richly deserved, and so patiently waited for, is it a prejudice in me to call him a ras­cal? —When I see him invariably shifting his sentiments of politics, to the opinion of the strongest party, merely to further his merce­nary views, is it a prejudice in me to despise him?—When I see him continually employ­ed in baneful monopolies, oppressions, and land speculations, distressing the poor, and bringing disgrace, infamy, and dishonor on my country, is it a prejudice in me to hate and detest him? No! I hope Major Upright will always be remarked for love of virtue, and detestation of vice. But come, Lydia, should I find Young Screwpenny the character you have described him to be, far be it from me to oppose your happiness; however it must be on certain conditions; and such as will pre­vent the disgrace such a connexion will una­voidably tend to produce.

My dear sir, I thank you—I am sure you will admire his virtues, and I shall be the happiest—But, let me hope, sir, the condi­tions you mean to propose will be such as are in his power to comply with.

Ha! ha! ha! Never fear, my girl, if he is really virtuous, and truly loves you, no doubt but he will comply with them.

If you plase, the dinner's on table, your honor!

I suppose it is there, whether I please or not:—But I despise titles; plain sir is as great a mark of respect as I require, or a free­man should give:—However, when you have been in America a little longer, you'll learn our customs. Come, Lydia, I'll wait on you.

Larn your customs! To be sure I shall. Ah, poor James, to what a devil of a scrape have you brought yourself: three years to serve, for a bit of a passage to this fine coun­try, where to be sure the captain told me, the streets were paved with dollars, and every branch of pine was loaded with kegs of whis­ky, guggling out of their bungs, and singing 'come drink me:' Well 'twas a devil of a lie, to be sure it was: And yet I have some few comforts left—there's my little Katy, as pret­ty a piece of Irish white and red as the moon ever shone upon: To be sure she mended the captain's linen on board, for which she used to get now and then a sneaker of fresh soup: Och, devil burn such travelling; I'd rather have stump'd it here on my own two good-looking legs; but walking might have been a little difficult, when a man, at every step, would be over his chin in water, and I was al­ways afraid to try.

Come, James, what are you doing here? They want you to wait at table.

Arrah! you're out there now:— Didn't I hear the Major say he'd wait on his daughter himself?

No such thing: He is calling you.

Well then, I'm going: But, Katy —give me one kiss, and then—

What then?

Why then fait, my jewel, another, another, and another.

SCENE II. An appartment at Old Screwpenny's; Screw­penny discovered with Noteall, at a table, books, &c. Screwpenny, after a pause look­ing over the books, speaks.

So, Mr. Noteall, very correct, very correct: I commend your care:—What did you say my notes sell for to-day?

At seventy-five per cent discount, sir.

That's well! that's well!—But, Mr. Noteall, it must be better: When they are down to two and six-pence in the pound, Mr. Premium shall have directions to buy in. The report of my want of cash, and danger of failing, will do all, never fear.—Have you procured the title deeds of the land I bought yesterday of Ploughshare, the Kentucky far­mer: [Page 6] He has my notes for sixty thousand dol­lars, payable in six, twelve, and eighteen months; which shall be years—You under­stand me?

Yes, sir: I received the deeds last night.

Then go directly to my worthy friend Mr. Grub, tell him to step immediately to the Washington's head, and enquire for Mr. Ploughshare, enter into conversation with him, and, in a round about manner, come to the business of my purchase of his lands; then let him insinuate that my notes, bonds, words, or oaths are not worth a groat, and so frighten him into a wish to dispose of my notes, when he has done which, he may say he knows a man that will purchase them; and then carry him to Premium, who may give as far as ten thousand for the sixty; but be sure he makes as good a bargain as he can; and at any rate must not give more than ten thousand; not more than ten: D'ye hear?

I'm gone, sir: But the men employ­ed about your new building are now in the next room, waiting for their money; they say they have now five weeks' wages due, and that they wont work another stroke till they are paid.

Tell 'em I'm not at home; that you'll speak to me, and get their money for 'em.

Your coachman, sir, hath informed [Page 7] them already, that you are at home; besides the fellow is growling for money himself.

He growling! the rascal, hath he not my notes? Good as cash—bating the dis­count: —However, Noteall, give 'em checks on the bank.

We have no money there, sir.

Why, you blockhead, I know it, I know it; but before they can present the checks, the bank will be shut: Save my credit, and save my money:—Fine maxims, fine max­ims, Mr. Noteall.

Well, sir, I'll try to satisfy them.

So far, so good:—Who says I'm a rogue? I only take advantage of the weakness and folly of my countrymen: they, simple people, have given me credit; And should I not accept it? To be sure I ought: It's a duty I owe myself; and as for the coun­try, of what consequence is its deplorable state, dearness of provisions, &c. as long as my speculations can produce me cash more than equivalent to the dearth I impose upon others?—But there's my son Charles; I sent him to England to learn chicanery and art; but, to my utter disappointment, he has re­turned with a contempt for every thing, but what he calls honesty, sincerity, philanthro­phy, and such stuff:—These may be virtues, but in the present day, they will be found but poor recommendations to either power or pro­fit: [Page 8] —How he should learn such nonsense in England I am at a loss to account for; but, at any rate, I am determined he shall unlearn it here.—

—Well, sir, where have you been idling your time? Time is precious, Charles; when I was of your years I improved every minute.

Well, sir, and so do I:—After so long an absence from my native shores, I find the greatest pleasure and satisfaction in con­templating the increase of population, which hath been added to our country since I left it. Our city of Philadelphia hath grown beyond my expectations: At present the superfice strikes me as the emblem of happiness, peace, and plenty, although I have been told, since my arrival, there is a canker preying upon its vitals.

Ha! What canker? What d'ye mean? Do you wish to be a mender of govern­ments?

No, sir; it is not the government I mean, 'tis private speculation, in which every nobler faculty of the mind is absorbed, the distresses of the poorer class of citizens ne­glected, and the interest of the whole coun­try prostituted to the emolument of an indi­vidual.

And pray, sir, who has been filling your head with such nonsense: I suppose you have been introduced into the spouting clubs, [Page 9] on t'other side of the water, where a parcel of 'prentices and fellows of no soul, meet to discuss what they don't understand; I gave you let­lers to noblemen, had you kept their compa­ny you would have found a more amusing and profitable way of spending your time.

I am obliged to you, sir, for your re­commendations; but, in the midst of their dissipation and pleasure, I sickened with their [...] and vices, and left them to enjoy, by themselves, that luxury, which appeared to me [...] deprivation of rational existence.

Well, sir, your ideas are so refi­ned, that, I hope, by them alone you will be able to work yourself through the world; for, depend upon't, till you alter your sentiments, I will never put it in your power to live inde­pendent of me.

Well, hang me, if I have not a good mind to disinherit this father of mine: I was told he was a speculator, and I think I gave him a tolerable rub:—Had he wished me to have been a counterpart of him­self, he should have bred me under his own eye; but, thank my luckier fortune, consci­ence is not yet lull'd within me; and so, dear dad, if you are disappointed in me, I am disap­pointed in you, and so our disappointment is mu­tual. —But I must haste to my amiable Lydia, she can amply repay me for the ill-treatment of a father, who not only wishes to govern my actions but my sentiments; if once I can make [Page 10] her mine, I have no doubt but industry and an honest heart will be my support, even with­out the assistance of a mercenary father.

Hah! Mr. Noteall, why in such haste?

I'm in search of your father; a ship of his is just arrived from the East-Indies, richly laden with teas, silks, &c.—she has been long expected, and her arrival will give him infinite satisfaction.

How! a ship of his? I never heard my father traded thither.

Why as to that—I'm afraid I have made a small mistake: But,

I sup­pose it can make but little difference your be­ing acquainted with the secret;—you must know then, for certain purposes this vessel is ostensibly owned by Mr. Grub.

Why? What purpose can that answer?

Why—you must be secret though— you must understand, your father has a num­ber of bills due, and there is such a thing as seizure for debt; now the property being own­ed by another, it makes all safe, all secure, as we say:—But I must find your father.

So, more roguery! All safe, all secure, as we say: No, no, hang it, as they say; for sooner than I would league in such knavery, I'd trundle a wheelbarrow for a bare existence.

SCENE III, A Hall in Screwpenny's House.

Richard! Richard! Richard!

Well! what's the matter now?

Why, you must get the coach ready, my master's going out.

Well, let him walk, or get the coach yourself, Mr. William, for dam'me if I'll put a horse to, till I get my wages.

Why, are you mad? You'll be turn'd away, and then—

And then, what? I'll sue him for what he owes me.

Sue him! Why what a fool you are! What will you get by that? He's possessed of landed property, and can keep you out of your money, two or three years: Your best way is to humour him; and, by some little cun­ning, you may, in a lucky minute, get him to settle with you; besides, going to law is a foolish thing at any time; a client in the hands of a lawyer, is like a half joe in the gripe of a jew, both are sure to be well sweated before they are parted with: Therefore, take my ad­vice, and get the horses ready.

Well, well, I believe you are right; but its nation hard, that an honest, hard-work­ing [Page 12] man, is to be cheated out of his due by an old withered rogue of a speculator.

True enough! And here am I, head servant to William Screwpenny, busied from morning till night, stopping the mouths of gaping tradesmen, with excuses for non-payment of trifling sums, that would dis­grace the day-book of a retail shop-keeper: —Oh, here he comes.

Well, well, Noteall, safe arrived; that's lucky, that's lucky:—Be sure no hint is given that the ship is mine:—And, d'ye hear, bid Grub advertise, that my notes will be ta­ken at the sales of the teas—only the Bohea mind; for the finer sort will certainly pro­duce ready cash; and the people will be glad to bid high for the Bohea and common sorts, merely to get rid of my notes, which I am glad to hear depreciate very fast.

I shall give the necessary directions, sir: —But there is a circumstance I have this day learnt from the captain of the ship, in which your son came passenger, with which I think it my duty to acquaint you.

Well, what is it?

Why, he informed me, that Major Upright's daughter came with him, and that he suspects your son is very much attached to her.

Attached to her! Zounds I'll dis­inherit him, the dog! Why I hate Upright! [Page 13] Hath he not abused me? Thwarted all my schemes? Publicly insulted me?—And my son to forget himself so far as to form an attach­ment in his family:—But I'll prevent him, I'll I'll—what the devil shall I do with him?—Ha, Noteall?—Is he at home?—If ever I hear of his even visiting there, I'll disinherit him:— Aye, I'll discard him forever:—An undutiful rascal! with his high-flown sentiments of ho­nor: —Had I ever any such sentiments—ha, Noteall?

No, sir,—can't say—never observed any:—but, perhaps, sir, the young man is not seriously bent upon marriage: There may be some mistake in my information.

Mistake! Aye, like enough! It must be a mistake, or he has not a drop of my blood in his veins; and I don't think his mo­ther played false; for I married her for her for­tune: —Beauty she had not.

The coach is ready, sir.

Very well:—Is my son at home?

No, sir, he has been gone out this half hour.

Well, I'm going out, should he come home before I return, tell him I want particularly to speak with him.

SCENE IV. A Hall in Major Upright's House:—Mode­rate Knocking at the Door—

Devil burn me but it's very hard a gentleman, in this free country, can't eat his potatoes in peace, but some saucy fellow must disturb his ears by knocking or calling—

—Aye, knock away; I can't do two things at once:— Fait these American potatoes are al­most as fine as little Ireland's, but then they have not such a sweet smack of the sod—

—Aye, knock till you're tired, and then, perhaps, you'll be easy.

James, why don't you go to the door?

Please your hon— sir I mean, I was thinking of being after going, as soon as I had cleared myself of what I have got in hand.

Pshaw, fool, open the door.

Yes, sir.

Well, sir, why don't you go?

I'm gone, sir, I was only wiping the grease off my hands and mouth, to look a little decent, your hon—sir.

This fellow's prolixity would al­most make me think him a fool. But who have we here?

Mr. Charles Screwpenny, sir.

[Page 15]

I hope, sir, you will not esteem this visit an intrusion; as, although I am not per­sonally known to you, yet your character is familiar to me:—I had the pleasure to arrive in the same ship with your amiable daughter, and this visit is merely to enquire after her health.

Sir, I am acquainted with the at­tentions you paid to her on board, and thank you for your kindness.—I hope, sir, you left your friends well in England, and that your travels in that country have not only been a­greeable, but useful to you; for my part, ha­ving never been from the place of my nativi­ty, I know but little of England, except from books.

Faith, sir, the greatest pleasure I de­rived from my travels, is the zest they have given me for the charms of my native coun­try.—I have seen people in England decorated with all the tinsel of distinction and honor, whose narrow souls might have been compri­sed in an egg shell; whilst real merit, in a thread-bare coat, in silent anguish, picked the crumbs of penury and wretchedness:— I have seen great ladies riding after a fox, and noble lords weaving lace, and exercising themselves on a wooden horse:—I have seen their principal city oppressed by contractors, speculators, and money lenders, and the peo­ple caress their oppressors.

[Page 16]

You need not have travelled for the last sight.

Your observation is just; but, I hope, we are not so far gone with the disease.

I believe, in proportion to the po­pulation of our country, we are nearly upon a par:—But, however, it's a disagreeable sub­ject: —My daughter is in the next room; and, as I suppose you would not think your visit paid, were you not to see her, if you will step this way, you may have the opportunity.

Sir, you do me pleasure.

Arrah, nothing but knocking, call­ing, or bawling from morning till night—I wish the knocker was worn out, and then 'twould save my shoes:—But let's see who it is.

Well, master William, and what do you want here?

Pray, is Mr. Charles Screwpenny here?

To be sure he is, if he pleases.

How if he pleases?

Why, you would not have him here, if he does not please

Is he here or not? You Irishmen are allowed to speak twice.

You are an Englishman: now, and can you tell me why they are allowed to speak twice?

[Page 17]

No.

Why then, Mr. William, I'll tell you:—'Tis to Englishmen alone that we are allowed to speak twice, becaise they are so dull they can't understand plain English the first time

But will you tell me or not, whether my young master's here?

To be sure I will, my jewel:—He is here, and happier than if he was not here.

What makes him happy?

What makes him happy! Why the company of my sweet young mistress to be sure:—Och she is a fine creature, with as pretty a little fist—to be shure 'tisn't altoge­ther so red, tight, and plump as my Katy's, but then to be sure it's a pretty looking fist for all that.

Well, well, tell him his father is at home, and wishes to speak to him directly: I must run to deliver three or four messages.

Away with you!—Now, shall I disturb the young Gentleman, or not?—Ar­rah, James, how would you like to be served so yourself?—Not at all [...].—Why then I wont tell him a word about it.—The young man will certainly go home when he has nothing better to do; and his father's speeches wont turn sour before to-morrow morning:—No, no, James, always do by others as you would be done by, and never spoil pleasure when you can give none.

Your sincerity and open candour pleases me:—The affection you profess for my daughter would give me pleasure, and I should approve your union, was there not a bar—I had almost said an insuperable objection—to prevent it.

What can that be, sir? You distress me, at the same time that I feel a growing es­teem for your sentiments.—'Tis true, I am dependent on my father at present, and I fear he would be offended, was he to know I design­ed to connect myself in your family; but I have no doubt, after I had really done so, his indul­gence to me would return.

You deceive yourself—our enmity is so rooted, that no time can eradicate, or cir­cumstance meliorate it:—We detest each o­ther, but upon different grounds: He hates me for possessing that which he has all his life des­pised —Honesty—that virtue, which makes the poor man great, and which, the want of, no riches can attone for.

Consider, sir, it is my father you speak of.

I know it; but do not imagine I mean to insult you:—If you are just and noble enough to despise vice and dishonesty, their being possessed even by a father, will not ren­der their qualities less odious to you. Poison re­tains its destructive qualities, whatever vessel contains it.

[Page 19]

But, sir, you may judge too severely of my father:—That he has peculiarities, I firmly believe; but I should be sorry even to entertain a thought so much to his dishonor, as that which you have averred to be fact.

I did not suppose, young man, that your sentiments, in this particular, would be congenial with my own; but, mark me, if your heart is really virtuous, it will soon teach you to despise the vices of your father;—and this is my firm resolution, That no one, who bears his name, shall ever be connected with my family; therefore, if you marry my daugh­ter, you must bear my name:—You have your choice, and so farewell.

Well, it's past!—Lydia, my charming Lydia, I must resign you!—What! renounce my fa­ther?—Forget the author of my being?— Change my name—and by so doing declare to the world I am ashamed of it?—Torture! —it can never be—the Major cannot be so cruel—And yet, let me not flatter myself, he seemed firmly determined in his resolution. —How unhappy am I!—Here, where my fond fancy pictured successive pleasures rising to my grasp, till my full heart should swell a­lone with joy; here have I found my bright­est hopes destroyed, and fading like the tran­sient beauties of the morn.—Away reflec­tion!—I am tired of myself—the world— and all that now is left me, is scarcely worth the holding.

SCENE V. An Appartment at Screwpenny's, Old Screw­penny discovered at Breakfast, reading a Newspaper—Noteall attending.

Why, Noteall, I don't see that Grub has advertised the teas as I directed:— Here are fresh teas for sale, by Tobias Grub; but not a word of my notes:—What's the reason of it?

Can't say, sir, I told him, verbatim, as you directed

I don't like this business; I have some suspicions, that Grub intends foul play; he is not so regular in his attendance upon me of late.—Step and ask why my directions are not observed.

I will, sir.

That Grub has me in his power; fool that I was not to get bonds for what I made over to him; however, 'tis the rascal's interest to serve me at present.—

—Well, sir, where was you yesterday even­ing? —I sent after you to that beggar Upright's: —What were you doing there?—Tell me, sir,—you know I hate him,—you know he is my enemy:—Come, sir, what do you go there for?—Why don't you speak?—

Speak I say!

[Page 21]

Sir!—I beg pardon —I did not attend to what you said.

Did not attend! What is the fel­low distracted?—What's the matter with you? —What were you doing at Upright's last night?

I went thither to pay the compli­ment of a visit to Miss Lydia, who came over in the same ship with me.

Compliment of a visit?—I desire, sir, you'll pay no more such compliments, un­less you mean me to disinherit you.

There needed not that threat to pre­vent me!

What's that sigh for?

Because, sir, I'm unhappy.

What, you are in love, I suppose, or some such nonsense.

That is not my only cause of sorrow: —After I left Major Upright's, yesterday e­vening, I happened to stroll into the Wash­ington's head tavern, where I was scarcely seated, when I heard your name mentioned in a very unbecoming manner; irritated to the extreme, I seized the rascal by the throat, who dared to take the liberty, and kicked him out of the room: returning to my seat, an honest farmer, with whom this scoundrel had been conversing, called me to him, and told me, that the fellow had endeavoured to hurt your credit with him: that you had bought lands of him to the amount of sixty thousand dol­lars, [Page 22] for which you had given him bonds, and that this fellow had endeavoured to persuade him they were of no value; I immediately told him I was your son, that I was sure your bonds were as good as cash, and I would en­sure them to be paid when due.

You did, did you?

Yes, certainly, to save your honor.

Honor!—the virtue of fools:— Why you have defeated one of my best schemes —Why, you blockhead, the worthy man you kicked out of the room was Mr. Grub, my best friend; he went thither by my own ap­pointment, to depreciate my bills; all which your profound sentiments have disappointed: —Oh, curse your notions of honor and stuff; Where did you learn them?

In a great measure, by my own ex­perience:—I always saw the honest man, tho' unfortunate, respected by the good part of so­ciety; and dishonesty treated by it with scorn and contempt.

Honesty, forsooth? —Money, money alone is honesty, honor, and every vir­tue that exists.—What! do you think I rose myself from a scrivener's clerk, to command half the ready cash of Philadelphia, by ho­nesty? No, no,—I left England young, came to this country without a second shirt, got in­to a store as an under assistant (there indeed I was honest, because had I not been so, I should [Page 23] have been turned out) there I was industri­ous, and recommended myself, 'til I obtained the charge of a store; then began the glori­ous work of gain—I took every advantage, that is with circumspection, not to be found out—and when I had realized a little capital of my own, I set up for myself.—I was a mo­ney-lender, a broker, a store-keeper, a notary, all at one time.— I always watched how affairs went on in congress, and took measures ac­cordingly, for my own emolument.—When the bill passed for the payment of the milita­ry notes, I was beforehand, bought 'em up, and gained seventy-five per cent in seven days. —This was industry, Charles.

Fatal industry! by which you have rendered yourself the object of contempt and hatred, to the valuable part of mankind.

Hatred, contempt!—What care I?—I have money; I am safe; let 'em rail, it may be some consolation to them; and d'ye mind, Charles, do as I have done, and you may be the richest man in the United States.

Sir, I had rather be the poorest, and retain a clear conscience, than the richest, loaded with the pangs conscious guilt is sure to inspire:—Look into yourself, sir; Do you, can you feel happy?—The cries of the widow, the invalid, and the orphan must continually ring in your ears.—Ah, wretched father! I now most sincerely pity [Page 24] you, and rather than adopt your sentiments, I'd forego your riches.

Then forego them you shall—Ras­cal! Did I beget you to be a thorn in my side; a spur to goad me; worse than the insults I dai­ly suffer from the improvident and foolish.— Hence, hence, from my sight, never appear before me again:—Begone, I disinherit you, I discard you, I abandon you to that poverty you are so fond of, and may you never learn to be worldly wise enough to make your own fortune.

For the last wish I sincerely thank you, sir; that worldly wisdom, I hope, I shall ever despise.—Your character is now fully dis­closed, and a longer connexion with you might endanger my fame, which, I trust, hath hi­therto been unsullied. Farewell, you have fixed my determination, and henceforward I will own no father, whose sentiments are not more congenial with my own.

Hah! what the devil makes him so soon determined?— What, will not my riches command the obe­dience of even my son?—Well, well, no mat­ter, no matter—if he wont do as I wish him he might as well be out of my house as in it: —But what will the world say?—Oh curse the world:—Shall I, who have despised it so long, truckle to it now?—No, no, Old Screw­penny [Page 25] shall be notorious for only minding the main chance.

Mr. Grub, to wait on you, sir.

Shew him up.

I'm glad he's come:—Now let me speak to him with proper consequence.

Good morning to you, Mr. Grub, it's some time since I have seen you.

Why, I have not been very well lately; between ourselves, got a touch of my old complaint: Besides, going about a little of your business last night, I got kicked and cuffed by a graceless varlet, who I find is your son:—Fine treatment this! the business pre­vented, and myself beat to a mummy!

I'm very sorry for your misfortune, dear Mr. Grub, but you are revenged—I have disinherited the scoundrel.

Have you?—Well now, my dear Mr. Screwpenny, that's very kind, very kind of you indeed!

Oh, aye, I always endeavour to give satisfaction to my friends, especially to so dear a one as you are, Mr. Grub.—But, I do not find you have advertised the tea as I advised; that is, you never mentioned that my notes would be received at the sales.

Why, between ourselves, I did not think it advisable.

Not advisable! Why so? Sure I [Page 26] am the best judge how my property should be disposed of?

Why, Mr. Screwpenny, between ourselves, there is a small mistake, which I came here purposely to explain to you.

Mistake? Why what mistake?— Tell me—What have you to do but to obey my orders?

Hold a little, Mr. Screwpenny, you know, between ourselves, I have been your agent this long time, and I can't say I think myself paid for my attention to your interest.

Not paid? Have not I recom­mended you to a deal of business?

But that is not enough; I'm not content.—And, between ourselves, until you pay better, I must beg leave to decline doing business for you.

Well, but Mr. Grub, do give me satisfaction about the teas.

Oh that I can very easily do; tho', between ourselves, I don't know any business you have with them.

No business with them?—Why, arn't they my property?—What the devil do you mean?

Mean? Why, between ourselves, the tea, ship, and all the concern is my property, my own property—Did not I buy them of you?

Buy them of me? Oh you rascal, I'll have you hanged, throttled, shot:— [Page 27] What, do you really think to cheat me in this manner?

You had better be temperate;—be­tween ourselves, we are both cheats, and I deserve some profit as well as you.

You'll be disappointed:—Noteall is a good witness against you:—Take care, you may repent this conduct.

Between ourselves, you'll be disap­pointed: Noteall is bought on my side.

Oh, the scoundrel; he desert me; —A fellow that I have bred up in my own house, nurtured in my bosom, viper like, to bite the hand that fostered him?—But as for you, you villain, rascal, blood-hound, oh I'll be revenged—Dam'me, I'll be revenged.

Be cool, be temperate; consider, sir, between ourselves, the labourer is worthy of his hire; besides, the kicks I received yester­day evening deserve some recompence.

Oh, you villain, would to heaven he had murdered you.—Why the devil can't I choak you myself? Rascal, I will, 'tis only cheating the hangman.

Be temperate—do listen to reason.

What reason, villain?—Will you give up the ship?

No-o-o-o.

Why, my worthy masters, what's the matter with ye both?

[Page 28]

Why, dear Mr. Note­all, between ourselves, poor Mr. Screwpen­ny is a little disordered in his brain, a little touched, we'd better retire.

Aye, he looks very wild about the eyes.

Do I, rascal? I'll be the death of that fellow yet!

Thieves! Murder! Villains! Wil­liam! William! Richard! Where the devil are you? Murder!

Thieves!

Where's Noteall? Where's that old villain, Grub?

They're just gone out of the door hastily.

Then do you go to the devil af­ter them.

How wild he looks.

Oh what a miserable old fellow I am—cheated, robbed, plundered—What the devil shall I do?—Dam'me, I'll chew o­pium, and run muck, like an Indian, but I'll be revenged.

SCENE VI. An Appartment in Major Upright's.

Arrah, Katy, honey, be easy now, by my soul I had not the least thought of of­fending you, at all, at all.

[Page 29]

No, to be sure, you false man you, to put me in mind of the captain, as you al­ways do: Suppose I did do an odd job or two for him on board, why sure there was no harm in that?

No, to be sure there wasn't!—Och you pretty little rogue you—Fait I love you, and that makes me like to teize you:—There's no pleasure at all here, to be compared to a little snug conversation with you, my jewel, faith, you know, I was up to the tip of my nose in love with you, long before we got in­to the wooden water stage, to travel here.

Yes, James, you've told me many a fib, I believe; but now I won't hear any more, because my young lady takes on so about losing her sweetheart, and I can't be merry, whilst she is sad:—If I was as she, I would not care a rap halfpenny about him, a fellow;—but it's no matter, all you he-people are alike.

Arrah no, Katy:—Faith you know I am constant, aye and never forsook you; to be sure, when you were sea-sick, I felt, faith, only with looking at you, as if I should be sick too; yet I never left you at all, but ply'd you with burnt whisky, till your stomach was easy—Didn't I?

'Tis very true, James; but don't say any more about it:—Do sing me the song that you made about our passage from Ireland.

Aye, to be sure, any thing to please you, my jewel;—but since I've got the salt [Page 30] water down my throat, devil burn me, I've lost my voice, and, by St. Patrick, 'tis lucky if I have not lost the tune too.

[Page 31]

Aye, James, to be sure, we're very lucky in so good a master as the Major.

Och to be sure we are:—Why they told me bugaboo stories in little Ireland about one thing and 'tother, to frighten little James from coming over, but 'twas all nonsense:— Why, there's Dermot and Patrick, and a do­zen or two, more or less, that are just as com­fortable as heart could wish:—We have no brats of boys of lords, and honorable spindle shanked puppies, to kick us about here; and then we have plenty of whisky and good eat­ables — Do you mind, Katy, how round and plump I've got since I came here?

To be sure you have—and I think I look better a great deal:—But see, here's my young lady coming—do go now down the back stairs.

Och, to be sure I will—but you have not paid me for my song.—What, you wont? Why then, by the powers of Venus, I'll take my pay my own dear self.

Oh, pray go,—see my young lady's coming.—There go.

Pray, who was that left the room?

Nobody, please you ma'am, but James, he was helping me to put things a little to rights, and so—

Take care, Katy, I fear you indulge Mr. James in too many liberties.—Reach me a book.

[Page 32]

Please you, ma'am, I'm so sorry to see you dull and melancholic:—Sure you can't read now.

Why not, pray?

Why, ma'am, I can never read myself when my head is running upon other things, as, methinks, yours is at this present time, ma'am.

Pray do not be so rude.

I begs pardon, ma'am, I'm sure I wou'dn't offend you 'pon any account; but I was thinking—

Pray, what was you thinking?

Why, ma'am, I was thinking, it was very hard, just when you thought you were going to be happy with your lover, to be disappointed; it put me in mind, when the ship I came in, first came in sight of America land, and all of us were so happy to think of being near to get ashore, after our rumbustious passage, when up come a norwester, (as the sail­ors called it) and kept us seven days longer on the water; oh I thought I should have died! —But then we got safe ashore at last.

I understand you; but I have no hopes of my wishes being crowned with the same success:—My father is determined; and I fear expects too much from Mr. Screwpen­ny, when he supposes he would relinquish his name and family on my account.

Why law, ma'am, doesn't the bible say, that a man shall leave father and all, and cleave to his wife?

[Page 33]

Aye, but not his name.

A fig for his name!—We women change our names very often to oblige the men, and why shou'dn't they, now and then, ob­lige us by changing theirs?

Ridiculous!—But, Katy, I want not your advice; bring me a book, I'll try and reconcile myself to my disappointment.

Dear ma'am, here is my master com­ing up stairs,—he'll be as good as a book, I warrant, he talks so sententious, 'tis as good as a sermon to hear him.

If my father is coming, you may leave me.

Heavens!—When shall I recover my lost happiness?—I cannot accuse my father as the author of my misery; and yet, he alone is the bar to my obtaining that which appears to me my only felicity:— However, if rectitude of conduct insures peace of mind, that blessing is still my own.

Well, Lydia,—I am come to spend a few hours in conversation with you:—You have been dull to-day—that I do not wonder at;—but you seem to shun me; surely I have given you no cause.

No, my dear sir, I do not believe you ever wished to infuse pain into the bosom of your Lydia; but our feelings are not always under our own controul:—Truth and justice, though ever to be admired cannot always be [Page 34] obeyed without a sigh; and when a sacrifice is made to their virtues, surely that may be allowed to the disappointment of a fond in­clination.

You are a good philosopher, Lydia: —But, perhaps, I have it in my power to make you forget your uneasiness; nay more, I think my company not only can alleviate the distresses of your mind, but raise it to rapture —joy.

I think not, sir:—Time, indeed, may efface the bitterness of my distress; but surely no power on earth could, at present, induce me to be joyful.

Don't be too certain:—Suppose now Young Screwpenny has acceded to my proposals?

Dear sir, did you say acceded?—Has he?

Why then, my child, he has— here in this very letter.

Then I really am over­joyed! —I'm happy!—

But—

But what?

My dear father, this may be the result of his passion for me, rather than the cool dictates of reason; he may repent his con­descension after marriage, and render me mi­serable.

Condescension?—What condescension?—To despise vice?—Is that a condescension?—If so, I wish all the world [Page 35] possessed so valuable a qualification:— And as to his making you miserable, leave that concern to me;—he dares not do it, if he were so inclined; he should find, old as I am, that I could protect my daughter from in­sult:—

But come, come, I be­lieve he means well, if I can judge by what he has written:—You shall hear—

'Dear sir, when I last parted from you, I was over­whelmed with grief and disappointment, I could not imagine my father so unworthy as you represented him:—Some circumstances, added to his own confession, have opened my eyes to his true character; and although, as a son, I cannot but grieve for his vices, yet duty to myself obliges me no longer to res­pect him as the author of my being; consider­ing as I do, that he had better not have been so, than afterwards to wish me, to despise all duties, sacred and moral, for the gratification of ambition and avarice. I shall wait upon you this afternoon, and reassure you, that, with the greatest pleasure, I accept your pro­posals, with the hand of your most lovely and amiable daughter; in the mean time, I remain your devoted, Charles Screwpenny.'—Now, Lydia, what do you think?

Think! My dear sir, I am now convinced, and I am sure I can depend upon his sentiments and honor:—The man who can despise vice even in a father, must, in himself, be really good.

[Page 36]

I think with you, Lydia, and feel no doubt of his virtue:—'Tis virtue alone, which raises man to the esteem of his Creator; 'tis not the words of devotion, but the acti­ons of philanthrophy and justice, that must recommend him to that beneficent being, who delights to make happy, those to whom he has given existence.

Please you, sir, Young Mr. Screw­penny desires to see you.

Shew him up, James, I shall be happy to see him.

I will your honour—sir I mean.

The method with which this fel­low shews his compliments, serves to convince us how foolish titles are; for one cent he would give the title of lord or honorable, to the most despicable wretch in the creation.

My dear sir; no doubt you have re­ceived my letter; I am now come to prove the truth of it.

I have received your letter, and only hope that conscious worth indited it;— 'tis a hard task for a young man to discard his father.

No, sir, I see you yet suspect my principles; but, believe me, whatever regret I may feel for the frailty of the author of my [Page 37] being, yet justice and reason actuate my mind, devoid of selfish principles:—Had I believed my father virtuous, or even foolishly fantasti­cal, I would not have patiently heard his name traduced; but his words and actions have con­vinced me, that any connexion with him must destroy not only my public character, but rack my private happiness.

I am convinced:—Come, young man, no longer Screwpenny, but Charles Up­right, I here give you my daughter;—come, Lydia, you shall not change your name; the family of the Uprights are so few, that the more they extend themselves the better it will be for the human species. Here I join your hands, and may heaven look down upon your union with a smile,—

Well, what do you want?

Arrah, please your honor, for honor I will call you, do as you like, I come to ask you about a little bit of my own concerns.

Well, tell me at once what you want.

Why, you must know, your ho­nor, as matrimony is on the carpet—Katy has taken a very great liking to me.

Hold your tongue, James, 'tis no such thing; I like you no more than one christian ought to like another.

Och that's true enough, please your honor:—And, as I was saying, she wishes to [Page 38] take a claim on the body and heart of your servant, James O'Connor; now, your honor, if you will let us marry, to be sure it will please us both, and we'll remain your honor's faith­ful redemptioners, 'till we can do better— Wont we, Katy?

What, is this your wish, Katy?

I don't know, sir—James is so pressing.

I understand you, and if you think you can be happy, I will not prevent you;— do well;—and if you serve out your times faithfully, I will, at the conclusion, give you a little farm, where, by industry, you may succeed to render yourselves respectable.

Now I truly thank your honor; and I am determined we will deserve your kindness.—Why?—Because your honor knows poor people are flesh and blood, and must marry, or live badly;—to be sure human nature is human nature, isn't it, Katy?—So give me your hand, my girl,—never fear, lit-James O'Connor shall do you justice; and now you are mine, why, you shall do an odd job for me too, as well as you did for the captain —Won't you?

Hold your tongue, James;—whilst Major Upright hath the power to prevent it, you shall not want:—It gives me sincere sa­tisfaction to have added one more to the Up­right family, and as long as honesty is known and cherished by my countrymen, I am sure that the Man of the Times will be hated and despised, and virtue be ever crowned with success.