The Politician Out-Witted - Samuel Low

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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.

       Table of Contents

      Scene I. Frankton's Lodgings.

      Frankton and Young Loveyet sitting.

      Loveyet. When did you say you saw her?

      Frankton.

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