The Contrast Part 2

LEt.i.tIA. Why, you know that old Mr. John-Richard-Robert-Jacob-Isaac- Abraham-Cornelius Van Dumpling, Billy Dimple's father (for he has thought fit to soften his name, as well as manners, during his English tour) was the most intimate friend of Maria's father. The old folks, about a year before Mr. Van Dumpling's death, proposed this match: the young folks were accordingly introduced, and told they must love one another. Billy was then a good-natured, decent-dressing young fellow, with a little dash of the c.o.xcomb, such as our young fellows of fortune usually have. At this time, I really believe she thought she loved him; and had they then been married, I doubt not they might have jogged on, to the end of the chapter, a good kind of a sing-song, lack-a-daysaical life, as other honest married folks do.

CHARLOTTE. Why did they not then marry?

LEt.i.tIA. Upon the death of his father, Billy went to England to see the world and rub off a little of the patroon rust. During his absence, Maria, like a good girl, to keep herself constant to her _nown true-love_, avoided company, and betook herself, for her amus.e.m.e.nt, to her books, and her dear Billy's letters. But, alas! how many ways has the mischievous demon of inconstancy of stealing into a woman's heart!

Her love was destroyed by the very means she took to support it.

CHARLOTTE. How?--Oh! I have it--some likely young beau found the way to her study.

LEt.i.tIA. Be patient, Charlotte; your head so runs upon beaux. Why, she read _Sir Charles Grandison_, _Clarissa Harlow_, _Shenstone_, and the _Sentimental Journey_; and between whiles, as I said, Billy's letters.

But, as her taste improved, her love declined. The contrast was so striking betwixt the good sense of her books and the flimsiness of her love-letters, that she discovered she had unthinkingly engaged her hand without her heart; and then the whole transaction, managed by the old folks, now appeared so unsentimental, and looked so like bargaining for a bale of goods, that she found she ought to have rejected, according to every rule of romance, even the man of her choice, if imposed upon her in that manner. Clary Harlow would have scorned such a match.

CHARLOTTE. Well, how was it on Mr. Dimple's return? Did he meet a more favourable reception than his letters?

LEt.i.tIA. Much the same. She spoke of him with respect abroad, and with contempt in her closet. She watched his conduct and conversation, and found that he had by travelling acquired the wickedness of Lovelace without his wit, and the politeness of Sir Charles Grandison without his generosity. The ruddy youth, who washed his face at the cistern every morning, and swore and looked eternal love and constancy, was now metamorphosed into a flippant, palid, polite beau, who devotes the morning to his toilet, reads a few pages of Chesterfield's letters, and then minces out, to put the infamous principles in practice upon every woman he meets.

CHARLOTTE. But, if she is so apt at conjuring up these sentimental bugbears, why does she not discard him at once?

LEt.i.tIA. Why, she thinks her word too sacred to be trifled with.

Besides, her father, who has a great respect for the memory of his deceased friend, is ever telling her how he shall renew his years in their union, and repeating the dying injunctions of old Van Dumpling.

CHARLOTTE. A mighty pretty story! And so you would make me believe that the sensible Maria would give up Dumpling Manor, and the all-accomplished Dimple as a husband, for the absurd, ridiculous reason, forsooth, because she despises and abhors him. Just as if a lady could not be privileged to spend a man's fortune, ride in his carriage, be called after his name, and call him her _nown dear lovee_ when she wants money, without loving and respecting the great he-creature. Oh! my dear girl, you are a monstrous prude.

LEt.i.tIA. I don't say what I would do; I only intimate how I suppose she wishes to act.

CHARLOTTE. No, no, no! A fig for sentiment. If she breaks, or wishes to break, with Mr. Dimple, depend upon it, she has some other man in her eye. A woman rarely discards one lover until she is sure of another.

Let.i.tia little thinks what a clue I have to Dimple's conduct. The generous man submits to render himself disgusting to Maria, in order that she may leave him at liberty to address me. I must change the subject. [_Aside, and rings a bell._

_Enter SERVANT._

Frank, order the horses to.----Talking of marriage, did you hear that Sally Bloomsbury is going to be married next week to Mr. Indigo, the rich Carolinian?

LEt.i.tIA. Sally Bloomsbury married!--why, she is not yet in her teens.

CHARLOTTE. I do not know how that is, but you may depend upon it, 'tis a done affair. I have it from the best authority. There is my aunt Wyerly's Hannah (you know Hannah; though a black, she is a wench that was never caught in a lie in her life); now, Hannah has a brother who courts Sarah, Mrs. Catgut the milliner's girl, and she told Hannah's brother, and Hannah, who, as I said before, is a girl of undoubted veracity, told it directly to me, that Mrs. Catgut was making a new cap for Miss Bloomsbury, which, as it was very dressy, it is very probable is designed for a wedding cap. Now, as she is to be married, who can it be to, but to Mr. Indigo? Why, there is no other gentleman that visits at her papa's.

LEt.i.tIA. Say not a word more, Charlotte. Your intelligence is so direct and well grounded, it is almost a pity that it is not a piece of scandal.

CHARLOTTE. Oh! I am the pink of prudence. Though I cannot charge myself with ever having discredited a tea-party by my silence, yet I take care never to report any thing of my acquaintance, especially if it is to their credit,--_discredit_, I mean,--until I have searched to the bottom of it. It is true, there is infinite pleasure in this charitable pursuit. Oh! how delicious to go and condole with the friends of some backsliding sister, or to retire with some old dowager or maiden aunt of the family, who love scandal so well that they cannot forbear gratifying their appet.i.te at the expence of the reputation of their nearest relations! And then to return full fraught with a rich collection of circ.u.mstances, to retail to the next circle of our acquaintance under the strongest injunctions of secrecy,--ha, ha, ha!--interlarding the melancholy tale with so many doleful shakes of the head, and more doleful "Ah! who would have thought it! so amiable, so prudent a young lady, as we all thought her, what a monstrous pity! well, I have nothing to charge myself with; I acted the part of a friend, I warned her of the principles of that rake, I told her what would be the consequence; I told her so, I told her so."--Ha, ha, ha!

LEt.i.tIA. Ha, ha, ha! Well, but, Charlotte, you don't tell me what you think of Miss Bloomsbury's match.

CHARLOTTE. Think! why I think it is probable she cried for a plaything, and they have given her a husband. Well, well, well, the puling chit shall not be deprived of her plaything: 'tis only exchanging London dolls for American babies.--Apropos, of babies, have you heard what Mrs.

Affable's high-flying notions of delicacy have come to?

LEt.i.tIA. Who, she that was Miss Lovely?

CHARLOTTE. The same; she married Bob Affable of Schenectady. Don't you remember?

_Enter SERVANT._

SERVANT. Madam, the carriage is ready.

LEt.i.tIA. Shall we go to the stores first, or visiting?

CHARLOTTE. I should think it rather too early to visit, especially Mrs.

Prim; you know she is so particular.

LEt.i.tIA. Well, but what of Mrs. Affable?

CHARLOTTE. Oh, I'll tell you as we go; come, come, let us hasten. I hear Mrs. Catgut has some of the prettiest caps arrived you ever saw. I shall die if I have not the first sight of them.

[_Exeunt._

SCENE II. _A Room in VAN ROUGH'S House._

MARIA [_sitting disconsolate at a table, with books, &c._].

SONG.[5]

I.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day; But glory remains when their lights fade away!

Begin, ye tormentors! your threats are in vain, For the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

II.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow; Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low: Why so slow?--do you wait till I shrink from the pain?

No--the son of Alknomook will never complain.

III.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay; And the scalps which we bore from your nation away: Now the flame rises fast, you exult in my pain; But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

IV.

I go to the land where my father is gone; His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son: Death comes like a friend, he relieves me from pain; And thy son, O Alknomook! has scorn'd to complain.

There is something in this song which ever calls forth my affections.

The manly virtue of courage, that fort.i.tude which steels the heart against the keenest misfortunes, which interweaves the laurel of glory amidst the instruments of torture and death, displays something so n.o.ble, so exalted, that in despite of the prejudices of education, I cannot but admire it, even in a savage. The prepossession which our s.e.x is supposed to entertain for the character of a soldier is, I know, a standing piece of raillery among the wits. A c.o.c.kade, a lapell'd coat, and a feather, they will tell you, are irresistible by a female heart.

Let it be so. Who is it that considers the helpless situation of our s.e.x, that does not see that we each moment stand in need of a protector, and that a brave one too? [Formed of the more delicate materials of nature, endowed only with the softer pa.s.sions, incapable, from our ignorance of the world, to guard against the wiles of mankind, our security for happiness often depends upon their generosity and courage:--Alas! how little of the former do we find!] How inconsistent!

that man should be leagued to destroy that honour upon which solely rests his respect and esteem. Ten thousand temptations allure us, ten thousand pa.s.sions betray us; yet the smallest deviation from the path of rect.i.tude is followed by the contempt and insult of man, and the more remorseless pity of woman; years of penitence and tears cannot wash away the stain, nor a life of virtue obliterate its remembrance. [Reputation is the life of woman; yet courage to protect it is masculine and disgusting; and the only safe asylum a woman of delicacy can find is in the arms of a man of honour. How naturally, then, should we love the brave and the generous; how gratefully should we bless the arm raised for our protection, when nerv'd by virtue and directed by honour!]

Heaven grant that the man with whom I may be connected--may be connected!--Whither has my imagination transported me--whither does it now lead me? Am I not indissolubly engaged, [by every obligation of honour which my own consent and my father's approbation can give,] to a man who can never share my affections, and whom a few days hence it will be criminal for me to disapprove--to disapprove! would to heaven that were all--to despise. For, can the most frivolous manners, actuated by the most depraved heart, meet, or merit, anything but contempt from every woman of delicacy and sentiment?

[_VAN ROUGH without_: Mary!]

Ha! my father's voice--Sir!--

_Enter VAN ROUGH._