ROYALL TYLER

Royall Tyler, born at Boston in 1757, was a member of an influential New England family, was educated at Harvard, and studied law in the office of John Adams. During the Revolution he was aide-de-camp to General Lincoln. In 1787, while serving in the same capacity during Shays's Rebellion, he made his first trip to New York. There he was so greatly attracted to the theatre that within a few weeks he wrote for it a prose comedy, The Contrast. This was the first American play to succeed on the stage, and the enthusiastic reception accorded it encouraged the author to produce others, of which the best known was The Georgia Spec, written in 1797, and repeatedly performed in Boston. In 1797 he also published The Algerine Captive, a fiction masquerading as a book of memoirs. It is less to be commended for its matter, of which the untravelled Tyler knew little at first hand, than for its lively manner and its admirable prose style. After this, Tyler contributed occasionally to periodicals, his work being mostly light verse and entertaining social squibs. But with him, writing was, after all, only an avocation: he was indifferent to literary fame, and published his pieces anonymously. In his legal career, he was successful: he established himself as a lawyer, in time became a judge, and at last reached the position of Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Vermont. He died at Brattleboro, Vermont, in 1826. Among his contemporaries, Tyler was renowned chiefly as a wit, a versifier, and a jurist; to posterity he is important as the first successful American dramatist.

FROM "THE CONTRAST"

PROLOGUE

Written by a young gentleman of New York, and spoken by Mr. Wignell.

Exult, each patriot heart!—this night is shown
A piece, which we may fairly call our own;
Where the proud titles of "My Lord! Your Grace!"
To humble Mr. and plain Sir give place.

Our Author pictures not from foreign climes
The fashions or the follies of the times;

But has confin'd the subject of his work.
To the gay scenes-the circles of New York.
On native themes his Muse displays her pow'rs;

If ours the faults, the virtues too are ours.

Why should our thoughts to distant countries roam,
When each refinement may be found at home?
Who travels now to ape the rich or great,

To deck an equipage and roll in state;

To court the graces, or to dance with ease,
Or by hypocrisy to strive to please?
Our free-born ancestors such arts despis'd;
Genuine sincerity alone they priz'd;
Their minds, with honest emulation fir'd;
To solid good-not ornament—aspir'd;
Or, if ambition rous'd a bolder flame,

Stern virtue throve, where indolence was shame.

But modern youths, with imitative sense,
Deem taste in dress the proof of excellence;
And spurn the meanness of your homespun arts,
Since homespun habits would obscure their parts;
Whilst all, which aims at splendor and parade,
Must come from Europe, and be ready made.
Strange! we should thus our native worth disclaim,
And check the progress of our rising fame.
Yet one, whilst imitation bears the sway,

Aspires to nobler heights, and points the way.

Be rous'd, my friends! his bold example view;
Let your own Bards be proud to copy you!
Should rigid critics reprobate our play,
At least the patriotic heart will say,
"Glorious our fall, since in a noble cause.
The bold attempt alone demands applause."
Still may the wisdom of the Comic Muse
Exalt your merits, or your faults accuse.
But think not, 'tis her aim to be severe;-
We all are mortals, and as mortals err.
If candor pleases, we are truly blest;
Vice trembles, when compell'd to stand confess'd.
Let not light Censure on your faults offend,
Which aims not to expose them, but amend.
Thus does our Author to your candor trust;
Conscious, the free are generous, as just.

ACT II. SCENE I.

*

LETITIA. By what I can pick out of your flowery description, your brother is no beau.

CHARLOTTE. No, indeed; he makes no pretension to the character. He'd ride, or rather fly, an hundred miles to relieve a distressed object, or to do a gallant act in the service of his country; but should you drop your fan or bouquet in his presence, it is ten to one that some beau at the farther end of the room would have the honor of presenting it to you before he had observed that it fell. I'll tell you one of his antiquated, anti-gallant notions. He said once in my presence, in a room full of company,-would you believe it?-in a large circle of ladies, that the best evidence a gentleman could give a young lady of his respect and affection was to endeavor in a friendly manner to rectify her foibles. I protest I was crimson to the eyes, upon reflecting that I was known as his sister.

LETITIA. Insupportable creature! tell a lady of her faults! if he is so grave, I fear I have no chance of captivating him.

CHARLOTTE. His conversation is like a rich, old-fashioned brocade,-it will stand alone; every sentence is a sentiment. Now may you judge what a time I had with him, in my twelve months' visit to my father. He read me such lectures, out of pure brotherly affection, against the extremes of fashion, dress, flirting, and coquetry, and all the other dear things which he knows I doat upon, that I protest his conversation made me as melancholy as if I had been at church; and heaven knows, though I never prayed to go there but on one occasion, yet I would have exchanged his conversation for a psalm and a sermon. Church is rather melancholy, to be sure; but then I can ogle the beaux, and be regaled with "here endeth the first lesson," but his brotherly here, you would think had no end. You captivate him! Why, my dear, he would as soon fall in love with a box of Italian flowers. There is Maria, now, if she were not engaged, she might do something. Oh! how I should like to see that pair of penserosos together, looking as grave as two sailors' wives of a stormy night, with a flow of sentiment meandering through their conversation like purling streams in modern poetry.

LETITIA. Oh! my dear fanciful—

CHARLOTTE. Hush! I hear some person coming through the entry. [Enter Servant.

SERVANT. Madam, there's a gentleman below who calls himself Colonel Manly; do you choose to be at home?

CHARLOTTE. Show him in. [Exit Servant.] Now for a sober face. [Enter Colonel Manly.

MANLY. My dear Charlotte, I am happy that I once more enfold you within the arms of fraternal affection. I know you are going to ask (amiable impatience!) how our parents do, the venerable pair transmit you their blessings by me. They totter on the verge of a well-spent life, and wish only to see their children settled in the world, to depart in peace.

CHARLOTTE. I am very happy to hear that they are well. [Coolly.] Brother, will you give me leave to introduce you to our uncle's ward, one of my most intimate friends?

MANLY [saluting Letitia.] I ought to regard your friends as my own.

CHARLOTTE. Come, Letitia, do give us a little dash of your vivacity; my brother is so sentimental and so grave, that I protest he'll give us the vapors.

MANLY. Though sentiment and gravity, I know, are banished the polite world, yet I hoped they might find some countenance in the meeting of such near connections as brother and sister.

CHARLOTTE.

Positively, brother, if you go one step further in this strain, you will set me crying, and that, you know, would spoil my eyes; and then I should never get the husband which our good papa and mamma have so kindly wished me-never be established in the world.

MANLY. Forgive me, my sister, I am no enemy to mirth; I love your sprightliness; and I hope it will one day enliven the hours of some worthy man; but when I mention the respectable authors of my existence, the cherishers and protectors of my helpless infancy, whose hearts glow with such fondness and attachment that they would willingly lay down their lives for my welfare, you will excuse me if I am so unfashionable as to speak of them with some degree of respect and reverence.

CHARLOTTE. Well, well, brother; if you won't be gay, we'll not differ; I will be as grave as you wish. [Affects gravity.] And so, brother, you have come to the city to exchange some of your commutation notes for a little pleasure?

MANLY. Indeed, you are mistaken; my errand is not of amusement, but business; and as I neither drink nor game, my expenses will be so trivial, I shall have no occasion to sell my notes.

CHARLOTTE. Then you won't have occasion to do a very good thing. Why, here was the Vermont General—he came down some time since, sold all his musty notes at one stroke, and then laid the cash out in trinkets for his dear Fanny. I want a dozen pretty things myself; have you got the notes with you?

MANLY. I shall be ever willing to contribute, as far as it is in my power, to adorn or in any way to please my sister; yet I hope I shall never be obliged for this to sell my notes. I may be romantic, but I preserve them as a sacred deposit.