University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

The town and port of Penryn.
Enter Young Wilmot and Eustace in Indian habits.
Y. Wilm.
Welcome, my friend! to Penryn: Here we're safe.

Eust.
Then we're deliver'd twice; first from the sea,
And then from savage men, who, more remorseless,
Prey on shipwreck'd wretches, and spoil and murder those
Whom fatal tempests and devouring waves,
In all their fury, spar'd.

Y. Wilm.
It is a scandal,
Tho' malice must acquit the better sort,
The rude unpolisht people here in Cornwall
Have long laid under, and with too much justice:
Cou'd our superiors find some happy means
To mend it, they would gain immortal honour.
For 'tis an evil grown almost inv'terate,
And asks a bold and skilful hand to cure.

Eust.
Your treasure's safe, I hope.

Y. Wilm.
'Tis here, thank heaven!
Being in jewels, when I saw our danger,
I hid it in my bosom.

Eust.
I observed you,
And wonder how you could command your thoughts,
In such a time of terror and confusion.

Y. Wilm.
My thoughts were then at home—O England! England!
Thou seat of plenty, liberty and health,
With transport I behold thy verdant fields,
Thy lofty mountains rich with useful ore,
Thy numerous herds, thy flocks, and winding streams:
After a long and tedious absence, Eustace!
With what delight we breath our native air,
And tread the genial soil that bore us first.
'Tis said, the world is ev'ry wise man's country;
Yet after having view'd its various nations,
I'm weak enough still to prefer my own
To all I've seen beside—You smile, my friend!
And think, perhaps, 'tis instinct more than reason:
Why be it so. Instinct preceded reason
In the wisest of us all, and may sometimes
Be much the better guide. But be it either;
I must confess, that even death itself
Appeared to me with twice its native horrors,
When apprehended in a foreign land.
Death is, no doubt, in ev'ry place the same;
Yet observation must convince us, most men,
Who have it in their power, chuse to expire
Where they first drew their breath.

Eust.
Believe me, Wilmot!
Your grave reflections were not what I smil'd at;
I own their truth. That we're return'd to England
Affords me all the pleasure you can feel
Merely on that account: Yet I must think
A warmer passion gives you all this transport.
You have not wander'd, anxious and impatient,
From clime to clime, and compast sea and land
To purchase wealth, only to spend your days
In idle pomp, and luxury at home:
I know thee better: Thou art brave and wise,
And must have nobler aims.

Y. Wilm.
O Eustace! Eustace!
Thou knowest, for I've confest to thee, I love;
But having never seen the charming maid,
Thou canst not know the fierceness of my flame.
My hopes and fears, like the tempestuous seas
That we have past, now mount me to the skies,
Now hurl me down from that stupendous height,
And drive me to the center. Did you know
How much depends on this important hour,
You wou'd not be surprized to see me thus.
The sinking fortune of our ancient house,
Which time and various accidents had wasted,
Compelled me young to leave my native country,
My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlot;
Who ruled, and must for ever rule my sate.
How I've improved, by care and honest commerce,
My little stock, you are in part a witness.
'Tis now seven tedious years, since I set forth;
And as th'uncertain course of my affairs
Bore me from place to place, I quickly lost
The means of corresponding with my friends.
—O! shou'd my Charlot! doubtful of my truth,
Or in despair ever to see me more,
Have given herself to some more happy lover!—
Distraction's in the thought!—Or shou'd my parents,
Grieved for my absence and opprest with want,
Have sunk beneath their burden, and expired,
While I too late was flying to relieve them;
The end of all my long and weary travels,
The hope, that made success itself a blessing,
Being defeated and for ever lost;
What were the riches of the world to me?

Eust.
The wretch who fears all that is possible,
Must suffer more than he who feels the worst
A man can feel, who lives exempt from fear.
A woman may be false, and friends are mortal;
And yet your aged parents may be living,
And your fair mistress constant.

Y. Wilm.
True, they may;
I doubt, but I despair not—No, my friend!
My hopes are strong and lively as my fears,
And give me such a prospect of my happiness,
As nothing but fruition can exceed:
They tell me, Charlot is as true as fair,
As good as wise, as passionate as chaste;
That she with fierce impatience, like my own,
Laments our long and painful separation;
That we shall meet, never to part again;
That I shall see my parents, kiss the tears
From their pale hollow cheeks, chear their sad hearts,
And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want,
For ever from their board; crown all their days
To come with peace, with pleasure, and abundance;
Receive their fond embraces and their blessings,
And be a blessing to 'em.

Eust.
'Tis our weakness:—
Blind to events, we reason in the dark,
And fondly apprehend what none e'er found,
Or ever shall, pleasure and pain unmixt;
And flatter, and torment ourselves, by turns,
With what shall never be.

Y. Wilm.
I'll go this instant
To seek my Charlot, and explore my fate.

Eust.
What in that foreign habit!

Y. Wilm.
That's a trifle,
Not worth my thoughts.

Eust.
The hardships you've endured,
And your long stay beneath the burning zone,
Where one eternal sultry summer reigns,
Have marr'd the native hue of your complexion:
Methinks you look more like a sun-burnt Indian,
Than a Briton.

Y. Wilm.
Well 'tis no matter, Eustace!
I hope my mind's not alter'd for the worse;
And for my outside—But inform me, friend!
When I may hope to see you.

Eust.
When you please:
You'll find me at the inn.

Y. Wilm.
When I have learnt my doom, expect me there.
'Till then, farewel!

Eust.
Farewel! Success attend you!
[Ex. Eustace.

Y. Wilm.