University of Virginia Library

SCENE I.

Charlot's House.
Enter Charlot thoughtful; and soon after a Servant from the other side.
Serv.
Madam, a stranger in a foreign habit desires to see you.

Char.
In a foreign habit!—
'Tis strange, and unexpected. But admit him.
[Exit Servant.
Who can this stranger be! I know no foreigner—
Enter Young Wilmot.
Nor any man like this.

Y. Wilm.
Ten thousand joys!

[Going to embrace her.
Char.
Sir, you are too bold—Forbear, and let me know
What business brought you here, or leave the place.

Y. Wilm.
Perfidious maid! Am I forgot, or scorn'd?

Char.
Can I forget a man I never knew!

Y. Wilm.
My fears are true; some other has her heart:
She's lost: My fatal absence has undone me.
[Aside.
O! cou'd thy Wilmot have forgot thee, Charlot!

Char.
Ha! Wilmot! say! what do your words import?
O gentle stranger! ease my swelling heart;
What dost thou know of Wilmot?

Y. Wilm.
This I know:
When all the winds of heaven seem'd to conspire
Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals
Of rattling thunder deafen'd ev'ry ear,
And drown'd th' affrighten'd mariners loud cries;
When livid lightning spread its sulphurous flames
Thro' all the dark horizon, and disclos'd
The raging seas incens'd to his destruction;
When the good ship in which he was embark'd,
Broke, and o'erwhelm'd by the impetuous surge,
Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep,
And left him struggling with the warring waves;
In that dread moment, in the jaws of death,
When his strength fail'd, and ev'ry hope forsook him,
And his last breath press'd towards his trembling lips,
The neighbouring rocks, that echo'd to his moan,
Return'd no sound articulate but—Charlot.

Char.
The fatal tempest, whose description strikes
The hearer with astonishment, is ceas'd;
And Wilmot is at rest. The fiercer storm
Of swelling passions that o'erwhelms the soul,
And rages worse than the mad foaming seas
In which he perish'd, ne'er shall vex him more.

Y. Wilm.
Thou seem'st to think he's dead; enjoy that thought;
Persuade yourself that what you wish is true,
And triumph in your falshood. Yes, he's dead,
You were his fate. The cruel winds and waves,
That cast him pale and breathless on the shore,
Spared him for greater woes—to know, his Charlot,
Forgetting all her vows to him and heaven,
Had cast him from her thoughts—Then, then he died;
But never can have rest. Ev'n now he wanders,
A sad, repining, discontented ghost,
The unsubstantial shadow of himself,
And pours his plaintive groans in thy deaf ears,
And stalks, unseen, before thee.

Char.
'Tis enough:
Detested falshood now has done its worst.
And art thou dead? And wou'd'st thou die, my Wilmot!
For one thou thought'st unjust? Thou soul of truth!
What must be done? Which way shall I express
Unutterable woe? Or how convince
Thy dear departed spirit of the love,
Th' eternal love, and never-failing faith
Of thy much injur'd, lost, despairing Charlot?

Y. Wilm.
Be still, my flutt'ring heart; hope not too soon!
Perhaps I dream, and this is all illusion.

[Aside.
Char.
If, as some teach, the spirit after death,
Free from the bounds and ties of sordid earth,
Can trace us to our most concealed retreat,
See all we act, and read our very thoughts;
To thee, O Wilmot! kneeling I appeal.
If e'er I swerv'd in action, word, or thought,
Or ever wish'd to taste a joy on earth
That center'd not in thee, since last we parted;
May we ne'er meet again, but thy loud wrongs
So close the ear of mercy to my cries,
That I may never see those bright abodes
Where truth and virtue only have admission,
And thou inhabit'st now!

Y. Wilm.
Assist me, heaven!
Preserve my reason, memory, and sense!
O moderate my fierce tumultuous joys,
Or their excess will drive me to distraction.
O Charlot! Charlot! lovely, virtuous maid!
Can thy firm mind, in spite of time and absence,
Remain unshaken, and support its truth;
And yet thy frailer memory retain
No image, no idea of thy lover?
Why dost thou gaze so wildly? Look on me;
Turn thy dear eyes this way; observe me well.
Have scorching climates, time, and this strange habit
So chang'd and so disguised thy faithful Wilmot,
That nothing in my voice, my face, or mien,
Remains to tell my Charlot I am he?
[After viewing him some time, she approaches weeping, and gives him her hand; and then turning towards him, sinks upon his bosom.]
Why dost thou weep? Why dost thou tremble thus?
Why doth thy panting heart and cautious touch
Speak thee but half convinc'd? Whence are thy fears?
Why art thou silent? Canst thou doubt me still?

Char.
No, Wilmot! no; I'm blind with too much light:
O'ercome with wonder, and opprest with joy.
This vast profusion of extreme delight,
Rising at once, and bursting from despair,
Defies the aid of words, and mocks description.
But for one sorrow, one sad scene of anguish,
That checks the swelling torrent of my joys,
I could not bear the transport.

Y. Wilm.
Let me know it:
Give me my portion of thy sorrow, Charlot!
Let me partake thy grief, or bear it for thee.

Char.
Alas! my Wilmot! these sad tears are thine,
They flow for thy misfortunes. I am pierced
With all the agonies of strong compassion,
With all the bitter anguish you must feel,
When you shall hear your parents—

Y. Wilm.
Are no more.

Char.
You apprehend me wrong.

Y. Wilm.
Perhaps I do,
Perhaps you mean to say, the greedy grave
Was satisfy'd with one, and one is left
To bless my longing eyes. But which, my Charlot?

Char.
Afflict yourself no more with groundless fears:
Your parents both are living. Their distress,
The poverty to which they are reduced,
In spight of my weak aid, was what I mourned:
That poverty in age, to them whose youth
Was crown'd with full prosperity, I fear,
Is worse, much worse, than death.

Y. Wilm.
My joy's complete!
My parents living, and possess'd of thee!—
From this blest hour, the happiest of my life,
I'll date my rest. My anxious hopes and fears,
My weary travels, and my dangers past,
Are now rewarded all: Now I rejoice
In my success, and count my riches gain.
For know, my soul's best treasure! I have wealth
Enough to glut ev'n Avarice itself:
No more shall cruel want, or proud contempt,
Oppress the sinking spirits, or insult
The hoary heads of those who gave me being.

Char.
'Tis now, O riches, I conceive your worth:
You are not base, nor can you be superfluous,
But when misplac'd in base and sordid hands.
Fly, fly, my Wilmot! leave thy happy Charlot!
Thy filial piety, the sighs and tears
Of thy lamenting parents, call thee hence.

Y. Wilm.
I have a friend, the partner of my voyage,
Who, in the storm last night, was shipwreck'd with me.

Char.
Shipwreck'd last night!—O you immortal powers!
What have you suffer'd! How were you preserv'd!

Y. Wilm.
Let that, and all my other strange escapes
And perilous adventures, be the theme
Of many a happy winter night to come.
My present purpose was t'intreat my angel,
To know this friend, this other better Wilmot,
And come with him this evening to my father's:
I'll send him to thee.

Char.
I consent with pleasure.

Y. Wilm.
Heavens! what a night! How shall I bear my joy!
My parents, yours, my friend's, all will be mine.
If such the early hopes, the vernal bloom,
The distant prospect of my future bliss,
Then what the ruddy autumn! What the fruit,
The full possession of thy Heavenly charms!

[Exeunt severally.