University of Virginia Library

SCENE III.

Old Wilmot's House.
Old Wilmot and Agnes.
O. Wilm.
Here, take this Seneca: this haughty pedant,
Who governing the master of mankind,
And awing power imperial, prates of—patience;
And praises poverty—possess'd of millions:
—Sell him, and buy us bread. The scantiest meal
The vilest copy of his book e'er purchas'd,
Will give us more relief in this distress,
Than all his boasted precepts.—Nay, no tears;
Keep them to move compassion when you beg.

Agn.
My heart may break, but never stoop to that.

O. Wilm.
Nor would I live to see it—But dispatch.
[Exit Agnes.
Where must I charge this length of misery,
That gathers force each moment as it rolls,
And must at last o'erwhelm me, but on hope:
Vain, flattering, delusive, groundless hope,
That has for years deceiv'd me?—Had I thought
As I do now, as wise men ever think,
When first this hell of poverty o'ertook me,
That power to die implies a right to do it,
And shou'd be us'd when life becomes a pain,
What plagues had I prevented!—True, my wife
Is still a slave to prejudice and fear—
I would not leave my better part, the dear
[Weeps.
Faithful companion of my happier days,
To bear the weight of age and want alone.
—I'll try once more—

Enter Agnes, and after her young Wilmot.
O. Wilm.
Return'd, my life! so soon!—

Agn.
The unexpected coming of this stranger
Prevents my going yet.

Y. Wilm.
You're, I presume,
The gentleman to whom this is directed.
[Gives a letter.
What wild neglect, the token of despair,
What indigence, what misery appears
In this once happy house! What discontent,
What anguish and confusion fill the faces
Of its dejected owners!

O. Wilm.
[Having read the letter.]
—Sir, such welcome
As this poor house affords, you may command.
Our ever friendly neighbour—Once we hop'd
T'have call'd fair Charlot by a dearer name—
But we have done with hope—I pray excuse
This incoherence—We had once a son.

[Weeps.
Agn.
That you are come from that dear virtuous maid,
Revives in us the mem'ry of a loss,
Which tho' long since, we have not learn'd to bear.

Y. Wilm.
The joy to see them, and the bitter pain
It is to see them thus, touches my soul
With tenderness and grief, that will overflow.
—They know me not, and yet I shall, I fear,
Defeat my purpose, and betray myself.

[Aside.
O. Wilm.
The lady calls you here her valu'd friend;
Enough, tho' nothing more shou'd be imply'd,
To recommend you to our best esteem,
—A worthless acquisition! May she find
Some means that better may express her kindness!
But she, perhaps, hath purpos'd to enrich
You with herself, and end her fruitless sorrow
For one whom death alone can justify
For leaving her so long. If it be so,
May you repair his loss, and be to Charlot
A second, happier Wilmot! Partial nature,
Who only favours youth; as feeble age
Were not her offspring or below her care;
Has seal'd our doom: No second hope shall spring
To dry our tears, and dissipate despair.

Agn.
The last and most abandon'd of our kind,
By heaven and earth neglected or despis'd,
The loathsome grave, that robb'd us of our son
And all our joys in him, must be our refuge.

Y. Wilm.
Let ghosts unpardon'd, or devoted fiends,
Fear without hope, and wail in such sad strains;
But grace defend the living from despair!
The darkest hours precede the rising sun,
And mercy may appear, when least expected.

O. Wilm.
This I have heard a thousand times repeated,
And have, believing, been as oft deceiv'd.

Y. Wilm.
Behold in me an instance of its truth.
At sea twice shipwreck'd, and as oft the prey
Of lawless pirates; by the Arabs thrice
Surpriz'd, and robb'd on shore; and once reduc'd
To worse than these, the sum of all distress
That the most wretched feel on this side hell,
Ev'n slavery itself: Yet here I stand,
Except one trouble that will quickly end,
The happiest of mankind.

O. Wilm.
A rare example
Of fortune's changes; apter to surprise
Or entertain, than comfort or instruct.
If you would reason from events, be just,
And count, when you escaped, how many perish'd;
And draw your inf'rence thence.

Agn.
Alas! who knows,
But we were rendered childless by some storm,
In which you, tho' preserv'd, might bear a part?

Y. Wilm.
How has my curiosity betray'd me
Into superfluous pain! I faint with fondness;
And shall, if I stay longer, rush upon 'em,
Proclaim myself their son, kiss and embrace 'em
Till, with the excess of pleasure and surprize,
Their souls transported, their frail mansions quit,
And leave 'em breathless in my longing arms.
By circumstances then and slow degrees,
They must be let into a happiness
Too great for them to bear at once, and live:
That Charlot will perform. I need not feign
To ask an hour for rest. (Aside.)
Sir, I intreat
The favour to retire, where for a while
I may repose myself. You will excuse
This freedom, and the trouble that I give you:
'Tis long since I have slept, and nature calls.

O. Wilmot.
I pray no more: Believe we're only troubled,
That you shou'd think any excuse were needful.

Y. Wilmot.
The weight of this to me is some incumbrance,
[Taks a casket out of his bosom, and gives it to his mother.]
And its contents of value: If you please
To take the charge of it 'till I awake,
I shall not rest the worse. If I should sleep
'Till I am ask'd for, as perhaps I may,
I beg that you wou'd wake me.

Agn.
Doubt it not:
Distracted as I am with various woes,
I shall remember that.

[Exit, with Old Wilmot.
Y. Wilm.
Merciless grief!
What ravage has it made! how has it chang'd
Her lovely form and mind! I feel her anguish,
And dread I know not what from her despair.
My father too—O grant 'em patience, Heaven!
A little longer, a few short hours more,
And all their cares, and mine, shall end for ever.

[Exeunt.