University of Virginia Library

ACT V.

SCENE I.

Bellmour, alone pensive.
Bell.
Why shou'd I pause! Nothing can be a Crime
Which puts a stop to Evil. A thousand Men
May have been poor as I,—and yet liv'd happy!
Miseries, we make our selves, are born with Ease;
But he, who beggars his Posterity,
Begets a Race, to curse him—Profuse in Ills
He, propagating Ruin, with his Name,
Entails Descent of Anguish!—Every Scorn,
Which wrings the Soul of any future Bellmour,
Whom Want shall pinch the Bones of, Ages hence,
Will mark, with Shame, my unforgotten Grave,
And reach my guilty Soul, where'er it wanders.
—If to give Misery to those, to whom
We once gave Life, is an inhuman Crime,
How can it be a Sin, to take Life back,
And put an End to Misery? To live,
Is to be rack'd, if Life must still be poor:
For Poverty gives up the Wise Man's Worth,
To the Contempt of tastless Ignorance.
O!—Cou'd I feel no Misery, but my own!
How easy were it for this Sword, to free me,
From all that Anguish, which embitters Life?
But, when the Grave has given my Sorrows Rest,
Where shall my miserable Wife find Comfort?
Unfriended, and alone, in Want's bleak Storm,
Not all the Angelic Virtues of her Mind,
Will shield her, from the unpitying World's Derision.
Can it be kind to leave her so expos'd,
And, while I sleep in Death, not dream of her?
Better a thousand Times, to lead her with me,
Thro' the dark Doubtfulness of deep Futurity!
Whate'er uncertain Fate attends, hereafter,
It can but be the worst of what is bad,
And that's our State, already.—It shall be done!
But how? That asks some Thought—Death, in it self,
Comes soft, and sweetly, as an Infant's Sleep,
When Nature unalarm'd, expects it not.
From those dear, destin'd Breasts, the pointed Steel,
Must draw no Blood, to stain my blushing Hand;
Lest my Soul start, and that seem Cruelty,
Which I wou'd fain think Pity.—Hark! the Time presses me.
(Loud knocking without.
What if I use the unwounding Aid of Poison?
I have at hand that Sovereign Remedy,
For all Diseases, Want and Woe can plague with.
Mix'd with some unfear'd Draught 'twill gently murder:
Bear off Death's painful Edge, and, in sweet Slumber
Swim soft, and shadowy, o'er the misty Eye-ball.

SCENE II.

Bellmour, Louisa.
Lou.
Will you forgive me, if officious Love,
That anxious Pain I feel, till you are safe,
Obtrudes my Zeal, perhaps a few short Moments,
Before you wou'd have wish'd to be disturb'd?
Yon Villains grow impatient for Admission,
And scarce your Servants guard the Gate against them.
Storms of bold Oaths, and horrible Reproaches,
Mix'd with loud Thunderings, and the Threats of Law,
Make my Heart tremble, and have forc'd me hither,
Forc'd me to urge you, by all the Ties of Love,
Of Interest, Honour, Hope, and future Happiness,
To fly this dangerous Roof, and save us All.

Bell.
I thank thy gentle Care—It is resolv'd.
I have bethought me of a Means, to evade
The Malice of my Fortune—'Twill be a Journey,
A little longer, than thy Love could wish it;
Yet not so far, but we shall meet again.

Lou.
Oh! be the Distance wide, as Pole from Pole,
Let me but follow thee, and I am bless'd.

Bell.
It shall be so Louisa.

Lou.
A thousand Angels
Spread their Wings o'er thee, and protect thy Steps.
Now thou art kind!—But the dear little ones,

Bell.
All! all! shall go!

Lou.
Haste then,
Let us be gone—my bounding Heart leaps joyful,
And I shall smile again—But ah me! Bellmour!
They are so young! so tender! it is impossible,
They should travel with us?

Bell.
Moving Innocence!
My strong Heart bleeds within me at her Accents!
(Aside.
A few short Steps will lodge us in a Place,
(To her.
Of Rest and Safety—we shall have Leisure there,
To weigh our future Hopes, and seek fit Means,
To our wish'd End.—Courtney will soon return;
Said he not so?

Lou.
He did, and we'll inform him
Of our new Purpose, and begin our Flight.
I'll make Provision, such as best befits
Our Haste, and our Distresses.

(She is going.
Bell.
Stay, Louisa!
Those boasted Cordials, the French Marquis sent me,
Gave I to thee, or no?

Lou.
You spoke of such—
But still forgot to give 'em me—and now,
They're not worth Memory—

Bell.
Nay, now, most useful!
Their Virtue is reported sovereign,
Against the Body's Toil, or Mind's Disturbance.

SCENE. III.

Bellmour, Louisa, 3 Children.
Lou.
Courtney stays long!

*Bell.
Unhappy Boys! my Sons,
Be happier than your Father. O were I
Happy as you are, in not knowing Ill!
A Life of Ignorance is far the sweetest;
To know, is to know Pain: A thoughtless Life,
If it has less of Joy, has less of Grief.
—But I delay—'Tis the Physician's Part,
Not to abound in Words, but work the Cure.

SCENE IV.

Louisa, 3 Children.
Lou.
I fear some fatal Project fills his Mind.
Oh! how I tremble with the Apprehension!
—My little ones! say, are you now prepar'd
To stretch your tender Limbs? to beg your Bread
From House to House? to lie on the cold Earth?
Endure the Storms? and bear reproachful Tongues?

Eld. Boy.
Will not our Father then be with us?

Lou.
Yes.

Eld. Boy.
Then there's no Cause to fear. He will take care
We shall not want good Lodging and Provision.

Lou.
Alas! thou little know'st Adversity.
Anon, I will be with you.

SCENE V.

Three Children, Courtney.
Eld. Boy.
Our good Uncle!

Court.
Where is your Father?

Eld. Boy.
In his Gallery Closet.

Court.
Strange that a Man shou'd linger thus in Danger.
I'll trace the Gallery round, and urge Escape.
Few Minutes more may spread a Crowd of Eyes
On ev'ry Side, and fatally prevent him.

SCENE. VI.

Bellmour.
Bell.
My baleful Hand, has mix'd the deadly Draught,
To give it as a Cordial—Give it! whom?
Start from thy burning Orb, thou conscious Sun,
And chill thy self to Frost at my black Purpose.
Am I a Parent? a Protector? Lover?
Or has this Devil, that heaves about my Heart,
Transform'd me to a Fiend? He has! He has!
Chain him, some Angel, Millions of Fathoms down;
Heap him with Mountains, least, he rise again,
And in a Husband's and a Father's Breast,
Brew horrid Murders!—I am my self, once more—
Now let cool Reason's undistracted Search
Answer my bleeding Soul, which dreadful Ill
May best be born by Nature—To leave our Friends,
To grinding Sorrow, Poverty, and Scorn,
With Sense of his not feeling any Pain,
Who gave them all;—or, to quit Life together,
And, wanting Pow'r to bless, make it some Merit,
Nor to leave Curses to surviving Innocence!
I'm mad again—Reason her self betrays me,
And whispers, that the first is Cruelty,
And Murder grows a Mercy!—

SCENE VII.

Bellmour, Louisa, 3 Children.
Lou.
Found you the Cordial?
Your little Wanderers are ready dress'd
To act the Pilgrim with us; perhaps 'twill aid
Their fainting Spirits, yet untried in Hardships.

Bell.
I cannot move—my Feet, bound down by Nature,
Rebel against my Heart—Oh! If one Moment,
One short Thought longer, she oppress me, thus,
With melting, innocent, Talk—I shall grow soft,
Yield her to Want, and live to be a Beggar.

(Aside.
Lou.
Still you are doubtful—

Bell.
No—no—I'm fix'd—Oh! Nature!
(Aside.
I left my Closet open,—on a Table,
In that Gold Cup, which was my Father's Present,
When thy first Favourite Boy's last Birth-Day came,
Thou'lt find the fittest Cordial—I try'd 'em all,
And what seem'd properest, for the Boys and thee,
Waits, in that Cup, thy tasting.—

Lou.
Come, my Boys—
Let's taste this boasted Cordial—

SCENE VIII.

Bellmour.
Bell.
Be firm, my Heart!
Stop thy big Beat! Thaw, thaw, this curdling Blood,
That, thro' my Icy Veins, creeps cold as Death,
And freezes in its Passage.—Where is Louisa?
But a few Moments, and she is no more!
Now! now! the unsuspecting Innocent
Lifts that last Cup—Now, now, she tastes a Draught,
That snatches her, for ever, from my Sight,
And robs me of her Comfort! Never more,
Shall her sweet Voice enchant me! Never more,
Shall her soft Eyes look fondly into mine,
And shine with swimming Languor—Never, never,
Will her unwearied Wit beguile my Cares,
Or hush me more to Peace, when Passion shakes me!
Open, engulph me, and conceal my Shame
Befriending Earth!—Or, from thy yawning Depth,
Stream up a Night of Gloom, to blot out Memory,
And darken o'er Reflection!—I feel my Blood
Cool, and grow thick, as melted Lead flows heavy,
And hardens in its Motion—A little longer,
And I, who have a Heart, already Marble,
Shall petrifie throughout, and be a Statue!

Lou.
My Life! my Bellmour!

(Within.
Bell.
Ha! 'tis her Voice that calls me—
It sounded not reproachful.

Lou.
Look, look, my Bellmour!
(Within.
These little Strugglers will not quit the Cordial,
But sip it to the Bottom—

Bell.
Torturing Horror—

SCENE IX.

Bellmour, Louisa with an empty Cup.
Lou.
How cou'd you be so rigid, not to come,
When I twice call'd you? 'Twou'd have been a Scene
Of Pleasure, to observe with how much Eagerness,
The little Wranglers quarrel'd for the Cup,
Which having drank, myself, I brought to them.
I bid 'em taste it only—and told the Pratlers,
It was their Father's Present: But that Word
Transported them, to lift their pretty Hands,
And brought a War about me—

Bell.
Furies tear me—

Lou.
Did you not give Permission they should taste it?
E'er they began the Journey!

Bell.
Alas! Louisa!
A long, long Journey, is indeed! begun,
But endless as Eternity—Thy self,
And those dear Infants—are poyson'd by that Cordial.

Lou.
Poison'd! by thee? Thou say'st it but to try me!
If 'twere thy Wish that I shou'd die, thy Love,—
At least, thy Pity, wou'd have given some Warning.
Death is a dreadful Journey, and requires
Much Length of Preparation.—

Bell.
By those Charms,
Which I no more must gaze on, and be bless'd,
Thou can'st not live an Hour—A last, long Sleep
Will steal, with cold Advances, o'er thy Beauties,
And those two beamy Suns, which sparkle on me,
Anon, shall set in Death—Even while we talk,
The eternal Shade will rise, at once, between us,
And sever us for ever.

Lou.
Dreadful Contraction!
Of that short Span, which at its longest Stretch,
Was much too narrow, to allow me Scope,
To speak, or look, or think, my Love, for thee:
What shall I say?—A thousand tender Thoughts,
Struggle, at once, for Vent.—I cannot speak—
Death is too hasty—I have yet, undone,
Unspoke, unthought, a thousand weighty Things!
O! Heaven! my Little ones!—Let me fly to them!
Have I so short a Time, to gaze upon them?
Yet ne'er must see 'em more!—I cannot leave thee.
What shall I do?—O bring my Children hither;
Fly with 'em to my Arms!—Dear, dying Innocents!
Oh! Bellmour! Bellmour! Why has this been done?

Bell.
That we might baffle Woe, and die together—
And leave no Beggars of our Race behind us.
See! my Louisa! I have a faithful Guide.
(Drawing a Dagger
That will not let me lose thee—

(Stabs himself.
Lou.
Oh! cruel Bellmour!
What hast thou done?—Now, I am kill'd indeed!
Help, help,—Oh! Uncle! what a dreadful Scene
Are you return'd to?

SCENE X.

Bellmour, Courtney, Louisa,
Court.
I have heard it all—
And had not this conceal'd, undream'd of, Dagger,
Prevented my near Vigilance, had sav'd
Unhappy Bellmour.—

Bell.
Not unhappy, now—
We slide, united, from the Woes of Life,
And Want's too slow to reach us.—

Court.
Mistaken Man!
The Hand of Heav'n, howe'er, from mortal Eyes,
Obscur'd in Clouds, still points direct at Justice!
Not thy three Children, nor thy guiltless Wife,
But thou, alone, art fall'n! whose single Crime
Drew down a single Vengeance!

Lou.
Alas! what mean you?—

Bel.
Thou little know'st the deadly Means I us'd,
If thou conceiv'st me frustrated—

Court.

Bell.
Angels surround thee, with unceasing Vigilance,
And, for this Friendship, ward off every Evil.
Oh! I have err'd!—

Lou.

Bell.
*My Guilt is dreadful!
Beneath its Burden, let me crawl from Life.
(Falling gently down.
Where are my Children.

SCENE XI.

Bellmour, Courtney, Louisa, 3 Children.

Come, my Boys—come near me—
And take your Father's last, and sad Farewel.
Oh! I have wrong'd you! left you Heirs of Misery!
I've liv'd too long—O stubborn Heart-strings break.
I am to blame alone! O slow-pac'd Justice.

SCENE XII.

Bellmour, Woodly, Courtney, Louisa, 3 Children.
Wood.
Amazement strike me! what do I behold?
My Friend! my Bellmour! in the Pangs of Death—
O cruel Spectacle! amazing Sight!

Bell.
O Woodly! great, good Man! let me embrace thee,
And, in thy Arms, breathe out this blacken'd Soul.

Wood.
I came, transported with surprizing News;
But, ah! how fleeting are the Joys of Life?—
By a young Kinsman, landed from a Ship,
That left her Consort scarce a Day behind,
But now, I learnt, that your long absent Brother,
Whom all his Friends thought many Years was dead,
Returning rich, from the remotest East,
Dy'd but in Sight of Land—and has bequeath'd
His whole heap'd Wealth to Bellmour—

Bell.
Eternal Pleasures flow from sacred Friendship.
Heav'n! I adore thee—thou art too indulgent!
Wou'd I had trusted thy unbounded Goodness!
Thou best can'st clear thy mystick Dispensations,
And make Confusion end, in beauteous Order!
Punish'd with this Severity of Justice,
I feel, and own, thy Mercy—Now, live, Louisa!
Live, and be happy—best of Friends, farewel—
See to my Boys—and oh!—forget your Bellmour.

(Dies.
Lou.
Oh!

Wood.
Alas! she faints—this sudden Turn of Terror,
Rushes too strong to be withstood by Nature.
Let's call her Women to her Aid, and watch her
Till Time, and Thought, by slow Degrees, bring Comfort.

Court.
From this sad Story, let Observers know,
That early Riot ends, in lasting Woe.
Mean, and ignoble Pleasures break the Mind,
Unnerve the Judgment, and the Reason blind,
Till Heav'n o'ertakes us, with some dreadful Fate.
And the touch'd Soul grows sensible, too late,

(Curtain drops.