University of Virginia Library

ACT II.

SCENE I.

Charlot's house.
Enter Charlot thoughtful; and soon after Maria from the other side.
Mar.
Madam, a stranger in a foreign habit
Desires to see you.

Char.
In a foreign habit—
'Tis strange, and unexpected—But admit him.
[Exit Maria.]
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.
You are rude, sir—Pray forbear, and let me know
What business brought you here, or leave the place.

Y. Wilm.
She knows me not, or will not seem to know me.
[Aside.]
Perfidious maid! Am I forgot or scorned?

Char.
Strange questions from a man I never knew!

Y. Wilm.
With what aversion, and contempt she views me!
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
That else will burst! Canst thou inform me ought?—
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;
While livid lightning spread its sulphurous flames
Thro' all the dark horizon, and disclosed
The raging seas incensed to his destruction;
When the good ship in which he was embark'd,
Unable longer to support the tempest,
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 t'wards his trembling lips,
The neighbouring rocks, that ecchoed to his moan,
Returned no sound articulate, but Charlot.

Char.
The fatal tempest, whose description strikes
The hearer with astonishment, is ceased;
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 must 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.

Char.
If as some teach, the mind intuitive,
Free from the narrow bounds and slavish ties
Of sordid earth, that circumscribe its power
While it remains below, roving at large,
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
From the severest constancy and truth,
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 changed, 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,
The struggling passions barr'd the doors of speech;
But speech enlarg'd, affords me no relief.
This vast profusion of extream 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 satisfied with one, and one is left
To bless my longing eyes—But which, my Charlot!
—And yet forbear to speak, 'till I have thought—

Char.
Nay, hear me, Wilmot!

Y. Wilm.
I perforce must hear thee.
For I might think 'till death, and not determine,
Of two so dear which I could bear to lose.

Char.
Afflict your self 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;
And that in helpless age, to them whose youth
Was crown'd with full prosperity, I fear,
Is worse, much worse, than death.

Y. Wilm.
My joy's compleat!
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 shipwrack'd with me.

Char.
Shipwrackt last night!—O you immortal powers!
What have you suffer'd! How was 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.

SCENE II.

A street in Penryn.
Enter Randal.
Rand.
Poor! poor! and friendless! whither shall I wander,
And to what point direct my views and hopes?—
A menial servant!—No—What shall I live,
Here in this land of freedom, live distinguished,
And marked the willing slave of some proud subject,
And swell his useless train for broken fragments;
The cold remains of his superfluous board?—
I wou'd aspire to something more and better—
Turn thy eyes then to the prolifick ocean,
Whose spacious bosom opens to thy view:
There deathless honour, and unenvied wealth
Have often crowned the brave adventurer's toils.
This is the native uncontested right,
The fair inheritance of ev'ry Briton
That dares put in his claim—My choice is made:
A long farewel to Cornwall, and to England;
If I return—But stay, what stranger's this,
Who, as he views me, seems to mend his pace?

Enter young Wilmot.
Y. Wilm.
Randal!—The dear companion of my Youth!—
Sure lavish fortune means to give me all
I could desire, or ask for this blest day,
And leave me nothing to expect hereafter.

Rand.
Your pardon, sir! I know but one on earth
Cou'd properly salute me by the title
You're pleased to give me, and I would not think,
That you are he—That you are Wilmot.—

Y. Wilm.
Why?

Rand.
Because I cou'd not bear the disappointment
Shou'd I be deceived.

Y. Wilm.
I am pleased to hear it:
Thy friendly fears better express thy thoughts
Than words could do.

Rand.
O! Wilmot! O! my master!
Are you returned?

Y. Wilm.
I have not yet embraced
My parents—I shall see you at my father's.

Rand.
No, I'm discharged from thence—O sir! such ruin—

Y. W.
I've heard it all, and hasten to relieve 'em:
Sure heaven hath blessed me to that very end:
I've wealth enough; nor shalt thou want a part.

Rand.
I have a part already—I am blest
In your success, and share in all your joys.

Y. Wilm.
I doubt it not—But tell me, dost thou think,
My parents not suspecting my return,
That I may visit them, and not be known?

Rand.
'Tis hard for me to judge. You are already
Grown so familiar to me, that I wonder
I knew you not at first: Yet it may be;
For you're much alter'd, and they think you dead.

Y. Wilm.
This is certain; Charlot beheld me long,
And heard my loud reproaches, and complaints
Without rememb'ring she had ever seen me.
My mind at ease grows wanton: I wou'd fain
Refine on happiness. Why may I not
Indulge my curiosity and try
If it be possible by seeing first
My parents as a stranger, to improve
Their pleasure by surprize?

Rand.
It may indeed
Inhance your own, to see from what despair
Your timely coming, and unhoped success
Have given you power to raise them.

Y. Wilm.
I remember,
E'er since we learned together you excelled
In writing fairly, and could imitate
Whatever hand you saw with great exactness.
Of this I'm not so absolute a master.
I therefore beg you'll write, in Charlot's name
And character, a letter to my father;
And recommend me, as a friend of hers,
To his acquaintance.

Rand.
Sir, if you desire it—
And yet—

Y. Wilm.
Nay, no objections—'Twill save time,
Most precious with me now. For the deception,
If doing what my Charlot will approve,
'Cause done for me and with a good intent,
Deserves the name, I'll answer it my self.
If this succeeds, I purpose to defer
Discov'ring who I am 'till Charlot comes,
And thou, and all who love me. Ev'ry friend
Who witnesses my happiness to night,
Will, by partaking, multiply my joys.

Ran.
You grow luxurious in your mental pleasures:
Cou'd I deny you aught, I would not write
This letter. To say true, I ever thought
Your boundless curiosity a weakness.

Y. Wilm.
What canst thou blame in this?

Rand.
Your pardon, Sir!
I only speak in general: I'm ready
T'obey your orders.

Y. Wilm.

[Exeunt.

SCENE II.

A room in 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 purchased,
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 wou'd 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;
A senseless expectation of relief
That has for years deceived 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 used 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.
Returned, 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 each disorder'd, or disfurnished room
Of this once gorgeous house? What discontent,
What anguish and confusion fill the faces
Of its dejected owners?

O. Wilm.
Sir, such welcome
As this poor house affords, you may command.
Our ever friendly neighbour—Once we hoped
T'have called 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 learned 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 o'erflow.
My bosom heaves and swells, as it would burst;
My bowels move, and my heart melts within me.
—They know me not, and yet, I fear, I shall
Defeat my purpose, and betray myself.

[Aside.
O. Wilm.
The lady calls you here her valued friend;
Enough, tho' nothing more should be implied,
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 purposed to inrich
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
From my dead loins, and Agnes' steril womb,
To dry our tears, and dissipate despair.

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

Y. W.
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. W.
This I have heard a thousand times repeated,
And have, believing, been as oft deceived.

Y. Wilm.
Behold in me an instance of its truth,
At Sea twice shipwrack'd, and as oft the prey
Of lawless pyrates; by the Arabs thrice
Surpriz'd, and robb'd on shore; and one reduced
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 caprice; apter to surprize,
Or entertain, than comfort, or instruct.
If you wou'd reason from events, be just,
And count, when you escaped, how many perished;
And draw your inf'rence thence.

Agn.
Alas! who knows,
But we were rendred childless by some storm,
In which you, tho' preserved, 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 their souls, transported with the excess
Of pleasure and surprize, quit their frail mansions,
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 my self. You will excuse
This freedom, and the trouble that I give you:
'Tis long since I have slept, and nature calls.

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

Y. W.
The weight of this is some incumbrance to me.
[Takes 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 shou'd 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.
Y. Wilm.

[Exeunt.