University of Virginia Library

ACT III.

SCENE I.

The scene continued.
Enter Agnes alone, with the casket in her hand.
Who shou'd this stranger be?—And then this casket—
He says it is of value, and yet trusts it,
As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand—
His confidence amazes me—Perhaps
It is not what he says—I'm strongly tempted
To open it, and see—No, let it rest.
Why should my curiosity excite me,
To search and pry into th'affairs of others;
Who have t'imploy my thoughts, so many cares
And sorrows of my own?—With how much ease
The spring gives way?—Surprizing! most prodigious!—
My eyes are dazzled, and my ravished heart
Leaps at the glorious sight—How bright's the lustre,
How immense the worth of these fair jewels?
Ay, such a treasure wou'd expel for ever
Base poverty, and all its abject train;
The mean devices we're reduced to use
To keep out famine, and preserve our lives
From day to day; the cold neglect of friends;
The galling scorn, or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world—Possess'd of these,
Plenty, content, and power might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head
At our approach, and once more bend before us.
—A pleasing dream!—'Tis past; and now I wake
More wretched by the happiness I've lost.
For sure it was a happiness to think,
Tho' but a moment, such a treasure mine.
Nay, it was more than thought—I saw and touched
The bright temptation, and I see it yet—
'Tis here—'tis mine—I have it in possession—
—Must I resign it? Must I give it back?
Am I in love with misery and want?—
To rob my self, and court so vast a loss?—
—Retain it then—But how?—There is a way—
Why sinks my heart? Why does my blood run cold?
Why am I thrill'd with horror?—'Tis not choice,
But dire necessity suggests the thought.

Enter old Wilmot.
O. Wilm.
The mind contented, with how little pains
The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose,
And die to gain new life? He's fallen asleep
Already—Happy man!—What dost thou think,
My Agnes, of our unexpected guest?
He seems to me a youth of great humanity:
Just e're he closed his eyes, that swam in tears,
He wrung my hand, and pressed it to his lips;
And with a look, that pierced me to the soul,
Begg'd me to comfort thee: And—Dost thou hear me?—
What art thou gazing on?—Fie, 'tis not well—
This casket was deliver'd to you closed:
Why have you open'd it? Shou'd this be known,
How mean must we appear?

Agn.
And who shall know it?

O. W.
There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity
Due to our selves; which, spite of our misfortunes,
May be maintain'd, and cherish'd to the last.
To live without reproach, and without leave
To quit the world, shews sovereign contempt,
And noble scorn of its relentless malice.

Agn.
Shews sovereign madness, and a scorn of sense.
Pursue no farther this detested theme:
I will not die, I will not leave the world
For all that you can urge, until compell'd.

O. Wilm.
To chace a shadow, when the setting sun
Is darting his last rays, were just as wise,
As your anxiety for fleeting life,
Now the last means for its support are failing:
Were famine not as mortal as the sword,
This warmth might be excused—But take thy choice:
Die how you will, you shall not die alone.

Agn.
Nor live, I hope.

O. Wilm.
There is no fear of that.

Agn.
Then, we'll live both.

O. Wilm.
Strange folly! where's the means?

Agn.
The means are there; those jewels—

O. Wilm.
Ha!—Take heed:
Perhaps thou dost but try me; yet take heed—
There's nought so monstrous but the mind of man
In some conditions may be brought t'approve;
Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,
When flatt'ring opportunity enticed,
And desperation drove, have been committed
By those who once wou'd start to hear them named.

Agn.
And add to these detested suicide,
Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.

O. Wilm.
Th'inhospitable murder of our guest!—
How cou'dst thou form a thought so very tempting,
So advantageous, so secure, and easy;
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror?

Agn.
'Tis less impiety, less against nature,
To take another's life, than end our own.

O. Wilm.
It is no matter, whether this or that
Be, in itself, the less or greater crime:
Howe'er we may deceive our selves or others,
We act from inclination, not by rule,
Or none could act amiss—And that all err,
None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
—O! what is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial and desertion,
Reason, his noblest power, may be suborned
To plead the cause of vile assassination.

Agn.
You're too severe: Reason may justly plead
For her own preservation.

O. Wilm.
Rest contented:
Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,
I am betray'd within: My will's seduced,
And my whole soul infected. The desire
Of life returns, and brings with it a train
Of appetites, that rage to be supplied.
Whoever stands to parley with temptation,
Does it to be o'ercome.

Agn.
Then nought remains,
But the swift execution of a deed
That is not to be thought on, or delay'd.
We must dispatch him sleeping: Shou'd he wake,
'Twere madness to attempt it.

O. Wilm.
True, his strength
Single is more, much more than ours united;
So may his life, perhaps, as far exceed
Ours in duration, shou'd he 'scape this snare.
Gen'rous, unhappy man! O! what cou'd move thee
To put thy life and fortune in the hands
Of wretches mad with anguish!

Agn.
By what means?
By stabbing, suffocation, or by strangling
Shall we effect his death?

O. Wilm.
Why, what a fiend!—
How cruel, how remorseless and impatient
Have pride, and poverty made thee?

Agn.
Barbarous man!
Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estate,
And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
Earnest intreaties, agonies and tears,
To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
In some remote, inhospitable land—
The loveliest youth, in person and in mind,
That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains!
Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
Thou cruel husband! thou unnat'ral father!
Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man,
To waste my fortune, rob me of my son;
To drive me to despair, and then reproach me
For being what thou'st made me.

O. Wilm.
Dry thy tears:
I ought not to reproach thee. I confess
That thou hast suffer'd much: So have we both.
But chide no more: I'm wrought up to thy purpose.
The poor, ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,
Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch,
From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash,
And costly dagger that thou saw'st him wear;
And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms
Against himself. Which shall I use?

Agn.
The sash.
If you make use of that, I can assist.

O. Wilm.
No,
'Tis a dreadful office, and I'll spare
Thy trembling hands the guilt—steal to the door,
And bring me word; if he be still asleep.
[Ex. Ag.
Or I'm deceiv'd, or he pronounc'd himself
The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!
Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys,
Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death,
Are with'ring in their bloom—But thought extinguist,
He'll never know the loss, nor feel the bitter
Pangs of disappointment—Then I was wrong
In counting him a wretch: To die well pleas'd,
Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
To be a wretch, is to survive the loss
Of every joy, and even hope itself,
As I have done—Why do I mourn him then?
For, by the anguish of my tortur'd soul,
He's to be envy'd, if compar'd with me.

Enter Agnes with young Wilmot's dagger.
Agn.
The stranger
Sleeps at present; but so restless
His slumbers seem, they can't continue long.
Come, come, dispatch—Here I've secur'd his dagger.

O. Wilm.
O Agnes! Agnes! if there be a hell, 'tis just
We shou'd expect it.

[Goes to take the dagger but lets it fall.
Agn.
Nay, for shame, shake off this panick, and be more your self.

O. Wilm.
What's to be done? On what had we determin'd?

Agn.
You're quite dismay'd. I'll do
The deed my self.

[Takes up the dagger.
O. Wilm.
Give me the fatal steel.
'Tis but a single murther,
Necessity, impatience and despair,
The three wide mouths, of that true Cerberus,
Grim poverty, demands—They shall be stopp'd.
Ambition, persecution, and revenge
Devour their millions daily: And shall I—
But follow me, and see how little cause
You had to think there was the least remains
Of manhood, pity, mercy, or remorse
Left in this savage breast.

[Going the wrong way.
Agn.
Where do you go?
The street is that way.

O. Wilm.
True! I had forgot.

Agn.
Quite, quite confounded.

O. Wilm.
Well, I recover.
—I shall find the way.

[Exit.
Agn.
O softly! softly!
The least noise undoes us.
—Still I fear him:
—No now he seems determined—O! that pause,
That cowardly pause!—His resolution fails—
'Tis wisely done to lift your eyes to heaven;
When did you pray before? I have no patience—
How he surveys him? What a look was there?—
How full of anguish, pity and remorse—
—He'll never do it—Strike, or give it o'er—
—No, he recovers—But that trembling arm
May miss its aim; and if he fails, we're lost—
'Tis done—O! no; he lives, he struggles yet.

Y. Wilm.
O! father! father!

[In another room.
Agn.
Quick, repeat the blow.
What pow'r shall I invoke to aid thee, Wilmot!
—Yet hold thy hand—Inconstant, wretched woman!
What doth my heart recoil, and bleed with him
Whose murther you contrived—O Wilmot! Wilmot!

Enter Charlot, Maria, Eustace, Randal and others.
Char.
What strange neglect! The doors are all unbarr'd,
And not a living creature to be seen.

Enter old Wilmot and Agnes.
Char.
Sir, we are come to give and to receive
A thousand greetings—Ha! what can this mean?
Why do you look with such amazement on us?—
Are these your transports for your son's return?—
Where is my Wilmot? Has he not been here?—
Wou'd he defer your happiness so long,
Or cou'd a habit so disguise your son,
That you refus'd to own him?

Agn.
Heard you that?
What prodigy of horror is disclosing,
To render murther venial.

O. Wilm.
Prithee, peace:
The miserable damn'd suspend their howling,
And the swift orbs are fixt in deep attention.

Y. Wilm.
[Groans]
Oh! oh! oh!

Eust.
Sure that deep groan came from the inner room.

Rand.
It did; and seem'd the voice of one expiring.
Merciful heaven! where will these terrors end?
That is the dagger my young master wore;
And see, his father's hands are stained with blood.

[Young Wilmot groans again.
Eust.
Another groan! Why do we stand to gaze
On these dumb phantoms of despair and horror?
Let us search farther: Randal, shew the way.

Char.
This is the third time those fantastick forms
Have forc'd themselves upon my mental eyes,
And sleeping gave me more than waking pains.
O you eternal pow'rs! if all your mercy
To wretched mortals be not quite extinguish'd,
And terrors only guard your awful thrones,
Remove this dreadful vision—Let me wake,
Or sleep the sleep of death.

[Exeunt Charlot, Maria, Eustace, Randal, &c.
O. Wilm.
Sleep those who may;
I know my lot is endless perturbation.

Agn.
Let life forsake the earth, and light the sun,
And death and darkness bury in oblivion
Mankind and all their deeds, that no posterity
May ever rise to hear our horrid tale,
Or view the grave of such detested parricides.

O. Wilm.
Curses and deprecations are in vain:
The sun will shine, and all things have their course.
When we, the curse and burthen of the earth,
Shall be absorb'd, and mingled with its dust.
Our guilt and desolation must be told,
From age to age, to teach desponding mortals,
How far beyond the reach of human thought
Heaven, when incens'd, can punish—Die thou first.
[Stabs Agnes.
I dare not trust thy weakness.

Agn.
Ever kind,
But most in this.

O. Wilm.
I will not long survive thee.

Agn.
Do not accuse thy erring mother, Wilmot!
With too much rigour when we meet above.
Rivers of tears, and ages spent in howling
Cou'd ne'er express the anguish of my heart.
To give thee life for life, and blood for blood,
Is not enough. Had I ten thousand lives,
I'd give them all to speak my penitence
Deep, and sincere, and equal to my crime.

[Dies.
Enter Charlot led by Maria, and Randal; Eustace, and the rest.
Char.
Welcome, Despair! I'll never hope again—
Why have you forced me from my Wilmot's side?
Let me return—Unhand me—Let me die.
Patience, that till this moment ne'er forsook me,
Has took her flight; and my abandon'd mind,
Rebellious to a lot so void of mercy
And so unexpected, rages to madness.
—O thou! who know'st our frame, who know'st these woes
Are more than human fortitude can bear,
O! take me, take me hence, e're I relapse;
And in distraction, with unhallow'd tongue,
Again arraign your mercy—

[Faints.
Eust.
Unhappy maid! This strange event my strength
Can scarce support; no wonder thine should fail.
—How shall I vent my grief? O Wilmot! Wilmot!
Thou truest lover, and thou best of friends,
Are these the fruits of all thy anxious cares
For thy ungrateful parents?—Cruel fiends!
To use thee thus!—To recompense with death
Thy most unequall'd duty and affection!

O. Wilm.
What whining fool art thou, who would'st usurp
My sovereign right of grief?—Was he thy son?—
Say! Canst thou shew thy hands reeking with blood,
That flow'd, thro' purer channels, from thy loins?

Eust.
Forbid it heaven! that I should know such Guilt:
Yet his sad fate demands commiseration.

O. Wilm.
Compute the sands that bound the spacious ocean,
And swell their number with a single grain;
Increase the noise of thunder with thy voice;
Or when the raging wind lays nature waste,
Assist the tempest with thy feeble breath;
Add water to the sea, and fire to Etna;
But name not thy faint sorrow with the anguish
Of a curst wretch who only hopes for this
[Stabbing himself.
To change the scene, but not relieve his pain.

Rand.
A dreadful instance of the last remorse!
May all your woes end here.

O. Wilm.
O would they end
A thousand ages hence, I then should suffer
Much less than I deserve. Yet let me say,
You'll do but justice, to inform the world,
This horrid deed, that punishes itself,
Was not intended as he was our son;
For that we knew not, 'till it was too late.
Proud and impatient under our afflictions,
While heaven was labouring to make us happy,
We brought this dreadful ruin on ourselves.
Mankind may learn—but—oh!—

[Dies.
Rand.

[Exeunt.