University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A room in Wilmot's house.
Old Wilmot
alone.
The day is far advanced; the chearful sun
Pursues with vigour his repeated course;
No labour less'ning, nor no time decaying
His strength, or splendor: Evermore the same,
From age to age his influence sustains
Dependent worlds, bestows both life and motion
On the dull mass that forms their dusky orbs,
Chears them with heat, and gilds them with his brightness.
Yet man, of jarring elements composed,
Who posts from change to change, from the first hour
Of his frail being till his dissolution,
Enjoys the sad prerogative above him,
To think, and to be wretched—What is life,
To him that's born to die! or what that wisdom
Whose perfection ends, in knowing we know nothing!
Meer contradiction all! A tragick farce,
Tedious tho' short, and without art elab'rate,
Ridiculously sad—
Enter Randal.
Where hast been, Randal?

Rand.
Not out of Penryn, sir; but to the strand,
To hear what news from Falmouth since the storm
Of wind last night.

O. Wilm.
It was a dreadful one.

Rand.
Some found it so. A noble ship from India
Ent'ring in the harbour, run upon a rock,
And there was lost.

O. Wilm.
What came of those on board her?

Rand.
Some few are saved, but much the greater part,
'Tis thought, are perished.

O. Wilm.
They are past the fear
Of future tempests, or a wreck on shore;
Those who escaped, are still exposed to both.

Rand.
But I've heard news, much stranger than this ship-wrack
Here in Cornwall. The brave Sir Walter Raleigh,
Being arrived at Plymouth from Guiana,
A most unhappy voyage, has been betray'd
By base Sir Lewis Stukeley, his own kinsman,
And seiz'd on by an order from the court;
And 'tis reported, he must lose his head,
To satisfy the Spaniards.

O. Wilm.
Not unlikely;
His martial genius does not suit the times.
There's now no insolence that Spain can offer,
But to the shame of this pacifick reign,
Poor England must submit to—Gallant man!
Posterity perhaps may do thee justice,
And praise thy courage, learning and integrity,
When thou'rt past hearing: Thy successful enemies,
Much sooner paid, have their reward in hand,
And know for what they labour'd.—Such events
Must, questionless, excite all thinking men,
To love and practise virtue!

Rand.
Nay; 'tis certain,
That virtue ne'er appears so like itself,
So truly bright and great, as when opprest.

O. Wilm.
I understand no riddles.—Where's your Mistress?

Rand.
I saw her pass the High-street t'wards the minster.

O. Wilm.
She's gone to visit Charlot—She doth well.
In the soft bosom of that gentle maid,
There dwells more goodness, than the rigid race
Of moral pedants, e'er believ'd, or taught.
With what amazing constancy and truth,
Doth she sustain the absence of our son,
Whom more than life she loves! How shun for him,
Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich and great;
Who own her charms more than supply the want
Of shining heaps, and sigh to make her happy.
Since our misfortunes, we have found no friend,
None who regarded our distress, but her;
And she, by what I have observed of late,
Is tired, or exhausted—curst Condition!
To live a burden to one only friend,
And blast her youth with our contagious woe!
Who that had reason, soul, or sense would bear it
A moment longer!—Then this honest wretch!—
I must dismiss him—Why should I detain,
A grateful, gen'rous youth to perish with me?
His service may procure him bread elsewhere,
Tho' I have none to give him.—Prithee, Randal!
How long hast thou been with me?

Rand.
Fifteen years.
I was a very child when first you took me,
To wait upon your son, my dear young master!
I oft have wish'd, I'd gone to India with him;
Tho' you, desponding, give him o'er for lost.
[Old Wilmot wipes his eyes.]
I am to blame—This talk revives your sorrow
For his absence.

O. Wilm.
How can that be reviv'd,
Which never died?

Rand.
The whole of my intent
Was to confess your bounty, that supplied
The loss of both my parents: I was long
The object of your charitable care.

O. Wilm.
No more of that: Thou'st served me longer since
Without reward; so that account is balanced,
Or rather I'm thy debtor—I remember,
When poverty began to show her face
Within these walls, and all my other servants,
Like pamper'd vermin from a falling house,
Retreated with the plunder they had gain'd,
And left me, too indulgent and remiss
For such ungrateful wretches, to be crush'd
Beneath the ruin they had helped to make,
That you, more good than wise, refused to leave me.

Rand.
Nay, I beseech you, sir!—

O. Wilm.
With my distress,
In perfect contradiction to the world,
Thy love, respect and diligence increased;
Now all the recompence within my power,
Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard,
Unprofitable service.

Rand.
Heaven! forbid.
Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?—
Believe me, sir! my honest soul abhors
That barb'rous thought.

O. Wilm.
What! canst thou feed on air?
I have not left wherewith to purchase food
For one meal more.

Rand.
Rather than leave you thus,
I'll beg my bread, and live on others bounty
While I serve you.

O. Wilm.
Down, down my swelling heart,
Or burst in silence: 'Tis thy cruel fate
Insults thee by his kindness—He is innocent
Of all the pain it gives thee—Go thy ways—
I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes
Of rising in the world.

Rand.
'Tis true; I'm young,
And never tried my fortune, or my genius;
Which may perhaps find out some happy means,
As yet unthought of, to supply your wants.

O. Wilm.
Thou tortur'st me—I hate all obligations
Which I can ne'er return—And who art thou,
That I shou'd stoop to take 'em from thy hand!
Care for thy self, but take no thought for me;
I will not want thee—trouble me no more.

Rand.
Be not offended, sir! and I will go.
I ne'er repined at your commands before;
But, heaven's my witness! I obey you now
With strong reluctance, and a heavy heart.
Farewel, my worthy master!

[Going.]
O. Wilm.
Farewel—Stay—
As thou art yet a stranger to the world,
Of which alas! I've had too much experience,
I shou'd, methinks, before we part, bestow
A little counsel on thee—Dry thy eyes—
If thou weep'st thus, I shall proceed no farther.
Dost thou aspire to greatness, or to wealth,
Quit books and the unprofitable search
Of wisdom there, and study human kind:
No science will avail thee without that;
But that obtain'd, thou need'st not any other.
This will instruct thee to conceal thy views,
And wear the face of probity and honour,
'Till thou hast gain'd thy end; which must be ever
Thy own advantage, at that man's expence
Who shall be weak enough to think thee honest.

Rand.
You mock me, sure.

O. Wilm.
I never was more serious.

Rand.
Why should you counsel what you scorned to practise?

O. Wilm.
Because that foolish scorn has been my ruin.
I've been an idiot, but would have thee wiser,
And treat mankind, as they would treat thee, Randal,
As they deserve, and I've been treated by 'em.
Thou'st seen by me, and those who now despise me,
How men of fortune fall, and beggars rise;
Shun my example; treasure up my precepts;
The world's before thee—be a knave, and prosper.
What art thou dumb?

[After a long pause.]
Rand.
Amazement ties my tongue.
Where are your former principles?

O. Wilm.
No matter;
Suppose I have renounced 'em: I have passions,
And love thee still; therefore would have thee think,
The world is all a scene of deep deceit,
And he who deals with mankind on the square,
Is his own bubble, and undoes himself.

[Exit.]
Rand.
Is this the man, I thought so wise and just?
What teach, and counsel me to be a villain!
Sure grief has made him frantick, or some fiend
Assum'd his shape—I shall suspect my senses.
High-minded he was ever, and improvident;
But pitiful and generous to a fault:
Pleasure he loved, but honour was his idol.
O fatal change! O horrid transformation!
So a majestick temple sunk to ruin,
Becomes the loathsome shelter and abode
Of lurking serpents, toads, and beasts of prey;
And scaly dragons hiss, and lions roar,
Where wisdom taught, and musick charm'd before.

SCENE II.

A parlour in Charlot's house.
Enter Charlot and Maria.
Char.
What terror and amazement must they feel
Who die by ship-wrack!

Mar.
'Tis a dreadful thought!

Char.
Ay; is it not, Maria! to descend,
Living and conscious, to that watry tomb?
Alas! had we no sorrows of our own,
The frequent instances of others woe,
Must give a gen'rous mind a world of pain.
But you forget you promised me to sing.
Tho' chearfulness and I have long been strangers,
Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me.
There is in melody a secret charm
That flatters, while it adds to my disquiet,
And makes the deepest sadness the most pleasing.
There's sure no passion in the human soul,
But finds its food in musick—I wou'd hear
The song composed by that unhappy maid,
Whose faithful lover scaped a thousand perils
From rocks, and sands, and the devouring deep;
And after all, being arrived at home,
Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there,
And perished in her sight.

SONG.
Mar.
Cease, cease, heart-easing tears;
Adieu, you flatt'ring fears,
Which seven long tedious years
Taught me to bear.
Tears are for lighter woes;
Fear no such danger knows,
As fate remorseless shows,
Endless despair.
Dear cause of all my pain,
On the wide stormy main,
Thou wast preserved in vain,
Tho' still adored;
Had'st thou died there unseen,
My blasted eyes had been
Saved from the horrid'st scene
Maid e'er deplored.

[Charlot finds a letter.
Char.
What's this?—A letter superscribed to me!
None could convey it here but you, Maria.
Ungen'rous, cruel maid! to use me thus!
To join with flatt'ring men to break my peace,
And persecute me to the last retreat!

Mar.
Why should it break your peace, to hear the sighs
Of honourable love, and know th'effects
Of your resistless charms? This letter is—

Char.
No matter whence—return it back unopen'd:
I have no love, no charms but for my Wilmot,
Nor would have any.

Mar.
Strange infatuation!
Why should you waste the flower of your days
In fruitless expectation—Wilmot's dead;
Or living, dead to you.

Char.
I'll not despair,
Patience shall cherish hope, nor wrong his honour
By unjust suspicion. I know his truth,
And will preserve my own. But to prevent
All future, vain, officious importunity,
Know, thou incessant foe of my repose,
Whether he sleeps secure from mortal cares,
In the deep bosom of the boist'rous main,
Or tost with tempests, still endures its rage;
Whether his weary pilgrimage by land
Has found an end, and he now rests in peace
In earth's cold womb, or wanders o'er her face;
Be it my lot to waste, in pining grief,
The remnant of my days for his known loss,
Or live, as now, uncertain and in doubt,
No second choice shall violate my vows:
High heaven, which heard them, and abhors the perjured,
Can witness, they were made without reserve;
Never to be retracted, ne'er dissolved
By accidents or absence, time or death.

Mar.
I know, and long have known, my honest zeal
To serve you gives offence—But be offended—
This is no time for flatt'ry—Did your vows
Oblige you to support his gloomy, proud,
Impatient parents, to your utter ruin—
You well may weep to think on what you've done.

Char.
I weep to think that I can do no more
For their support—What will become of 'em!—
The hoary, helpless, miserable pair!

Mar.
Then all these tears, this sorrow is for them.

Char.
Taught by afflictions, I have learn'd to bear
Much greater ills than poverty with patience.
When luxury and ostentation's banish'd,
The calls of nature are but few; and those
These hands, not used to labour, may supply.
But when I think on what my friends must suffer,
My spirits fail, and I'm o'erwhelm'd with grief.

Mar.
What I wou'd blame, you force me to admire,
And mourn for you, as you lament for them.
Your patience, constancy, and resignation
Merit a better fate.

Char.
So pride would tell me,
And vain self-love, but I believe them not:
And if by wanting pleasure I have gained
Humility, I'm richer for my loss.

Mar.
You have the heavenly art, still to improve
Your Mind by all events—But here comes one,
Whose pride seems to increase with her misfortunes.
Enter Agnes.
Her faded dress unfashionably fine,
As ill conceals her poverty, as that
Strain'd complaisance her haughty, swelling heart.
Tho' perishing with want, so far from asking,
She ne'er receives a favour uncompelled,
And while she ruins, scorns to be obliged:
She wants me gone, and I abhor her sight,
[Ex. Mar.

Char.
This visit's kind.

Agn.
Few else would think it so:
Those who would once have thought themselves much honoured
By the least favour, tho' 'twere but a look,
I could have shewn them, now refuse to see me.
'Tis Misery enough to be reduced
To the low level of the common herd,
Who born to begg'ry, envy all above them;
But 'tis the curse of curses, to endure
The insolent contempt of those we scorn.

Char.
By scorning, we provoke them to contempt;
And thus offend, and suffer in our turns:
We must have patience.

Agn.
No, I scorn them yet.
But there's no end of suff'ring: Who can say
Their sorrows are compleat? My wretched husband,
Tired with our woes, and hopeless of relief,
Grows sick of life.

Char.
May gracious heaven support him!

Agn.
And, urged by indignation and despair,
Would plunge into eternity at once,
By foul self-murder: His fixed love for me,
Whom he would fain persuade to share his fate,
And take the same, uncertain, dreadful course,
Alone withholds his hand.

Char.
And may it ever!

Agn.
I've known with him the two extremes of life,
The highest happiness, and deepest woe,
With all the sharp and bitter aggravations
Of such a vast transition—Such a fall
In the decline of life!—I have as quick,
As exquisite a sense of pain as he,
And wou'd do any thing, but die, to end it;
But there my courage fails—Death is the worst
That fate can bring, and cuts off ev'ry hope.

Char.
We must not chuse, but strive to bear our lot
Without reproach, or guilt: But by one act
Of desperation, we may overthrow
The merit we've been raising all our days;
And lose our whole reward—And now, methinks,
Now more than ever, we have cause to fear,
And be upon our guard. The hand of heaven
Spreads clouds on clouds o'er our benighted heads,
And wrapt in darkness, doubles our distress.
I had, the night last past, repeated twice,
A strange and awful dream: I would not yield
To fearful superstition, nor despise
The admonition of a friendly power
That wished my good.

Agn.
I've certain plagues enough,
Without the help of dreams, to make me wretched.

Char.
I wou'd not stake my happiness or duty
On their uncertain credit, nor on aught
But reason, and the known decrees of heaven.
Yet dreams have sometimes shewn events to come,
And may excite to vigilance and care,
In some important hour; when all our weakness
Shall be attacked, and all our strength be needful,
To shun the gulph that gapes for our destruction,
And fly from guilt, and everlasting ruin.
My vision may be such, and sent to warn us,
Now we are tried by multiplied afflictions,
To mark each motion of our swelling hearts,
And not attempt to extricate ourselves,
And seek deliverance by forbidden ways:
But keep our hopes and innocence entire,
'Till we're dismist to join the happy dead
In that bless'd world, where transitory pain
And frail imperfect virtue, is rewarded
With endless pleasure and consummate joy;
Or heaven relieves us here.

Agn.
Well, pray proceed;
You've rais'd my curiosity at least.

Char.
Methought, I sate, in a dark winter's night,
My garments thin, my head and bosom bare,
On the wide summit of a barren mountain;
Defenceless and exposed, in that high region,
To all the cruel rigors of the season.
The sharp bleak winds pierced thro' my shiv'ring frame,
And storms of hail, and sleet, and driving rains
Beat with impetuous fury on my head,
Drench'd my chill'd limbs, and pour'd a deluge round me.
On one hand, ever gentle patience sate,
On whose calm bosom I reclin'd my head;
And on the other, silent contemplation.
At length, to my unclosed and watchful eyes,
That long had roll'd in darkness, and oft raised
Their chearless orbs towards the starless sky,
And sought for light in vain, the dawn appeared;
And I beheld a man, an utter stranger,
But of a graceful and exalted mein,
Who press'd with eager transport to embrace me.
—I shunn'd his arms—But at some words he spoke,
Which I have now forgot, I turn'd again,
But he was gone—And oh! transporting sight!
Your son, my dearest Wilmot! fill'd his place.

Agn.
If I regarded dreams, I should expect
Some fair event from yours: I have heard nothing
That should alarm you yet.

Char.
But what's to come,
Tho' more obscure, is terrible indeed.
Methought we parted soon, and when I sought him,
You and his father—Yes, you both were there—
Strove to conceal him from me: I pursued
You with my cries, and call'd on heaven and earth
To judge my wrongs, and force you to reveal
Where you had hid my love, my life, my Wilmot!—

Agn.
Unless you mean t'affront me, spare the rest.
'Tis just as likely Wilmot should return,
As we become your foes.

Char.
Far be such rudeness
From Charlot's thoughts: But when I heard you name
Self-murder, it reviv'd the frightful image of such a dreadful scene.

Agn.
You will persist!—

Char.
Excuse me; I have done. Being a Dream,
I thought, indeed, it cou'd not give offence.

Agn.
Not when the matter of it is offensive!—
You cou'd not think so, had you thought at all;
But I take nothing ill from thee—Adieu;
I've tarried longer than I first intended,
And my poor husband mourns the while alone.
[Exit Agnes.

Char.

SCENE III.

The town and port of Penryn.
Enter Young Wilmot and Eustace in Indian habits.
Y. Wilm.
Welcome, my friend! to Penryn: Here we're safe.

Eust.
Then we're deliver'd twice; first from the sea,
And then from savage men, who, more remorseless,
Prey on shipwreck'd wretches, and spoil and murder those
Whom fatal tempests and devouring waves,
In all their fury, spar'd.

Y. Wilm.
It is a scandal,
Tho' malice must acquit the better sort,
The rude unpolisht people here in Cornwall
Have long laid under, and with too much justice:
Cou'd our superiors find some happy means
To mend it, they would gain immortal honour.
For 'tis an evil grown almost inv'terate,
And asks a bold and skilful hand to cure.

Eust.
Your treasure's safe, I hope.

Y. Wilm.
'Tis here, thank heaven!
Being in jewels, when I saw our danger,
I hid it in my bosom.

Eust.
I observed you,
And wonder how you could command your thoughts,
In such a time of terror and confusion.

Y. Wilm.
My thoughts were then at home—O England! England!
Thou seat of plenty, liberty and health,
With transport I behold thy verdant fields,
Thy lofty mountains rich with useful ore,
Thy numerous herds, thy flocks, and winding streams:
After a long and tedious absence, Eustace!
With what delight we breath our native air,
And tread the genial soil that bore us first.
'Tis said, the world is ev'ry wise man's country;
Yet after having view'd its various nations,
I'm weak enough still to prefer my own
To all I've seen beside—You smile, my friend!
And think, perhaps, 'tis instinct more than reason:
Why be it so. Instinct preceded reason
In the wisest of us all, and may sometimes
Be much the better guide. But be it either;
I must confess, that even death itself
Appeared to me with twice its native horrors,
When apprehended in a foreign land.
Death is, no doubt, in ev'ry place the same;
Yet observation must convince us, most men,
Who have it in their power, chuse to expire
Where they first drew their breath.

Eust.
Believe me, Wilmot!
Your grave reflections were not what I smil'd at;
I own their truth. That we're return'd to England
Affords me all the pleasure you can feel
Merely on that account: Yet I must think
A warmer passion gives you all this transport.
You have not wander'd, anxious and impatient,
From clime to clime, and compast sea and land
To purchase wealth, only to spend your days
In idle pomp, and luxury at home:
I know thee better: Thou art brave and wise,
And must have nobler aims.

Y. Wilm.
O Eustace! Eustace!
Thou knowest, for I've confest to thee, I love;
But having never seen the charming maid,
Thou canst not know the fierceness of my flame.
My hopes and fears, like the tempestuous seas
That we have past, now mount me to the skies,
Now hurl me down from that stupendous height,
And drive me to the center. Did you know
How much depends on this important hour,
You wou'd not be surprized to see me thus.
The sinking fortune of our ancient house,
Which time and various accidents had wasted,
Compelled me young to leave my native country,
My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlot;
Who ruled, and must for ever rule my sate.
How I've improved, by care and honest commerce,
My little stock, you are in part a witness.
'Tis now seven tedious years, since I set forth;
And as th'uncertain course of my affairs
Bore me from place to place, I quickly lost
The means of corresponding with my friends.
—O! shou'd my Charlot! doubtful of my truth,
Or in despair ever to see me more,
Have given herself to some more happy lover!—
Distraction's in the thought!—Or shou'd my parents,
Grieved for my absence and opprest with want,
Have sunk beneath their burden, and expired,
While I too late was flying to relieve them;
The end of all my long and weary travels,
The hope, that made success itself a blessing,
Being defeated and for ever lost;
What were the riches of the world to me?

Eust.
The wretch who fears all that is possible,
Must suffer more than he who feels the worst
A man can feel, who lives exempt from fear.
A woman may be false, and friends are mortal;
And yet your aged parents may be living,
And your fair mistress constant.

Y. Wilm.
True, they may;
I doubt, but I despair not—No, my friend!
My hopes are strong and lively as my fears,
And give me such a prospect of my happiness,
As nothing but fruition can exceed:
They tell me, Charlot is as true as fair,
As good as wise, as passionate as chaste;
That she with fierce impatience, like my own,
Laments our long and painful separation;
That we shall meet, never to part again;
That I shall see my parents, kiss the tears
From their pale hollow cheeks, chear their sad hearts,
And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want,
For ever from their board; crown all their days
To come with peace, with pleasure, and abundance;
Receive their fond embraces and their blessings,
And be a blessing to 'em.

Eust.
'Tis our weakness:—
Blind to events, we reason in the dark,
And fondly apprehend what none e'er found,
Or ever shall, pleasure and pain unmixt;
And flatter, and torment ourselves, by turns,
With what shall never be.

Y. Wilm.
I'll go this instant
To seek my Charlot, and explore my fate.

Eust.
What in that foreign habit!

Y. Wilm.
That's a trifle,
Not worth my thoughts.

Eust.
The hardships you've endured,
And your long stay beneath the burning zone,
Where one eternal sultry summer reigns,
Have marr'd the native hue of your complexion:
Methinks you look more like a sun-burnt Indian,
Than a Briton.

Y. Wilm.
Well 'tis no matter, Eustace!
I hope my mind's not alter'd for the worse;
And for my outside—But inform me, friend!
When I may hope to see you.

Eust.
When you please:
You'll find me at the inn.

Y. Wilm.
When I have learnt my doom, expect me there.
'Till then, farewel!

Eust.
Farewel! Success attend you!
[Ex. Eustace.

Y. Wilm.