University of Virginia Library

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.