University of Virginia Library

SCENE II.

Charlot's House.
Enter Charlot and Maria.
Char.
What terror and amazement must they feel
Who die by ship-wreck!

Mar.
'Tis a dreadful thought!

Char.
Ay! is it not, Maria?—To descend,
Living and conscious, to the wat'ry 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's sure no passion in the human soul,
But finds its food in music. I wou'd hear
The song compos'd by that unhappy maid,
Whose faithful lover 'scap'd a thousand perils
From rocks, and sands, and the devouring deep;
And after all, being arriv'd at home,
Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there,
And perished in her sight.

SONG.
Mar.

[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? 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.
Alas! 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.
Whether he sleeps secure from mortal cares,
In the deep bosom of the boist'rous main,
Or, tost with tempests, still endures its rage;
No second choice shall violate my vows;
High Heaven, which heard them and abhors the perjur'd,
Can witness, they were made without reserve:
Never to be retracted, ne'er dissolv'd
By accident or absence, time or death.

Mar.
And did your vows oblige you to support
His haughty parents, to your utter ruin?—
Well may you 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.
What I can't praise, 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 gain'd
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.
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 uncompell'd,
And while she ruins, scorns to be oblig'd:
Let me depart, I know she loves me not.
[Ex, Mar.

Enter Agnes.
Char.
This visit's kind.

Agn.
Few else would think it so:
Those who would once have thought themselves much honour'd
By the least favour, tho' 'twere but a look,
I could have shewn them, now refuse to see me.
'Tis Misery enough to be reduc'd
To the low level of the common herd,
Who born to beggary, 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 complete? My wretched husband,
Tired with our woes, and hopeless of relief,
Grows sick of life.
And, urg'd by indignation and despair,
Would plunge into eternity at once,
By foul self-murder.

Char.
Gracious Heav'n support him!

Agn.
His fix'd 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 would 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. By one rash 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 wish'd 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 ought
But reason, and the known decrees of Heaven.
Yet dreams have sometimes shewn events to come,
And may excite to vigilance and care.
My vision may be such, and sent to warn us,
(Now we are tried by multiply'd afflictions)
To mark each motion of our swelling hearts,
Lest we attempt to extricate ourselves,
And seek deliv'rance by forbidden ways—
To keep our hopes and innocence entire,
'Till we're dismist to join the happy dead.

Agn.
Well, to your dream.

Char.
Methought, I sat, in a dark winter's night,
On the wide summit of a barren mountain;
The sharp bleak winds pierc'd 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 sat,
On whose calm bosom I reclin'd my head;
And on the other, silent Contemplation.
At length, to my unclos'd and watchful eyes,
That long had roll'd in darkness, dawn appear'd;
And I beheld a man, an utter stranger,
But of a graceful and exalted mien,
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.

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 pursu'd you
Both 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'offend me, spare the rest.
'Tis just as likely Wilmot should return,
As we become your foes.

Char.
Far be such thought
From Charlot's breast: 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, at least, it could not give offence.

Agn.
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.
She's gone abruptly, and I fear displeas'd.
The least appearance of advice or caution,
Sets her impatient temper in a flame.
When grief, that well might humble, swells our pride,
And pride increasing aggravates our grief,
The tempest must prevail 'till we are lost.
Heaven grant a fairer issue to her sorrows!

[Exit.