University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Wilmot's House.
Old Wilmot
alone.
The day is far advanc'd. The chearful sun
Pursues with vigour his repeated course:
No labour lessens, nor no time decays
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 compos'd,
Who posts from change to change, from the first hour
Of his frail being to 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 the wisdom, whose perfection ends,
In knowing, we know nothing!—
Mere contradiction all! A tragic farce,
Tedious tho' short, elab'rate without art,
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 the harbour, run upon a rock,
And there was lost.

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

Rand.
Some few are sav'd, but much the greater part,
'Tis thought, are perish'd.

O. Wilm.
They are past the fear
Of future tempests, or a wreck on shore:
Those who escap'd, are still expos'd to both.
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, 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 wearied, 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 long absence.

O. Wilm.
That cannot be revived
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 help'd to make,
That you, more good than wise, refus'd 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, increas'd.
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
The 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 try'd 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 thyself, 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 repin'd 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 scorn'd 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 them:
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.
Farewel and mark my counsel, boy.

[Exit.
Rand.
Amazement!
Is this the man, I thought so wise and just?
What teach and counsel me to be a villain!
Sure grief has made him frantic, 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 lov'd, but honour was his idol.
O fatal change! O horrid transformation!
So a majestic 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 music charm'd before.

[Exit.

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.

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 men, who, more remorseless, prey
On shipwreck'd wretches, and who spoil and murder
Those whom fell 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 unpolish'd people here in Cornwall
Have long lain under, and with too much justice:
For 'tis an evil grown almost invet'rate,
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 num'rous herds, thy flocks, and winding streams.
After a long and tedious absence, Eustace!
With what delight we breathe 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
Ev'n in the wisest men, and may sometimes
Be much the better guide. But be it either,
I must confess, that even death itself
Appear'd to me with twice its native horrors,
When apprehended in a foreign land.
Death is, no doubt, in ev'ry place the same;
Yet nature casts a look towards home, and most
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 the truth. That we're return'd to England
Affords me all the pleasure you can feel.
Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you:
Thinking of that I smil'd.

Y. Wilm.
O Eustace! Eustace!
Thou know'st, for I've consest to thee, I love;
But having never seen the charming maid,
Thou can'st 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 surpriz'd to see me thus.
The sinking fortune of our ancient house,
Compell'd me young to leave my native country,
My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlot,
Who rul'd, and must for ever rule my fate.
—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,
Griev'd for my absence, and opprest with want,
Have sunk beneath their burden and expir'd,
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, yet 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;
They tell me, Charlot is as true as fair;
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; their days to come
Crown all 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 endur'd,
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 altered 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 learn'd my doom, expect me there.
'Till then, farewel!

Eust.
Farewel! Success attend you!

[Exeunt severally.