University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE.
A Saloon.
Enter Louisa and Courtney.
Louisa.
'Twas kind! this speed of your return.—But, tell me,
What success had you? was my father mov'd?
Methinks I read your news in your sad visage,
And my heart trembles with prophetic fears.

Courtney.
'Twas as I judg'd 't would be—His own wants press him;
He sinks beneath your husband's wasteful life;
Those boundless dicings, and voluptuous riots,
Which have at once dissolv'd a wealth so vast,
That Pity scarce vouchsafes to heed his sufferings.

Louisa.
But his late conduct proves my Bellmour chang'd;
Misfortunes have instructed him to think,
And thought has captiv'd every madding passion.

Courtney.
Yet early vice, by custom long indulg'd,
Leaves such impression of habitual ill,
As finds no cure, but from severe remorse,
And Time's slow working.

Louisa.
Nay, name not Bellmour's vice;—
He has no vice;—his every power is lost,
Even had he taste for follies:—poor and despis'd,
The slaves, for whose curs'd sakes he stands reproach'd,
Now shun his converse. Villains, who betray'd,
Start when they meet him. Poverty, like his,
Spreads a contagion round it, and mankind
Fly frighted from him. What will become of us!
Did you lay open our incumbent ruin?
Urg'd you my father strongly? Want's cold hand
Creeps o'er us, and 'tis now no time for counsel.

Courtney.
I told him all, and mov'd his utmost pity.
Still, as he set to view your husband's failings,
I urg'd his virtues, and bore down the balance;
I prais'd his wit, his courage, his humanity,
His fine frank spirit, and his generous nature:
He answer'd, and I firmly think with truth,
What he has done, already, weighs him down;
His struggling will to save you has undone him,
And Bellmour's self would there beg aid in vain.

Louisa.
O! he was never born to be a beggar!
Heav'n is too kind to goodness, to forsake him!
He, whom soft Pity melts at others' misery,
Deserves, himself, to live exempt from woe.
Bellmour could ne'er behold a stranger wretched,
But he partook his pain, 'till he could ease it.
How, then, will he support the weeping anguish
Of three poor children, all undone by him!

Courtney.
His good, and ill, so chequer out his nature,
That, which excels is doubtful. Nobly will'd,
His pitying heart flows out in generous purposes;
But, wanting power to stem the tide of pleasure,
Irresolute he drives, and floats to ruin.
Men must be rigid, and severe, in virtue!
Serious and noble aims distinguish reason!
To live for luxury is not to live.
The man of pleasure dreams away his days,
And dies, to be forgotten. Bellmour's soul,
Had contemplation bent it to a bias,
Had given a point to Fame's proud pinnacle,
And purpled o'er his name with deathless glory!
Now, it lies lost in dust!—contemn'd, despis'd!

Louisa.
Oh! I shall tremble to behold his face!—
His ruin'd family hangs on his heart;
His helpless children's future fate distracts him;
For, the once-lively Bellmour smiles no more!
Silent he walks, or stands, with folded arms;
And still looks down, as if his soul were earth.
If e'er, by chance, his lifted eyes meet mine,
The starting tears glare dreadfully upon me,
And, quivering, struggle to flow loose in sorrow.
Then sighs, suppress'd by force, strive hard for vent.
And heave, and swell, like earthquakes in his bosom.
Groaning, at length, he breaks in whirlwind from me;
Torn by ten thousand pangs, raves, reddens, starts,
And frights me with a dreadful burst of passions!

Courtney.
Poor, suffering innocent! I would 'twere mine
To screen you from the storm that's gath'ring round;
But I, unbless'd with power, can only wish,
And hope some chance will save you from destruction.

Louisa.
O, uncle! what remains for Hope to snatch at?
Of all the wide estate, that late was ours,
But this poor house is left us;—this, too, totters.
Soon, Ruin, with his palsied hand, will seize
This ancient pile, and shake it into dust!
Not thrice the worth of all that now is ours
Will save poor Woodly from that fatal bond,
He sign'd to save my Bellmour.—All our hope
Was in your friendly journey to my father;
Woodly must sink, and Bellmour cannot bear it.
Bellmour will never live to sink a friend!—
Look yonder, where, in pensive grief, he walks
Unhoping, and disconsolate!

Courtney.
Poor Bellmour!
How chang'd, from that wild, gay, joyful reveller,
Which all his friends have known him! still extreme.

Enter Bellmour, melancholy.
Louisa.
My life!—my Bellmour!—wound not thus my soul;
I have more woes to bear, that are my own,
Than my strength matches; add not, thou, thy sorrow:
That would o'erwhelm me quite.

Bellmour.
I pray, forgive me!
Prison'd in thought, I could not look about me;
And my soul miss'd thy comfort:—I was considering—

Louisa.
What sad reflection held you?

Bellmour.
Which of my boys,
Some few years hence, when I'm dissolv'd in death,
Will act the beggar best!—run, bare-foot, fastest!
And, with most dexterous shrug, play tricks for charity!

Louisa.
O! for heav'n's sake, forbear, by starts like this,
To image horrors, Nature shrinks at thought of.

Bellmour.
Why, my Louisa! 'tis a wretch's duty
To learn to bear his misery;—to know it,
To use ourselves to scorn it, is the way
To make it easy to us.—Yet, I'm to blame!
Thou had'st no share in any guilt of mine;
I ought alone to suffer.—'Twas too cruel,
'Twas ev'n unmanly, to afflict thy innocence!

Courtney.
Oh, Sir! you sooth the grief you shou'd resist!
Mean spirits, only, buckle under woe;
It is the great man's pride to combat fortune,
And rise against oppression.

Bellmour.
Sir, 'tis true;—
And I remember you have oft advis'd it,
While I had power to try my virtue's proof.
A man may die unhelp'd, but must not hope
To conquer without arms.—Talking of help,
Will your good Brother aid me?—Speaking silence!
How could I hope it from him?

Courtney.
Yet, despair not.
A time may come when ev'n your woes shall prove,
To suffer well's the noblest way to conquest.
On a smooth Sea the Sailor shews no skill,
But he displays it all in Hurricanes.

Bellmour.
He would not, sure, neglect to save his daughter,
Had he the power still left him! yet, friends, sometimes,
Are more than fathers!—I had a friend in Woodly!
Once he was happy;—what he shall be hereafter,
He owes to thriftless Bellmour. Perish the name!
To what a stinging death is he reserv'd,
Who leaves a good man wretched, whom he made so!
Sir, it would ease me of a galling pain,
Would you dispel this unavailing hope
I cherish'd late, relying on my father,
From Woodly's breast;—'Twere sin to nourish it,
Since 'tis unstable:—he must know it soon.
Let it be told by any tongue but Bellmour's.

Courtney.
I'll visit him this instant.—Do you, meanwhile,
[To Louisa.
Calmly seek comfort from a firm belief
That heav'n befriends your virtues, and will save you.

[Exit.
Bellmour.
Louisa!

[With violent emotion.
Louisa.
Alas! what mean you to distract me thus,
With your wild startings?

Bellmour.
Nay, but mark me well,—
Want's the damnation of a living sinner!
What have I liv'd for, if I die a beggar?
How excellent art thou not to have scorn'd me!
Good heav'n! that reason should give madness way,
'Till man finds musick in a rattling dice-box!
And has contracted thrice three thousand Acres,
To the curs'd compass of a narrow table!
With what a thoughtless rapture have I shook 'em!
Hung o'er the throw! and hurl'd out my posterity
Slaves, thieves, or beggars!—Tear me limb from limb,
Some pitying torturer! To die at once
Were comfort, ev'n in agony!—but I shall be
Whole ages, after death, in dying!—Villains,
Dull, pityless, insulting, purse-proud villains,
Will point at some poor, ragged child of mine,
And say, “There's pride and name, there's Bellmour's honour!
“There's the blest remnant of a boasted family!”
Curse the keen thought! it pours all hell upon me!

Louisa.
Still wilt thou, thus, snatch at Despair's wild shadows?
I've heard the manly soul can smile at anguish:
Woman's weak mind may bend beneath adversity;
But, Bellmour's brow, methinks, should wear a Majesty,
And make affliction awful.

Bellmour.
Away with Counsel.
I cannot hear thee! thy moving air, thy wisdom,
That lovely softness, which bewitches round thee!
Each charm, which has a thousand times appeas'd me,
Now makes me mad! like oil, pour'd out on flame,
I tower in blaze, and burn with tenfold fierceness!
Thy every word is death! each look thou giv'st me
Shoots poison'd arrows thro' my bleeding conscience!
Think'st thou I am so mean, so lost a wretch,
That my own misery stings me? cruel woman!
What earthly ill can Bellmour stoop to fear,
Which hurts but Bellmour? 'tis true, indeed, thy fate
I have not learn'd to bear!—there, Grief unmans me;
Thine, and thy helpless Infants' woes, rise to me;—
Oh! I have wrong'd thee!

Louisa.
'Tis wronging me to say it.

Re-enter Courtney.
Bellmour.
Return'd so soon!

Louisa.
Why look you pale, good Uncle?

Courtney.
To bring unwelcome tidings to the wretched,
Gives the sad teller half the hearer's woe.

Bellmour.
Friendly preparative! what follows next
Can be but Woodly's ruin!

Courtney.
He's undone!—

Lousia.
Unhappy Bellmour!

Courtney.
Near your house I met him,
Hemm'd by a swarthy guard of licens'd villains;
The Law's grim blood-hounds, with rapacious talons:
Who dragg'd him on, in merciless serenity,
To shut him from his hopes, in joyless prison!

Bellmour.
Oh!

Courtney.
At short distance, near the Sycamore,
That marks the turning to that now-fall'n house
Of this poor Gentleman, I saw his Wife,
Wild, with a storm of grief! her Babes amaz'd!
Struggling, with weeping Servants, to break free.
Fain wou'd she follow him, to share his prison;
With straining eyes, she kept him long in view;
And, when a gushing flood obscur'd her sight,
Still more to lengthen out a last, sad look,
She wip'd away the tears, and gaz'd again!

Louisa.
Dreadful description!—close it here, good Uncle!
It cuts too deep, and wounds my Bellmour's soul.

Courtney.
Yet more remains to tell; his spacious house
Is fill'd with Ruffians, his rich goods torn down,
His frantic Wife, and Children, roam unshelter'd,
Without a home to succour them!

Louisa.
O, guide them hither!
Let me, with open arms, fly to receive them;—
And strive, if possible, to give them comfort.

Bellmour.
Louisa!—as thou would'st preserve my life,
Bring not their grief too near me;—
To see it would distract me!—said he nothing?

Courtney.
Marking me, as I turn'd my face aside,
He call'd, and counsell'd you to save yourself
By sudden flight; since other Ruffians, brought
By Bargrave, your malicious creditor,
Will presently be here, on the same purpose.
As for my fate, said he, bid him not mourn it:
To fall for Bellmour, would have given me joy,
Had Bellmour's self not fall'n.

Bellmour.
He falls indeed!

Courtney.
Now, as I enter'd, Bargrave, just arriv'd
With his infernal crew, besets your gates.

Louisa.
Now, Bellmour, thou art lost!—immediate ruin
Will swallow thee, and me, and our dear children!
All! all must sink together!—teach us, good Uncle!
Which way to fly; what measures to pursue.

Courtney.
The doors, fast barr'd, are guarded by your Servants;
And you may thro' the grove escape unseen.

Bellmour.
No! let him enter! This Bargrave taught me vice,
And counsell'd each excess that has undone me!
He wrongs the Devil, who makes himself the punisher
Of ills which he excited! Justice acts wisely!
Oh, she's not blind!—she chuses a fit moment,
And throws him on my vengeance! Let him enter;
Perdition seize me, if he 'scape my hand!

Louisa.
As thou lov'st me, Bellmour! be not rash.
Should'st thou add murder—

Courtney.
Persuade him rather;
Sooth him to pity. Would he free your friend,
And grant some weeks of liberty, for trial
What succour may be found; you've many friends—

Bellmour.
No, Courtney! friendship rises but with fortune;
And sets when men go downward. Yet, I thank you;
Rage had obscur'd my reason. Say to Bargrave,
I have an offer for his private ear.
I will instruct my swelling indignation,
To cool and settle, like a Courtier's passions.
What cannot interest teach us!

Courtney.
Tho' I loath,
As the dark adder, this detested wretch,
I'll try to speak him fair.

[Exit.
Bellmour.
Leave me, Louisa!
I would not have thee wound thy innocent eyes
With sight of such a Monster.—Nor brook I well
That thou, who hast been taught to love sincerity,
Should'st hear me flatter infamy!

Louisa.
Do but think
'Tis for their sakes, whom most you wish to succour,
And you will find it easy. Farewell! he comes.
My Bellmour! as thou lov'st me, oh, be careful!

[Exit.
Enter Bargrave.
Bargrave.
So, Sir! I find you make your house your Garrison!
Bold, sour-faced centinels admit, with caution,
Whom you vouchsafe your pass to.—'Tis great indeed!
Girt, Sovereign-like, within your Palace walls,
The Laws must beg admission! But, the pride,
With which your state o'erlook'd me, will instruct me,
'Till I find means to reach you.—

Bellmour.
I sent not for you
Thus to revive old hatred. 'Twas my meaning,
To set before your eyes the spreading misery,
From which a week's short respite may, perhaps,
Free Woodly, and myself, nor do you wrong.

Bargrave.
Oh, Sir!—no doubt; 'tis likely that seven days
Will pay a Bond, which twice seven months, and more,
Have drawn no interest for!—Woodly may claim
Some little pity.—He's a suffering tool,
Who fasts to feed your riots. But, for you,
No plea bears influence. What a mass of wealth
Loaded your youth! the toil of careful Ancestors!
And how it is consum'd, let thousands tell,
Whose lifted eyes and hands proclaim their wonder:
I dare not whisper it.—Men would think me mad;
And laugh to hear, that the once-liberal Bellmour
Is grown a niggard, now; and like a Miser,
Whines for a day of Grace,—and cries, 'twill ruin him
To pay his Creditors.

Bellmour.
Insulting wretch!
It grates my inmost soul to suffer this,
But my friend's fate depends on't. [Aside.]
You seem'd to speak
As if you pitied Woodly.—Give him liberty;
And let me fill the place to which you have sent him:
I ask no more.—For my own miseries,
Perhaps, they merit not,—I'm sure they scorn
What pity thou can'st give them.

Bargrave.
Pity to thee!
Who, not content to ruin thus thyself,
Hast beggar'd all, whom blood, or foolish friendship,
Attracted to thy vortex of destruction!
So ends our talk;—I'll hear no more, Sir!

Bellmour.
Nay, then,
Off, mean Hypocrisy! I'll make thee hear me,
In words which match thy malice.—Think, low Traitor!
From whom I learn'd that guilt, with which, but now,
Thy tongue reproach'd me! who, but the villain, Bargrave?

Bargrave.
Ha! villain! said you?—

[Offering to draw.
Bellmour.
Yes, the villain, Bargrave.—
Touch not thy sword!—Should'st thou unsheath it here,
Thy guardian Devil, too weak to save his Minister,
Should rise in vain between us!

Bargrave,
I'll hear thee out.—

Bellmour.
Who, but thyself, spread all those snares about me,
Which first entangled, then o'erthrew my virtue?
Who stain'd the native whiteness of my soul,
And spotted it with follies?—Think how the Bond,
Most fraudulently, and by shameful arts,
Was from my clouded reason won! when fumes
Of maddening wine had warm'd my yielding fancy,
Fit for a knave's impression!—Hast thou humanity?
And dost not feel a ruin thou hast caus'd?
Hast thou reflection?—and can'st thou sleep unstung?
Or, have the fiends, that haunt thy gloomy bosom,
Encased thy heart with steel? sear'd up thy conscience?
And left all Devil within thee?—

Bargrave.
Now, take breath;
And hear me tell the effect of this fine preaching.
I find myself, with all these black endowments,
Your master, and your scourge!—But that I scorn thee,
I could be angry.—Mark this silent witness.
Look on this Bond, and curse the woeful hour
That gave thy friend and thee to my disposal;
While I seek vengeance, not from words but action.

[Attempts to go out.
Bellmour.
By action did'st thou say? I thank thee, Bargrave!
Thou hast instructed me.—That fatal Bond
Shall never rise in Judgment against Woodly.
[Drawing his sword, and putting himself before the door;—Bargrave hastily putting up the bond to defend himself, drops it unperceived.]
Just Heaven, that hates oppression, points a way
To ease my wretchedness of half it's load,
By cutting thro' that chain that binds my friend.
Now, if thou dar'st defend thy villainies,
Unsheathe thy sword, and to this guarded door
Force thy wish'd passage thro' the breast of Bellmour.

[They fight and Bargrave falls.
Enter Courtney and Louisa.
Courtney.
What have you done? I fear'd this rash effect
Of rage but half suppress'd.

Louisa.
Was this my Bellmour? speak! was this the way
To ease our wretchedness?—Oh! this black chance
Sinks us still deeper, cuts us off from comfort,
And we can never, now, be happy more!

Bellmour.
Courtney!—'twere vain to wish this act undone.
[Takes up the bond.
Secret and sudden, like his guardian angel,
Let me entreat thee to convey this parchment
Into my Woodly's hand.—Say how it happen'd:
Tell him, whatever Fate may do with me,
I'm bless'd to give him freedom.

Courtney.
Collect yourself!—
Guard the doors well.—There's danger near:
I will not leave you long.—

[Exit.
Louisa.
Hence, Bellmour, fly!
One hour's delay prevents escape for ever.

Bellmour.
What would'st thou have me do?

Louisa.
Let me disguise thee.—
Then, thro' the Grove haste; and, in some poor Cottage,
Intreat a short concealment. There I'll find thee,
And we'll consult relief from all our woes.

Bellmour.
Fix'd as my fate I stand, unmov'd, t' expect it.
Seek thy own safety; I'll not stir, by Heaven!

Louisa.
Think how my peace of mind, my hope, my misery,
Depend on thine.—Thus, on my knees, I urge it.
Thou, being free, may'st find a thousand ways
To succour us; but, if thou fall'st, a Family,—
A lost! a friendless Family! falls with thee.
Oh! if I ever were belov'd by Bellmour,
If all my prayers, my vows, my tears, can move him,
Let him but grant me this;—let him but leave me:
Rain then a world of woes upon my head!
Let want, reproach, contempt, and all Life's agonies,
In ceaseless bitterness of soul, afflict me;
While thou art safe, if I but heave one sigh,
One breath of discontent escape my lips,
Curse me thyself, and make me lost indeed!

Bellmour.
Excellent woman!—rise.—To see thee thus
Is torture beyond bearing!

Louisa.
I'll not leave thee!—
Here, at thy feet thus, humbled as that dust,
Which I shall shortly be when I have lost thee,
Here will I grow for ever, 'till thou grant'st
This only prayer I make thee.

Bellmour.
Thou bid'st me fly:
What would'st thou I should fly from?

Louisa.
Danger and misery.

Bellmour.
With whom then must I leave that misery?
Must not thyself, and those three friendless wretches,
Whose being I was cause of, and who expect
Aid and protection from a Parent's hand;
While I escape, must you not all be left?
Hell glows in that hot thought! be left, expos'd
To all the miseries, which thou would'st have me
Fly, like a Coward from, and leave for innocents,
Who owe 'em to my baseness! no, Louisa!

Louisa.
[Rising.]
Lost, lost, for ever!

Bellmour.
No, there's a Judge on high,
Who sees thy goodness, and will sure preserve thee;
Come what Fate lists to me!—But, lov'd Louisa!
Give now my sorrows way; a solitary thought
Will teach me to resolve for life, or wish'd-for death!

[Exit.
Louisa.
Angels assist! inspire thy silent reasonings!
And from this labyrinth of woes conduct thee!
Dreadful our prospect!—yet, all may be well!
Heav'n cannot err!—oft' guides us in the dark;—
And, when we least expect, affords relief!

[Exit.