« 이전계속 »
my be wid to me, you have done some good in your profession, more perhaps than many a clergyman who preached te d' I had for sine or ten years, at my benefi, & nole sealed up wiih ten guineas, and ihose words, "a tribei gutade (no one who is highly obliger, and saved from ruin, by seeing Mr. Ross's performance of Barn
What will the viralent decriers of stage-plays say to this ?
Thorow. Nay, 'twas a needless caution; I Sav L-A Room in THOROWGood's House.
have no cause to doubt your prudence.
Maria. Sir, I find myself unfit for converEnter THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN. sation. I should but increase the number of True. Sir, the packet from Genoa is arrived. the company, without adding to their satisfac
[Gives Letters. tion. Throw. Heaven be praised the storm that Thorow. Nay, my child, this melancholy thrextened our royal mistress, pure religion, must not be indulged. liters, and laws, is for a time diverted. By Maria. Company will but increase it. I this means, time is gained to make such pre-wish you would dispense with my presence. paratie of our pari, as may, beaven concur- Solitude best suits my present temper. ning: prerent his malice, or turn the meditated Thorow. You are not insensible, that it is missbief on himself.
chiefly on your account these noble lords do True. He must be insensible indeed, who is me the honour so frequently to grace my board. act affected when the safety of his country is Should you be absent, the disappointment may concerned. Sir, may I know by what means? make them repent of their condescension, and - I am not too bold
think their labour lost. Thorou. Your curiosity is laudable; and I Maria. He that shall think his time or hoi
grath it with the greater pleasure, because nour lost in visiting you, can set no real value from thence you may learn how honest mer- on your daughter's company, whose only merit chaols, as sach, may sometimes contribute to is that she is yours. The man of quality who tbe ujete cítheir country, as they do at all chooses to converse with a gentleman and times to its happiness; that if bereafter you merchant of your worth and character, may sérald be tempted to any action that has the confer honour by so doing, but he loses none. appearance of vice or meanness in it, upon Thorow. Come, come, Maria, I need not selecting on the dignity of our profession, tell you, that a young gentleman may prefer Fou may with honest scorn reject whatever is your conversation to mine, and yet intend me verity of it.
no disrespect at all; for though he may lose True. Should Barnwell, or I, who have the no honour in my company, 'tis very natural braefit of your example, by, our ill conduct for bim to expect more pleasure in yours. I ang any imputation on that honourable name, remember the time when the company of the must be left without excuse.
greatest and wisest man in the kingdom, would Thorox. You compliment, young, man. have been insipid and tiresome to me, if it [Truemen boæs respectfully) Nay, I'm not had deprived me of an opportunity of enjoyi doraded. As the name of merchant never de-ing your mother's. i Fahrs the gentleman, so by no means does Maria. Yours, no doubt, was as agreeable
escade hin; only take heed not to pur- to her: for generous minds know no pleasure duase tive character of complaisant at the ex- in society but where 'tis mutual. mair of your sincerity.
Thorow. Thou knowest I have no heir, no True. Sir, have you any commands for me child, but thee; the fruits of many years suc*, time?
cessful industry must all be thine. Now it Throw. Only look carefully over the files, would give me pleasure, great as my love, to te shether there are any tradesmen's bills see on whom you will bestow it. I am daily
d; if tbere are, send and discharge 'em. solicited by men of the greatest rank and merit " nust not let artificers lose their time, so for leave to address you; but I have hitherto srid to be public and their families, in un- declined it, in hopes that, by observation, I Telsary attendance. [Exit Trueman. should learn which way your inclination tends;
for, as I know love to be cssential to happiEnter MARIA.
ness in the marriage state, I had rather my
approbation should confirm your choice than **:, Maria, have you given orders for the direct it. ramcot? I would have it in some mea- Maria. VVhat can I say? How shall I anworthy the guests. Let there be plenty, swer as I ought this tenderness, so uncommon
. best, that the courtiers may at least even in the best of parents? But you are withsagt our hospitality.
out example; yet, had you been less indulNga Sir, I have endeavoured not to wrong gent, I had been most wretched. That I look wil-known generosity by an ill-timed on the crowd of courtiers that visit here, with
equal esteem, but equal indifference, you have
observed, and I must needs confess; yet, bad is capable of any action, though ever so v you asserted your authority, and insisted on and yet what pains will they not take, w a parent's right to be obeyed, I had submitted, arts not use, to seduce us from our innocen and to my duty sacrificed my peace. and make us contemptible and wicked, e
Thorow. From your perfect obedience in in their own opinion? Then is it not just, erery other instance, I feared as much; and villains, to their cost, should find us so? therefore would leave you without a bias in guilt makes them uspicious, and keeps th an affair wherein your happiness is so imme- on their guard; therefore we can take adv diately. concerned.
tage only of the young and innocent part Maria. Whether from a want of that just the sex, who never having injured wom ambition that would become your daughter, apprehend no danger from them. or from some other cause, I know not; but I Lucy. Ay, they must be young indeed! find high birth and titles don't recommend the Mili. Such a one I think I have found. man who owns them to my affections. I have passed through the city, I have of
Thorow. I would not that they should, un- observed him receiving and paying consid less his merit recommends him more. A no-able sums of money; from thence I conclı ble birth and fortune, though they make not he is employed in affairs of consequence. a bad man good, yet they are a real advan- Lucy. Is he bandsome? tage to a worthy one, and place his virtues in Mili. Ay; ay, the stripling is well made, the fairest light.
has a good face. Maria. I cannot answer for my inclinations; Lucy. About but they shall ever be submitted to your wis- Mili. Eighteen. dom and authority. And as you will not com- Lucy. Innocent, handsome, and about eie pel me to marry where I cannot love, love teen! You'll be vastly happy. Why, if y shall never make me act contrary to my duty. manage well, you may keep him to yours Sir, have I your permission to retire?
these two or three years. Thorow. I'll see you to your chamber. Mill. If I managé well, I shall have do
[Exeunt. with bim much sooner. Having long had Scene II.- A Room in Millwood's House. design on him, and meeting him yesterday;
made a full stop, and gazing wishfully, on 1 Enter Millwood and Lucy.
face, asked his name. He blushed, and, borMill. How do I look to-day, Lucy? ing very low, answered George Barnwell
. Lucy. O, killingly, madam! A little more begged his pardon for the freedom I ha red, and you'll be irresistible !—But why this taken, and told him that he was the person more than ordinary care of your dress and had long wished to see, and to whom I ha complexion ? What new conquest are you an affair, of importance to communicate at aiming at?
proper time and place. He named a taveri Mill. A conquest would be new indeed! I talked of honour and reputation, and i
Lucy. Not to you, who make 'em every vited him to my house. He swallowed 11 day—but to me-Well, 'tis what I'm never to bait, promised to come, and this is the time espect-unfortunate as I am-But your wit expect him. [Knocking at the Door] Som and beauty,
body knocks. D'ye hcar, I'm at home i Mill. First made me a wretch, and still con- nobody to-day but him. (Exit Lucy] Le tinue me so. Men, however generous and affairs must give way to those of more con sincere to one another, are all selfish hypo- sequence; and I am strangely mistaken if th crites in their affairs with us;
no does not prove of great importance tom otherwise esteemed or regarded by them, but and him too, before I have done with bir as we contribute to their satisfaction. Now, after what manner shall I receive him
Lucy. You are certainly, madam, on the Let me consider–What manner of person a wrong side of this argument. Is not the es- I to receive? He is young, innocent, and bas! pense all theirs ? And I am sure it is our own ful; therefore I must take care not to put hii fault if we han't our share of the pleasure. out of countenance at first.
Mill. We are but slaves to men.
Lucy. Nay, 'tis they that are slaves most Enter BARNWELL, bowing very low. Loc certainly, for we lay -them under contribution.
at a Distance. Mill. Slaves have no property; no, not even Mill. Sir, the surprise and joy! in themselves: all is the victor's.
Barn. Madam! Lucy. You are strangely arbitrary in your Mill
. This is such a favour- [Advancin principles, madam.
Barn. Pardon me, madam! Mill. I would have my conquest complete, Mill
. So unhoped for! [Still advance like those of the Spaniards in the new world Barnwell salutes her, and retires in com who first plundered the natives of all the fusion.) To see you here –Excuse the com wealth they had, and then comdemned the fusion wretches to the mines for life, to work for Barn. I fear I am too bold. more.
. Alas, sir, I may justly apprehend you Lucy. Well, I shall never approve of
Please, sir, to sit. I am scheme of government; I should think it much much at a loss how to receive this honour more politic, as well as just, to find my sub- ! ought, as I am surprised jects an easier employment.
in conferring it. Mill. It is a general maxim among the know- Barn. I thought you had expected me: ing part of mankind, that a woman without promised to come. virtue, like a man without honour or honesty, Mil. That is the more surprising: few me
at your goodne
are such religious observers of their word. forgive me, I should never forgive mysell. Barn. All who are honest are.
Mill. Am I refused by the first man, the Mil. To one another; but we simple wo- second favour I ever stooped to ask? Go then, men are seldom thought of consequence enough thou proud hard-hearted youth; but know, to gain a place in their remembrance. you are the only man that could be found, [Laying her Hand on his, as by ac- who would let me sue twice for greater fa
cident. Born. Her disorder is so great, she don't Barn. What shall I do? How shall I go or perceive sbe bas laid her hand on mine. stay? Heavens! bow she trembles! What can this Mill. Yet do not, do not leave me. I with mein?
[ Aside. my sex' pride would meet your scorn; but Mill. The interest I have in all that relates when I look upon you, when I behold those to you (the reason of which you shall know eyes-Oh! spare my tongue, and let my berealier) actes my curiosity; and were I blushes--this flood of tears too, that will force sure you would pardon my presumption, I its way, declare-what woman's modesty should sbaald desire to know your real sentiments bide. OD ? very particular subject.
Barn. Oh, heavens! she loves me, worthless Barn. Madam, you may command my poor as I am. Her looks, her words, her Bowing thoughts on any subject. I have none that I tears consess it. And can I leave her then? would conceal.
Oh, never, never! Madam, dry up your tears; Mill. You'll think me bold.
you shall command me always. I will stay Barn. Vo, indeed.
| here for ever, if you would bave me. Wilt What then are your thoughts of love? Lucy. So, she has wheedled him oui of his
Barn. If you mean the love of women, I virtue of obedience already, and will strip bare not thought of it at all. My youth and him of all the rest, one after another, till she urcumstances make such thoughts improper has left bim as few as her ladyship, or mye me yel. But if you mean the general love self.
[Aside. we use to mankind, I think no one has more Mill. Now you are kind indeed; but I mean o it in his temper than myself. I don't know not to detain you always; I would have you 1.1 person in ihe world, whose happiness I shake off all slavish obedience to your master; dzi wish, and wouldn't promote, were it in but you may serve him still. Dy power. In an especial manner, I love Lucy. Serve him still! Ay, or he'll have no my ecce and my master; but above all, my opportunity of fingering his cash; and then truend
he'll not serve your end, I'll be sworn. · Mul Yon bave a friend then, whom you
[ Aside. lerr
Enter BLUNT. Barn. As be does me, sincerely,
Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table. 12 Re is, no doubt, often bless'd with Mill. Come, sir, you'll excuse all defects. Tour company and conversation.
My thoughts were too much employed on my Darn. We live in one house, and both guest to observe the entertainment. serte the same worthy merchant.
[Exeunt Barnwell and Millwood. Mil flappy, happy youth! Whoe'er thou Blunt. What, is all this preparation, this art, I eny thee; and so must all who see and elegant supper, variety of wines, and music, 11.W this youth. What have I lost by being for the entertainment of that young fellow? 10ed a woman! I hate my, sex, myself. Had Lucy. So it seems. Inco a man, I might perhaps have been as Blunt. llow! is our mistress turned fool at --993 in your friendship, as he who now en- last? She's in love with him, I suppose. it is; but as it is-Oh!
Lucy. I suppose not. But she designs to Barn. I never observed woman before; or make him in love with her, if she can.
is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. Blunt. What will she get by that? lle seems 20] You seem disordered, madam ;--may under age, and can't be supposed to have 2. the cause?
Mill. Do not ask me-I can never speak it, Lucy. But his master has, and that's the Insiver is the cause. I wish for things im- same thing, as she'll manage it. . de
I would be a servant, bound to the Blunt. I don't like this fooling with a handmaster, lo live in one house with you. some young fellow; while she's endeavouring barn. How strange, and yet how kind her to ensnare him she may be caught berself. nds and actions are! and the effect they Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would
me is as strange. I feel desires 1 certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, ++ koew before; I must be gone, while there is something in youth and innocence e power to go. [Aside] Madam, I humbly that moves me mightily: fur leare.
Blunt. Yes, so does the smoothness and M. You will not, sure, leave me so soon! plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire un. Tadeed I must.
in the hawk to be the destruction of it. Wit. You cannot be so cruel! I have pre- Lucy. Why, birds are their
and men *}* poor supper, at which I promised ours: though, as you observed, we are somewf your company;
times caught ourselves. But that, I dare say, Ezen. I am sorry I must refuse the honour will never be the case with our mistress
. designed me; but my duty to my master Blunt. I wish it may prove so;, for you the bence. I never yet neglected his scr- know we all depend upon her. Should she fie is so gentle, and so good a master
, trifle away her time with a young fellow that culd I wrong him, though he might there's nothing to be got by, we must all starve.
Lucy. There's no danger of that; for I am alone ; you have no interest in them, nor ought sure she has no view in ihis affair but interest. your concern for me to give you a moment's
Blunt. Well, and what hopes are there of pain. success in that?
True. You speak as if you knew of friendLucy. The most promising that can be. 'Tis ship nothing but the name. Before I saw true, ihe youth has his scruples; but she'll your grief I felt it. E'en now, though ignosoon teach him to answer them, by stifling rant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to his conscience. Oh, the lad is in a hopeful the heart. way, depend upon it.
[E.reunt. Barn. Twill not be always thus. Friend
ship, and all engagements cease as circumACT II.
stances and occasions vary; and since you Scene 1.- A Room in TAORowgood's House. once may bate me, perhaps it might be better
for us both that now you loved me less. Enter BARNWELL,
True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause Barn. How strange are all things round would Barnwell use me thus ? Ungenerous me! Like some thief who treads forbidden and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall enground, and fain would lurk unseen, fearful deavour to follow your advice. [Going] Yet,
enter each apartment of this well-known stay; perhaps I am too rash and angry, when house. To guilty love, as if that were too the cause demands compassion. Some unforelittle, already have I added breach of trust. seen calamity may have befallen him, too great A thief! Can I know myself that wretched to bear. thing, and look my honest friend and injured Barn. What part am I reduced to act ? máster 'in the face? Though hypocrisy may 'Tis vile and base to move his temper thus, awhile conceal my guilt, at length it will be the best of friends and men. known, and public shame and ruin must ensue. True. I am to blame; pr’ythee forgive me, In the mean time, what must be my life? Ever Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind; to speak a language foreign to my heart; 10 and let me know the cause that thus transhourly add to the number of my crimes, in order ports you from yourself; my friendly counsel to conceal 'em. Sure such was the condition may restore your peace. of the grand apostate, when first he lost his Barn. All that is possible for man to do purity. Like me, disconsolate he wandered ; for man your generous friendship may effect; and while yet in heaven, bore all his future but
here, even that's in vain. hell about him.
True.' Something dreadful is labouring in
your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share Enter TRUEMAN.
your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it True. Barnwell, oh how I rejoice to see admit no cure, and make it lighter by the you safe! So will our master, and his gentle part I bear. daughter; who, during your absence, often Barn. Vain supposition! My woes increase inquired after you.
by being observed : should the cause be known Barn. Would he were gone! His officious they would exceed all bounds. love will pry into the secrets of my soul. True. So well I know thy honest heart
[Aside. guilt cannot harbour there. True. Unless you knew the pain the whole Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [.Aside family, has felt on your account, you can't True. Then why am I excluded? Have I conceive how much you are beloved. But thought I would conceal from you? why thus cold and silent?-When my heart Barn. If still you urge me on this hate is full of joy for your return, why do you subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roo turn away-why thus avoid me? What have nor see your face again. I done? How am I altered since you saw me True. 'Tis strange-but I bave done - sa last? Or rather, what have you done—and but you bate me not. why are you thus changed? for I am still the Burn. Hate you! I am not that monster ye
True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. What have I done, indeed! [ Aside. Barn. It's a blessing I never was worth True. Not speak!-nor look upon me!- of, yet now must stand on terms; and b
Barn. By my face he will discover all 1 upon conditions can confirm it. would conceal. Methinks already I begin to True. What are they ? hate bim.
[-Aside. Barn. Never bereafter, though you shou True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; wonder at my conduct, desire to know mo one whom till now I ever found so loving; than I am willing to reveal. whom yet Ilore; though his unkindness strikes True. 'Tis hard; but upon any conditions at the root of friendship, and might destroy I must be your friend. it in any breast but mine.
Barn. Then, as much as one lost to hims Barn. I am not well. [Turning to him] can be another's, I am yours. [Embraci Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes
since True. Be ever so; and may heaven reste you beheld 'em last.
your peace! But business requires our atte True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln! dance: business, the youth's best preservat with tears;--now they overflow. Rightly did from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. W my sympathizing heart forebode last night, you go with me? when thou wast absent, something fatal to our Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect peace.
what has passed, and follow you. [Esrit Tri Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. man] I might have trusted Trueman, and My troubles, whate'er they are, are mine gaged him to apply to my uncle to repair
I have done my master:- but what of SCENE II. - Another Room in ThorowGood's Milwood? Yet shall I leave her, for ever leave
House. ber, and not let her know the cause? she who Enter MilLWOOD, Lucy, and a Footman. loves me with such a boundless passion! Can Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you immecruelts he duty? I judge of what she then diately. most feel, by what I now endure. The love Mill. 'Tis very well—I thank you. of life, and fear of shame, opposed by incli
[Exit Footman. bation strong as death or shame, like wind and tide in raging conflict met, when neither
Enter BARNWELL. can presail
, keep me in doubt. How then can Barn. Confusion! Millwood! I determine?
Mill. That angry look tells me, that here I
am an unwelcome guest: I feared as mucb: Enter Thorowgood.
the unhappy are so every where. Thorca. Without a cause assigned or no
Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin con
tent you? tice given, to absent yourself last night was a Min. Unkind and cruel. Lost myself, your fault, young man, and I came to chide you happiness is now my only care. for it, but hope I am prevented. That modest blusb, the confusion so visible in your
Barn. How did you gain admission? face, speak grief and shame. When we have
Mill. Saying, we were desired by your uncle
to visit and deliver a message to you, we were offended beaven, it requires no more:
and shall man, who needs himself to be forgiven, with much respect conducted here.
received by the family without suspicion, and be barder to appease? If my pardon, or love,
Barn. Why did you come at all? be of moment to your peace, look up secure of both.
Mill. I never shall trouble you more. I'm Barn . This goodness has o'ercome me. [4. malice of my fate! I go hopeless
come to take my leave for ever. Such is the side] Oh, sir, you know not the nature and extent of my offence; and I should abuse
ever to return. This hour is all I have left; muistaken bounty to receive it. Though I had one short hour is all I have to bestow on love rather die than speak my shame, though racks and you, for whom I thought the longest life
too short. could not bave forced 'the guilty secret from
Barn. Then we are met to part ever. my breast, your kindness has.
Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, this concern shows you're convinced, and I
or absence shall ever put a period to my grief, ant satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt
or make me love you less. Though I must to an ingenuous miud: Some youthful lolly
leave you, yet condemn me not. which it were prudent not to inquire into.
Barn. Condemn you! No, I approve your Barn. It will be known, and you'll recall resolution, and rejoice to hear it; 'tis just
, Four pardon, and abhor me.
'lis necessary ;-I have well weighed, and found Thorox. I never will. Yet be upon your guard in this gay, thoughtless season of your
Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more if: when sice becomes habitual, the very
sense than she thought he had. Aside. power of leaving it is lost.
Barn. Before you came, I had determined barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess
never to see you more. Thorow. Not a syllable more upon this
[Aside. subject: it were not mercy, but cruelty, to
Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn Lear what must give you such torment to re
so unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my, part; they must e’en play the scene be
[Aside. barn . This generosity amazes and distracts twist themselves.
Mill. It was some relief to think, though Thorox. This remorse makes thee dearer absent, you would love me still; but to find 13 me, than if thou badsl never offended. this, as I never could expect, I have not learn'd
to bear. bateser is your fault, of this I am certain, iwas harder for you to offend, than me lo
Barn. I am sorry to hear you blame me
lin a resolution that so well becomes us both.
[Exit. Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to
Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you
have none. trong so excellent a man. Should I again Idun to folly?-Delested thought!—But what who have so many to wish we had never met!
Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, o Millwood ihen?-Why I renounce herI give her
Mill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I de"The struggle's over, and virtue formed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds
upade compels. This unlooked-for gener Ssity enjoyment? Nay, look again; am I not she - saved me from destruction. [Going
whom yesterday you thought the fairest and the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling
with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus, Enter a Foolinan.
while on my eyes you gazed with such deFoot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in light, as if desire increased by being fed? the country desire to see you.
Barn. No more: let me repent my former Barn. Who should they be? [Aside] Tell follies, if possible, without remembering what tem !! wait upon 'em. [Exit Foolman] they were. Whiuks I dread to see, 'em-Now, every Mill. Why? laing alarms me!-Guill, what a coward hast Barn. Such is my frailiy, that 'tis danger
thou made me.