Ran. Not out of Penryn, Sir; but to the strand, [storm To hear what news from Falmouth since the Of wind last night.

O. Wil. It was a dreadful one.

Ran. Some found it so. A noble ship from
India

Ent'ring in the harbour, run upon a rock,
And there was lost.

O. Wil. What 'came of those on board her? Ran. Some few are sav'd; but much the greater part,

'Tis thought, are perish'd.

O. Wil. 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?

Ran. I saw her pass the High-street, towards the Minster.

O. Wil. She's gone to visit Charlotte-She doth well.

In the soft bosom of that gentle maid, [race
There dwells more goodness than the rigid
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,
[great;
Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich and
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 observ'd of late,
Is tir'd, or exhausted-curs'd 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,
Though I have none to give him. Pr'ythee,
Randal,

How long hast thou been with me?
Ran. 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;
Though you, desponding, give him o'er for lost.
I am to blame. This talk revives your sorrow
For his absence.

O. Wil. That cannot be reviv'd,
Which never died.

Ran. 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. Wil. No more of that.-Thou'st serv'd me longer since

Without reward; so that account is balanc'd,
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.

Ran. Nay, I beseech you, Sir!-
O. Wil. With my distress,
In perfect contradiction to the world,

Thy love, respect, and diligence, increas'd;
Now all the recompense within my power,

Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?
Believe me, Sir, my honest soul abnors
The barb'rous thought.

O. Wit. What! canst thou feed on air?
I have not left wherewith to purchase food
For one ineal more.

Ran. Rather than leave you thus,
I'll beg my bread, and live on others' bounty
While I serve you.

O. Wil. 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.

Ran. "Tis true; I'm young,

And never tried my fortune, or my genius; Which may perhaps find out some happy

means,

As yet unthought of, to supply your wants.
O. Wil. Thou tortur'st me-I hate all obli-

gations

Which I can ne'er return. And who art thou,
That I should 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.

Ran. Be not offended, Sir, and I will go
I ne'er repin'd at your cominands before;
But, heaven's my witness, I obey you now
With strong reluctance, and a heavy heart.
Farewell, my worthy master!
[Going.

O. Wil. Farewell-Stay-
As thou art yet a stranger to the world,
Of which, alas! I've had too much experience,
I should, methinks, before we part, bestow
A little counsel on thee. Dry thy eyes-
If thou weep'st thus, I shall proceed no far-
ther.

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 reed'st not any ot! er.
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

And he who deals with mankind on the square,
Is his own bubble, and undoes himself. [Exit.
Ran. 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 be-
fore.
[Exit.
SCENE II.-A Parlour in CHARLOTTE'S House.
Enter CHARLOTTE and MARIA.

Char. What terror and amazement must they Who die by shipwreck? [feel

Mar. Tis a dreadful thought! Char. Ay; is it not, Maria? to descend, Living and conscious, to that wať'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 promis'd me to sing. Though cheerfulness 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 would hear
The song compos'd by that unhappy maid,
Whose faithful lover scap'd a thousand perils
From rocks, and sands, and the devouring
And after all, being arriv'd at home, [deep;
Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there,
And perish'd in her sight.

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 preserv'd in vain,
Though still ador'd;
Hadst thou died there unseen,
My wounded eyes had been
Sar'd from the direst scene

Maid e'er deplor'd.
[CHARLOTTE finds a letter.
Char. What's this?-A letter, superscrib'd
to ine!

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;

[honour

Patience shall cherish hope, nor wrong his 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, toss'd 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 accidents or absence, time or death.

Mar. And did your vows oblige you to supHis haughty parents, to your utter ruin? [port 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 And mourn for you, as you lament for them. admire, 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 im

[me.

By the least favour, though 'twere but a look,
I could have shown them, now refuse to see
"Tis misery enough to be reduc'd
To the low level of the cominon 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 complete? My wretched husband,

Tir'd 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 heaven, support him!
Agn. His fix'd love for me,

[fate,

Whom he would fain persuade to share his And take the saine, 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,

thinks,

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,wrapp'd 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 would not stake my happiness or On their uncertain credit, nor on aught [duty But reason, and the known decrees of heaven. Yet dreams have sometimes shown 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 multiplied afflictions,)
To mark each motion of our swelling hearts,
Lest we attempt to extricate ourselves,
And seek deliverance by forbidden ways;
To keep our hope and innocence entire,
"Till we're dismiss'd to join the happy dead,
Or heaven relieves us here.

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 through my
shiv'ring frame,
Trains,
And storms of hail, and sleet, and driving
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 unclos'd and watchful eyes,
That long had roll'd in darkness, dawn ap-
pear'd;

And I beheld a man, an utter stranger,
But of a graceful and exalted mien, [me.
Who press'd with eager transport to embrace
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, Though more obscure, is terrible indeed. Methought, we parted soon, and when I sought him, [there) You and his father-(yes, you both were Strove to conceal him from me: I pursued 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 Wil

mot!

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 Charlotte'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!-

I

Char. Excuse me; I have done. Being a dream,

thought, indeed, it could not give offence. Agn. You could 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.

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.

Wil. Welcome, my friend! to Penryn: here we're safe.

Eust. Then we're deliver'd twice; first from

the sea, [less, And then from savage men, who, more remorsePrey on shipwreck'd wretches, and spoil and murder those

Whom fatal tempests and devouring waves, In all their fury, spar'd.

Wil. It is a scandal,

Though 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.
Wil. 'Tis here, thank heaven!
Being in jewels, when I saw our danger,
I hid it in my bosom.
And wonder how you could command your
Eust. I observ'd you;
[thoughts,

In such a time of terror and confusion.

Wil. 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 numerous 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, E'en 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, choose to expire Where they first drew their breath.

Eust. Believe me, Wilmot,

Your grave reflections were not what I smil'd at; [land, I own the truth. That we're return'd to EngAffords me all the pleasure you can feel. Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you; Thinking of that, I smil'd.

Wil. O Eustace! Eustace!

Thou know'st, for I've confess'd to thee, I love; But, having never seen the charming maid, Thou canst 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 centre. Did you know
How much depends on this important hour,
You would not be surpris'd to see me thus.
The sinking fortune of our ancient house [try,
Compell'd me, young, to leave my native coun-
My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlotte;
Who rul'd, and must for ever rule, my fate.
O! should my Charlotte, doubtful of my
Or in despair ever to see me more, [truth,
Have given herself to some more happy lo-
ver!-

Distraction's in the thought!-Or should my parents,

Griev'd for my absence and oppress'd 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?

East. The wretch who fears all that is possible,

Must suffer more than he who feels the worst A man can feel, who lives exempt from fear. A woman may be false, and friends are mor

ta);

And yet your aged parents may be living, And your fair mistress constant.

Wi. True, they may;

I doubt, but I despair not--No, my friend!
My hopes are strong, and lively as my fears;
They tell me, Charlotte 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, cheer their sad
hearts,

And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want,
For ever from their board; crown all their days
To come with peace, with pleasure, and abun-
dance;

Receive their fond embraces and their blessAnd be a blessing to them. [ings,

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 unmix'd; And flatter and torment ourselves, by turns, With what shall never be.

Wil. I'll go this instant

To seek my Charlotte, and explore my fate. Eust. What! in that foreign habit?

Wil. 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 InThan a Briton. [dian,

Wil. 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.

Wil. When I have learn'd my doom, expect me there.

"Till then, farewell!

Eust. Farewell! success attend you!

ACT II.

[Exeunt.

SCENE I.-CHARLOTTE'S House. CHARLOTTE enters, in thought; and, soon after, SERVANT.

Serv. Madam, a stranger in a foreign habit Desires to see you.

Char. In a foreign habit

'Tis strange, and unexpected-But admit him. [Exit SERVANT, Who can this stranger be? I know no foreigner. WILMOT enters.

-Nor any man like this.
Wil. Ten thousand joys!

[Going to embrace her. Char. Sir, you are too bold-forbear, and let me know

What bus'ness brought you here; or leave the place.

Wil. Perfidious maid! am I forgot or scorn'd?

Char. Can I forget a man I never knew? Wil. My fears are true; some other has her

heart:

She's lost-My fatal absence has undone me. [Aside.

O! could thy Wilmot have forgot thee, Charlotte!

Char. Ha! Wilmot! say! what do your words import?

O gentle stranger! ease my swelling heart, What dost thou know of Wilmot?

Wil. This I know.

[spire

When all the winds of heaven seem'd to conAgainst the stormy main, and dreadful peals Of rattling thunder deafen'd ev'ry ear, And drown'd th' affrighten'd mariners' loud cries; [flames When livid lightning spread its sulphurous Through all the dark horizon, and disclos'd The raging seas incens'd to his destruction; When the good ship in which he was embark'd, [surge, Broke, and, o'erwhelm'd by the impetuous Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep, And left him struggling with the warring waves;

In that dread moment, in the jaws of death, When his strength fail'd, and every hope forsook him,

bling lips,

And his last breath press'd towards his trem[moan, The neighbouring rocks, that echo'd to his Return'd no sound articulate, but-Charlotte.