my he aid to me, you have done some good in your profession, more perhaps than many a clergyman who preached la sunday. I had for nine or ten years, at my benefit, a note sealed up with ten guineas, and these words," "a tride el gratitude from one who is highly obliged, and saved from ruin, by seeing Mr. Ross's performance of Barnweh." What will the virulent decriers of stage-plays say to this?

Thorow. Nay, 'twas a needless caution; I have no cause to doubt your prudence.

SANI L-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House:
Enter THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN.
True. SIR, the packet from Genoa is arrived.
[Gives Letters. tion.

Maria. Sir, I find myself unfit for conversation. I should but increase the number of the company, without adding to their satisfacThorow. Heaven be praised! the storm that Thorow. Nay, my child, this melancholy threatened our royal mistress, pure religion, must not be indulged. liberty, 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. paration on our part, as may, heaven concur- Solitude best suits my present temper. ring, prevent his malice, or turn the meditated mischief on himself.

True. He must be insensible indeed, who is not affected when the safety of his country is concerned. Sir, may I know by what means? -If I am not too bold

Thorow. You are not insensible, that it is chiefly on your account these noble lords do me the honour so frequently to grace my board. Should you be absent, the disappointment may make them repent of their condescension, and think their labour lost.

Thorow. Your curiosity is laudable; and I Maria. He that shall think his time or hogratify 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 chants, as such, may sometimes contribute to is that she is yours. The man of quality who the safety of their country, as they do at all chooses to converse with a gentleman and times to its happiness; that if hereafter you merchant of your worth and character, may steald 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 refecting on the dignity of our profession, tell you, that a young gentleman may prefer toa may with honest scorn reject whatever is your conversation to mine, and yet intend me unworthy 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 Iseft of your example, by our ill conduct for him to expect more pleasure in yours. I ag 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 Thorow. You compliment, young man. have been insipid and tiresome to me, if it Trueman bows respectfully] Nay, I'm not had deprived me of an opportunity of enjoytraded. As the name of merchant never de- ing your mother's. des the gentleman, so by no means does Maria. Yours, no doubt, was as agreeable exclude him; only take heed not to pur- to her: for generous minds know no pleasure se the character of complaisant at the ex-in society but where 'tis mutual. ase 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 sucthis time? cessful industry must all be thine. Now it Thorow. Only look carefully over the files, would give me pleasure, great as my love, to see whether there are any tradesmen's bills see on whom you will bestow it. I am daily aid; if there are, send and discharge 'em. solicited by men of the greatest rank and merit We must not let artificers lose their time, so for leave to address you; but I have hitherto ked to the public and their families, in un- declined it, in hopes that, by observation, I ssary attendance. [Exit Trueman. should learn which way your inclination tends;

Enter MARIA.

for, as I know love to be essential to happiness in the marriage state, I had rather my approbation should confirm your choice than direct it.

Well, Maria, have you given orders for the ainment? I would have it in some mea- Maria. What can I say? How shall I anworthy the guests. Let there be plenty, swer as I ought this tenderness, so uncommon of the best, that the courtiers may at least even in the best of parents? But you are withmend our hospitality. out example; yet, had you been less indulMaria. Sir, I have endeavoured not to wrong gent, I had been most wretched. That I look well-known generosity by an ill-timed on the crowd of courtiers that visit here, with equal esteem, but equal indifference, you have

moby.

observed, and I must needs confess; yet, had is capable of any action, though ever so vile; you asserted your authority, and insisted on and yet what pains will they not take, what a parent's right to be obeyed, I had submitted, arts not use, to seduce us from our innocence, and to my duty sacrificed my peace. and make us contemptible and wicked, even

Thorow. From your perfect obedience in in their own opinion? Then is it not just, the every other instance, I feared as much; and villains, to their cost, should find us so? But therefore would leave you without a bias in guilt makes them uspicious, and keeps them an affair wherein your happiness is so imme- on their guard; therefore we can take advandiately concerned. ' tage only of the young and innocent part of Maria. Whether from a want of that just the sex, who never having injured women, 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 Mill. Such a one I think I have found. As man who owns them to my affections. have passed through the city, I have often Thorow. I would not that they should, un- observed him receiving and paying considerless his merit recommends him more. A no-able sums of money; from thence I conclude 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 handsome? tage to a worthy one, and place his virtues in the fairest light.

Maria. I cannot answer for my inclinations; but they shall ever be submitted to your wisdom and authority. And as you will not compel me to marry where I cannot love, love shall never make me act contrary to my duty. Sir, have I your permission to retire? Thorow. I'll see you to your chamber.

[Exeunt. SCENE II.—A Room in MILLWOOD's House.

I

Mill. Ay, ay, the stripling is well made, and has a good face.

Lucy. About-
Mill. Eighteen.

Lucy. Innocent, handsome, and about eighteen! You'll be vastly happy. Why, if you manage well, you may keep him to yourself these two or three years.

Mill. If I manage well, I shall have done with him much sooner. Having long had a design on him, and meeting him yesterday, 1 made a full stop, and gazing wishfully on his Enter MILLWOOD and LUCY. face, asked his name. He blushed, and, bowMill. 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 tavern Mill. A conquest would be new indeed! I talked of honour and reputation, and in Lucy. Not to you, who make 'em every vited him to my house. He swallowed th day-but to me-Well, 'tis what I'm never to bait, promised to come, and this is the time expect-unfortunate as I am-But your wit expect him. [Knocking at the Door] Some and beautybody knocks. D'ye hear, I'm at home t

Mill. First made me a wretch, and still con- nobody to-day but him. [Exit Lucy] Les tinue me so. Men, however generous and affairs must give way to those of more co sincere to one another, are all selfish hypo-sequence; and I am strangely mistaken if th crites in their affairs with us; we are no does not prove of great importance to m otherwise esteemed or regarded by them, but and him too, before I have done with hin as we contribute to their satisfaction. Now, after what manner shall I receive him

hi

Lucy. You are certainly, madam, on the Let me consider-What manner of person a wrong side of this argument. Is not the ex-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 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 certainly, for we lay them under contribution. Mill. Slaves have no property; no, not even in themselves: all is the victor's.

Lucy. You are strangely arbitrary in your principles, madam.

Enter BARNWELL, bowing very low. Le
at a Distance.

Mill. Sir, the surprise and joy!
Barn. Madam!

Mill. This is such a favour~ [Advanci
Barn. Pardon me, madam!

Mill. I would have my conquest complete, Mill. So unhoped for! [Still advanc like those of the Spaniards in the new world; Barnwell salutes her, and retires in co who first plundered the natives of all the fusion.] To see you here-Excuse the wealth they had, and then comdemned the fusion

more.

wretches to the mines for life, to work for Barn. I fear I am too bold. Mill. Alas, sir, I may justly apprehend Lucy. Well, I shall never approve of your think me so. Please, sir, to sit. I am scheme of government; I should think it much much at a loss how to receive this honou more politic, as well as just, to find my sub-I ought, as I am surprised at your good 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,

Mill. That is the more surprising: few

are such religious observers of their word. forgive me, I should never forgive myself. Barn. All who are honest are. Mill. Am I refused by the first man, the Mill. 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

mean?

cident.

vours.

Barn. Her disorder is so great, she don't Barn. What shall I do? How shall I go or perceive she has laid her hand on mine. stay? Heavens! how she trembles! What can this Mill. Yet do not, do not leave me. I with [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 hereafter) excites 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 should desire to know your real sentiments hide. Barn. Oh, heavens! she loves me, worthless Barn. Madam, you may command my poor as I am. Her looks, her words, her flowing thoughts on any subject. I have none that I tears confess it. And can I leave her then? would conceal. Oh, never, never! Madam, dry up your tears; you shall command me always. I will stay here for ever, if you would have me.

on a very particular subject.

Mill. You'll think me bold.

Barn. No, indeed.

[Aside.

Mill. What then are your thoughts of love? Lucy. So, she has wheedled him out of his Barn. If you mean the love of women, virtue of obedience already, and will strip have not thought of it at all. My youth and him of all the rest, one after another, till she circumstances make such thoughts improper has left him as few as her ladyship, or myin me yet. But if you mean the general love self. we owe to mankind, I think no one has more Mill. Now you are kind indeed; but I mean fit in his temper than myself. I don't know not to detain you always; I would have you at person in the world, whose happiness I shake off all slavish obedience to your master; don't wish, and wouldn't promote, were it in but you may serve him still. ay power. In an especial manner, I love my uncle and my master; but above all, my friend.

Mill. You have a friend then, whom you love?

Bern. As he does me, sincerely.
Hill. He is, no doubt, often bless'd with
Your company and conversation.
Barn. We live in one house, and both
serve the same worthy merchant.

art

Ml Happy, happy youth! Whoe'er thou I envy thee; and so must all who see and w this youth. What have I lost by being krused a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had I been a man, I might perhaps have been as apy in your friendship, as he who now enit is; but as it is-Oh!

Barn. I never observed woman before; or this is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. [fside] You seem disordered, madam;-may Low the cause?

Lucy. Serve him still! Ay, or he'll have no opportunity of fingering his cash; and then he'll not serve your end, I'll be sworn.

Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table.
Mill. Come, sir, you'll excuse all defects.
My thoughts were too much employed on my
guest to observe the entertainment.

[Exeunt Barnwell and Millwood. Blunt. What, is all this preparation, this elegant supper, variety of wines, and music, for the entertainment of that young fellow? Lucy. So it seems.

Blunt. How! is our mistress turned fool at last? She's in love with him, I suppose.

Lucy. I suppose not. But she designs to make him in love with her, if she can.

Blunt. What will she get by that? He seems under age, and can't be supposed to have much money.

Lucy. But his master has, and that's the same thing, as she'll manage it.

Mill. Do not ask me-I can never speak it, whatever is the cause. I wish for things impale. I would be a servant, bound to the Blunt. I don't like this fooling with a handme master, to 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 herself.' ords and actions are! and the effect they Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would e on me is as strange. I feel desires I certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, er knew before; I must be gone, while there is something in youth and innocence Iz se power to go. [Aside] Madam, I humbly

Se my leave.

Mill You will not, sure, leave me so soon!
Barn. Indeed I must.

Mill. You cannot be so cruel! I have pre-
red a poor supper, at which I promised

your company.

that moves me mightily.

Blunt. Yes, so does the smoothness and plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire in the hawk to be the destruction of it.

Lucy. Why, birds are their prey, and men ours: though, as you observed, we are somewulf times caught ourselves. But that, I dare say, Barn. 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 sme hence. I never yet neglected his ser-know we all depend upon her.

Should she

He is so gentle, and so good a master, trifle away her time with a young fellow that should 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 this 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, the 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.

ACT II.

[Exeunt. Barn. Twill not be always thus. Friendship, and all engagements cease as circumstances and occasions vary; and since you once may hate me, perhaps it might be better

SCENE 1.-A Room in THOROWGOOD's House. 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, I 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.

Aside.

thing, and look my honest friend and injured Barn. What part am I reduced to act? master 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; to 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.

Enter TRUEman. True. Barnwell, oh how I rejoice to see you safe! So will our master, and his gentle daughter; who, during your absence, often inquired after you. Barn. Would he were gone! His officious love will pry into the secrets of my soul. [Aside.

True. Something dreadful is labouring in your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it admit no cure, and make it lighter by the part I bear.

Barn. Vain supposition! My woes increase by being observed: should the cause be known they would exceed all bounds.

True. So well I know thy honest heart guilt cannot harbour there.

True. Unless you knew the pain the whole
family has felt on your account, you can't
conceive how much you are beloved. But thought I would conceal from you?
why thus cold and silent?-When my heart
is full of joy for your return, why do you
turn away-why thus avoid me? What have
I done? How am I altered since you saw me
last? Or rather, what have you done-and
why are you thus changed? for I am still the

Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [Aside
True. Then why am I excluded? Have I

Barn. If still you urge me on this hate subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roo nor see your face again.

same.

Barn. What have I done, indeed! [Aside. True. Not speak!-nor look upon me!Barn. By my face he will discover all I would conceal. Methinks already I begin to hate him. [Aside.

True. Tis strange-but I have done - sa but you hate me not.

Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster ye True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. It's a blessing I never was worth of, yet now must stand on terms; and b upon conditions can confirm it.

True. What are they?

Barn. Never hereafter, though you shou wonder at my conduct, desire to know mo than I am willing to reveal.

True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; one whom till now I ever found so loving; whom yet I love; though his unkindness strikes at the root of friendship, and might destroy I must be your friend. it in any breast but mine.

Barn. I am not well. [Turning to him] Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes since you beheld 'em last.

True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swol with tears;-now they overflow. Rightly did my sympathizing heart forebode last night, when thou wast absent, something fatal to our peace.

Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. My troubles, whate'er they are, are mine

True. 'Tis hard; but upon any conditio

Barn. Then, as much as one lost to hims can be another's, I am yours. [Embraci

True. Be ever so; and may heaven rest your peace! But business requires our atte dance: business, the youth's best preservat from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. V you go with me?

Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect what has passed, and follow you. [Exit Tr man] I might have trusted Trueman, and gaged him to apply to my uncle to repair

diately.

House.

wrong I have done my master:-but what of SCENE II.—Another Room in THOROWGOOD'S Millwood? Yet shall I leave her, for ever leave her, 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 immecruelty be duty? I judge of what she then must feel, by what I now endure. The love of life, and fear of shame, opposed by inclination strong as death or shame, like wind and tide in raging conflict met, when neither can prevail, keep me in doubt. How then can I determine?

Enter THOROWGOOD.

Mill. 'Tis very well-I thank you.
[Exit Footman.

Enter BARNWELL.

Barn. Confusion! Millwood!

Mill. That angry look tells me, that here I am an unwelcome guest: I feared as much: the unhappy are so every where.

Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin content you?

Mill. Unkind and cruel. Lost myself, your happiness is now my only care.

Thorow. Without a cause assigned or notice given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, young man, and I came to chide you for it, but hope I am prevented. That modest blush, the confusion so visible in your face, speak grief and shame. When we have offended heaven, it requires no more: and to visit and deliver a message to you, we were with much respect conducted here. received by the family without suspicion, and

shall man, who needs himself to be forgiven, be harder to appease? If my pardon, or love, be of moment to your peace, look up secure of both.

Barn. How did you gain admission?
Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle

ever to return.

I'm

Barn. Why did you come at all? Mill. I never shall trouble you more. Barn. This goodness has o'ercome me. [4- malice of my fate! I go hopeless, despairing come to take my leave for ever. Such is the side] Oh, sir, you know not the nature and This hour is all I have left; offence; and I should abuse my mistaken 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 could not have forced the guilty secret from my breast, your kindness has.

extent of

your

Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, this concern shows you're convinced, and am satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt to an ingenuous mind: Some youthful folly which it were prudent not to inquire into. Barn. It will be known, and you'll recall your pardon, and abhor me.

Thorow. I never will. Yet be upon your guard in this gay, thoughtless season of your fe: when vice becomes habitual, the very power of leaving it is lost.

Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confessThorow. Not a syllable more upon this subject; it were not mercy, but cruelty, to Lear what must give you such torment to re

Teal.

me!

too short.

Barn. Then we are met to part ever.

Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time

or absence shall ever put a period to my grief,
leave you, yet condemn me not.
or make me love you less. Though I must

Barn. Condemn you! No, I approve your resolution, and rejoice to hear it; 'tis just, 'tis necessary;-I have well weighed, and found

it so.

Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn so unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my part; they must e'en play the scene betwixt themselves.

Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts [Aside. Mill. It was some relief to think, though Thorow. This remorse makes thee dearer absent, you would love me still; but to find to me, than if thou hadst never offended. this, as I never could expect, I have not learn'd Whatever is your fault, of this I am certain, to bear. was harder for you to offend, than me to pardon. [Exit. Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to wrong so excellent a man. Should I again return to folly?-Detested thought!-But what of Millwood then?-Why I renounce herMill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I degive her up-The struggle's over, and virtue La prevailed. Reason may convince, but gra- enjoyment? Nay, look again; am I not she formed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds Rade compels. This unlooked-for generosity whom yesterday you thought the fairest and bas saved me from destruction. [Going. the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus, while on my eyes you gazed with such deFoot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in light, as if desire increased by being fed?

Barn. I am sorry to hear you blame me in a resolution that so well becomes us both. Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you have none.

Enter a Footman.

The country desire to see you.

Barn. Who should they be? [Aside] Tell them I'll wait upon 'em. [Exit Footman] Methinks I dread to see 'em-Now, every ting alarms me!-Guilt, what a coward hast

dou made me.