Barn. All that is possible for man to do for man your generous friendship may effect; but here, even that's in vain. my guilt, at length it will be known, and | public shame and ruin must ensue. In the mean time, what must be my life? Ever to Speak a language foreign to my heart; hourly to add to the number of my crimes, in order to conceal 'em. Sure such was the condition of the grand apostate, when first he lost his purity. Like me, disconsolate he wandered; and while yet in heaven, bore all his future hell about him. Enter TRUEMAN. True. Barnwell, oh! how I rejoice to see you safe! So will ur 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. Unless you knew the pain the whole family has felt on your account, you can't conceive how much you are beloved. But 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 same. Barn. What have I done, indeed! [Aside. True. Not speak!-nor look upon me!Barn. By my face he will discover all 1 would conceal. Methinks already I begin to hate him. [Aside. 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 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'n 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 alone; you have no interest in them, nor ought your concern for me to give you a moment's pain. True. You speak as if you knew of friendship nothing but the name. Before I saw your grief I felt it. E'en now, though ignorant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the heart. 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 for us both that now you loved me less. True. Sure but dream! Without a cause would Barnwell use me thus? Ungenerous and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall endeavour to follow your advice. [Going.] Yet, stay; perhaps I am too rash and angry, when the cause demands compassion. Some unforeseen calamity may have befallen him too great to bear. Barn. What part am I reduced to act? 'Tis vile and base to move his temper thus, the best of friends and men. [Aside. True. I am to blame; pr'ythee forgive me, Barnwell. Try to compose your rufiled mind; and let me know the cause that thus transports you from yourself; my friendly counsel may restore your peace. 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. Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [Aside. True. Then why am I excluded? Have I a thought I would conceal from you? Burn. If still you urge me on this hated subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again. True. 'Tis strange-but I have done say but you hate me not. Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet. True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. It's a blessing I never was worthy of, yet now must stand on terms; and but upon conditions can confirm it. True. What are they? Barn. Never hereafter, though you should wonder at my conduct, desire to know more than I am willing to reveal. True. 'Tis hard; but upon any conditions I must be your friend. Burn. Then, as much as one lost to himsel. can be another's, I am yours. [Embracing. True. Be ever so; and may Heaven restore your peace! But business requires our attendance: business, the youth's best preservative from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. Will you go with me? Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what has passed, and follow you. [Exit TRUEMAN.] I might have trusted Trueman, and engaged him to apply to my uncle to repair the wrong I have done my master :-but what of Millwood? Yet shall I leave her, for ever leave her, and not let her know the cause? she who loves me with such a boundless passion! Can cruelty 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. Thorow. Without a cause assigned or notice given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, young man, and I came to chide vou 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 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. This goodness has o'ercome me. [Aside.] Oh, Sir, you know not the nature and extent of my offence; and I should abuse your mistaken bounty to receive it. Though I had rather die than speak my shame, though racks could not have forced the guilty secret from my breast, your kindness has.. Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, this concern shows you're convinced, and I 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 life 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 hear what must give you such torment to reveal. Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts me! Thorow. This remorse makes thee dearer to me, than if thou hadst never offended. Whatever is your fault, of this I am certain, 'twas harder for you to offend, than me to pardon. Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to [Exit. wrong so excellent a man. Should I again return to folly ?-Detested thought! But what of Millwood then?-Why, I renounce her-1 give her up The struggle's over, and virtue has prevailed. Reason may convince, but gratitude compels. This unlooked-for generosity has saved me from destruction. [Going. Enter a FOOTMAN. Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in 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 thing alarms me! Guilt, what a coward hast thou made me! Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more sense than she thought he had. [Aside. Barn. Before you came, I had determined never to see you more. Mill. Confusion! [Aside. unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my absent, you would love me still; but to find resolution that so well becomes us both. Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, who have so many to wish we had never met! formed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds Mill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I deenjoyment? Nay, look again; am I not she whom yesterday you thought the fairest and the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus, while on my eyes you gazed with such delight, as if desire increased by being fed? Barn. No more: let me repent my former follies, if possible, without remembering what they were. Mill. Why? Barn. Such is my frailty, that 'tis dangerous. part. Burn. The thought of that already is too painful. SCENE II.-Another Room in THOROWGOOD's hope, at least, you do not hate me. Mill. If it be painful to part, then I may House Enter MILLWOOD, LUCY, and a FOOTMAN. Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you immediately. Mill. "Tis very well-I thank you. Enter BARNWELL. Barn. Confusion! Millwood! Mill. That angry look tells me, that here 1 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 now my only care. Burn. How did you gain admission? Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle to visit and deliver a message to you, we were received by the family without suspicion, and with much respect conducted here. Barn. Why did you come at all? Mill. I never shall trouble you more. come to take my leave for ever. Such is the I'm malice of my fate! I go hopeless, despairing ever to return. This hour is all I have left; one short hour is all I have to bestow on love and you, for whom I thought the longest life too short. Barn. Then we are met, to part for ever. Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time or absence shall ever put a period to my grief, or make me love you less. Though I must leave you, yet condemn me not. 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, Barn. No-No-1 never said I did-Oh, my heart! Mill. Perhaps you pity me? Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all. Mill. You may judge an embrace at parting too great a favour, though it would be the last. [BARNWELL draws back.] A look shall then Suffice-farewell-for ever. [Exeunt MILLWOOD and LUCY. Barn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquerI have conquered-Painful victory! Re-enter MILLWOOD and LUCY. Mill. One thing I had forgot-I never must return to my own house again. This I thought change, and you should seek in vain to find proper to let you know, lest your mind should I only came to give you this caution, and me there. Forgive me this second intrusion; that perhaps was needless. Barn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I must thank you for it. I am gone for ever. Mill. Alas! Barn. Humanity obliges me to wish you needless troubles? well; why will you thus expose yourself to quit the town immediately, and the kingdom Lucy. Nay, there's no help for it; she must as soon as possible. It was no small matter, you may be sure, that could make her resolve to leave you. Lucy. 'Tis really a pity there can be no way found out. Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions now? Lucy. Now, I advised her, Sir, to comply Mill. No more, my friend; since he for whose dear sake alone I suffer, and am content to suffer, is kind and pities me; where'er I wander, through wilds and deserts, benight-with the gentleman. ed and forlorn, that thought shall give me comfort. Barn. For my sake!-Oh, tell me how, which way I am so cursed to bring such ruin on thee! Mill. To know it will but increase your troubles. Barn. My troubles can't be greater than they are. Lucy. Well, well, Sir, if she wont satisfy you, will. Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression. to hear it. Barn. Begin, and ease my expectation. Lucy. Why you must know my lady here was an only child, and her parents dying while she was young, left her and her fortune (no inconsiderable one, I assure you) to the care of a gentleman who has a good estate of his own. Mill. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich enough; but what are riches when compared to love! Lucy. For awhile he performed the office of a faithful guardian, settled her in a house, hired her servants-But you have seen in what manner she has lived, so I need say no more of that. Mill. How I shall live hereafter, Heaven knows! Lucy. All things went on as one could wish, till some time ago, his wife dying, he fell violently in love with his charge, and would fain have married her. Now the man is neither old nor ugly, but a good, personable sort of a man; but I don't know how it was, she could never endure him. In short, her ill usage so provoked him, that he brought in an account of his executorship, wherein he makes her debtor to him- Mill. A trifle in itself, but more than enough to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he had stripped of all before. Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as herself, he compelled her to pass his account, and give bond for the sum he demanded; but still provided handsomely for her, and continued his courtship, till being informed by his spies (truly, I suspect some in her own family) that you were entertained in her house, and staid with her all night, he came this morning, raving and storming like a madman; talks no more of marriage (so there's no hope of making up matters that way), but vows her ruin, unless she'll allow him the same favour that he supposes she granted you. Barn. Must she be ruined, or find a refuge in another's arms? Mill. He gave me but an hour to resolve in: that's happily spent with you-And now I go Barn. To be exposed to all the rigours of the various seasons; the summer's parching heat, and winter's cold; unhoused, to wander friendless through the inhospitable world, in misery and want; attended with fear and danger, and pursued by malice and revenge. Wouldst thou endure all this for me, and can I do nothing, nothing, to prevent it? Barn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rather Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money. Barn. What am I about to do?- Mill. So, I may hope to see you there again? Barn. Answer me not, but fly-lest, in the agonies of my remorse, I again take what is not mine to give, and abandon thee to want and misery. Mill. Say but you'll come. Barn. You are my fate-my heaven, or my hell; only leave me now-dispose of me hereafter as you please. [Exeunt MILLWOOD and LUCY.] What have I done? Were my resolutions founded on reason, and sincerely made? Why then has Heaven suffered me to fall? I sought not the occasion; and, if my heart deceives me not, compassion and generosity were my motives. But why should I attempt to reason? All is confusion, horror, and remorse. I find I am lost, cast down from all my lateerected hope, and plunged again in guilt, yet scarce know how or why Such undistinguish'd horrors make my brain, ACT III. [Exit. Thorow. Well, I have examined your accounts; they are not only just, as I have always found them, but regularly kept and fairly entered. I commend your diligence: method in business is the surest guide. Are Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? He does not use to be the last on those occasions. True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, I thought, in some confusion. If you please, I'll go and hasten him. Thorow. I'm now going to the Exchange: let him know, at my return I expect to find [Exeunt. him ready. Enter MARIA, with a look. Sits and reads. Maria. How forcible is truth! The weakest mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and collected in itself, with indifference beholds the united force of earth and hell opposing. Such souls are raised above the sense of pain, or so supported that they regard it not. The martyr cheaply purchases his heaven; small are his sufferings, great is his reward. Not so the wretch who combats love with duty; whose mind, weakened and dissolved by the soft passion, feeble and hopeless, opposes his own desires.-What is an hour, a day, a year of pain, to a whole life of tortures such as these? Enter TRUEMAN. True. Oh, Barnwell! Oh, my friend! how art thou fallen ! Maria. Ha! Barnwell! What of him? Speak, say, what of Barnwell ? True. 'Tis not to be concealed: I've news to tell of him that will afflict your generous father, yourself, and all who know him. Maria. Defend us, Heaven ! True. I cannot speak it. See there. [Gives a True. Nothing more easy. But can you intend it? Will you save a helpless wretch from ruin? Oh, 'twere an act worthy such exalted virtue as Maria's! Sure Heaven, in mercy to my friend, inspired the generous thought. Maria. Doubt not but I would purchase so great a happiness at a much dearer price. But how shall he be found? True. Trust to my diligence for that. In the mean time I'll conceal his absence from your father, or find such excuses for it, that the real cause shall never be suspected. Maria. In attempting to save from shame one whom we hope may yet return to virtue, to Heaven, and you, the only witnesses of this coming my sex and character. action, I appeal whether I do any thing unbe True. Earth must approve the deed, and Heaven, I doubt not, will reward it. Maria. If Heaven succeeds it, I am well rewarded. A virgin's fame is sullied by susletter.picion's lightest breath; and, therefore, as this must be a secret from my father and the world, for Barnwell's sake, for mine, let it be [Exeunt. Maria. [Reads.] I know my absence will surprise my honoured master and yourself; and the more, when you shall understand, that the reason of my withdrawing is, my having embezzled part of the cash with which was entrusted. After this, 'tis needless to inform you, that I intend never to return again. Though this might have been known by examining my accounts, yet to prevent that unnecessary trouble, and to cut of all fruitless expectations of my return, I have left this from the lost GEORGE BARNwell, True. Lost, indeed! Yet how he should be guilty of what he here charges himself withal, raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never had youth a higher sense of virtue. Justly he thought, and as he thought he practised; never was life more regular than his. An understanding uncommon at his years; an open, generous manliness of temper; his manners easy, unaffected, and engaging. Maria. This and much more you might have said with truth. He was the delight of every eye, and joy of every heart that knew him. True. Since such he was, and was my friend, can I support his loss? See, the fairest, happiest maid, this wealthy city boasts, kindly condescends to weep for thy unhappy fate, poor, ruined Barnwell ! Maria. Trueman, do you think a soul so delicate as his, so sensible of shame, can e'er submit to live a slave to vice? True. Never, never: so well I know him, I'm sure this act of his, so contrary to his nature, must have been caused by some unavoidable necessity. Maria. Are there no means yet to preserve him? | so to him. SCENE 11.-A Room in MILLWOOD's House. Enter LUCY and BLUNT. Lucy. Well, what do you think of Mill- what he meant, was astonished at his impu- Blunt. That's much, indeed! But how did at this barbarous treatment, was preparing Blunt. But then, Millwood turned to her old arts of lying, swearing, and Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, redissembling; hung on his neck, wept, and swore 'twas meant in jest. The amorous her lap, and swore he had rather die than youth melted into tears, threw the money into think her false. Blunt. Strange infatuation! True. Oh, that there were! But few men recover their reputation lost, a merchant never. Nor would he, I fear, though I should find Just then, when every passion with lawless Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. him, ever be brought to look his injured mas-anarchy prevailed, and reason was in the ter in the face. Maria. I fear as much, and therefore would True. Tis considerable. I've marked it here, to show it, with the letter, to your father, at his return. Maria. If I should supply the money, could you so dispose of that and the account, as to conceal this unhappy mismanagement from my father? prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise raging tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood -what I tremble but to think on. Blunt. I am amazed! What can it be? attempt the life of his nearest relation, and Lucy. You will be more so to hear-it is to best benefactor. heard him speak of, as a gentleman of a large Blunt. His uncle! whom we Lave often estate, and fair character in the country where he lives. Lucy. The same. She was no sooner pos sessed of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, demanded this horrid sacrifice; Barnwell's near relation, whose blood must seal the dreadful secret, and prevent the terrors of her guilty fears. Blunt. "Tis time the world were rid of such a monster. But there is something so horrid in murder, that all other crimes seem nothing, when compared to that; I would not be involved in the guilt of it for all the world! Lucy. Nor I, Heaven knows. Therefore let us clear ourselves, by doing all that's in our power to prevent it. I have just thought of a way that to me seems probable. Will you join with me to detect this cursed design? Blunt. With all my heart. He who knows of a murder intended to be committed, and does not discover it, in the eye of the law and reason, is a murderer. Lucy. Let us lose no time. I'll acquaint you with the particulars as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE III-A walk some distance from Enter BARNWELL. Barn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of the day. Either the sun has slipped behind a cloud, or journeys down the west of heaven with more than common speed, to avoid the sight of what I am doomed to act. Since I set forth on this accursed design, where'er I tread, methinks the solid earth trembles beneath my feet. Murder my uncle! my father's only brother, and since his death, has been to me a father; that took me up an infant and an orphan, reared me with tenderest care, and still indulged me with most paternal fondness! Yet here I stand, his destined murderer.-1 stiffen with horror at my own impiety.-'Tis yet unperformed.-What if I quit my bloody purpose, and fly the place? [Going, then stops.] -But whither, oh, whither shall I fly? My master's once friendly doors are ever shut against me; and without money, Millwood will never see me more; and she has got such firm possession of my heart, and governs there with such despotic sway, that life is not to be endured without her. Ay, there's the cause of all my sin and sorrow: 'tis more than love; it is the fever of the soul, and madness of desire. In vain does nature, reason, conscience, all oppose it; the impetuous passion bears down all before it, and drives me on to lust, to theft, and murder. Oh, conscience, feeble guide to virtue, thou only showest us when we go astray, but wantest power to stop us in our course!-Ha! in yonder shady walk I see my uncle. He's alone.-Now for my disguise. [Plucks out a vizor.]-This is his hour of private meditation. Thus daily he prepares his soul for heaven, while I-But what have I to do with heaven?-Ha! no struggles, conscience Hence, hence, remorse, and ev'ry thought that's good; The storm that lust began, must end in blood. [Puts on a vizor, draws a pistol, and exit. SCENE IV-A close walk in a wood. Uncle. If I were superstitious, I should fear some danger lurked unseen, or death were nigh. A heavy melancholy clouds my spirits. My imagination is filled with ghastly forms of dreary graves, and bodies changed by death; when the pale, lengthened visage attracts each weeping eye, and fills the musing soul at once with grief and horror, pity and aversion. I will indulge the thought. The wise man prepares himself for death by making it familiar to his mind. When strong reflections hold the mirror near, and the living in the dead behold their future self, how does each inordinate passion and desire cease, or sicken at the view! The mind scarce moves! the blood, curdling and chilled, creeps slowly through the veins; fixed, still, and motionless we stand, so like the solemn objects of our thoughts, we are almost at present what we must be hereafter; till curiosity awakes the soul, and sets it on inquiry. Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power, Enter GEORGE BARNWELL, at a distance. seen every day, yet never understood but by the incommunicative dead, what art thou? The extensive mind of man, that with a thought circles the earth's vast globe, sinks to the centre, or ascends above the stars; that worlds exotic finds, or thinks it finds; thy thick clouds, attempts to pass in vain; lost and bewildered doubtful than before, of nothing certain but of in the horrid gloom, defeated, she returns more labour lost. [During this speech, BARNWELL sometimes presents the pistol, and draws it back again. Barn. Oh, 'tis impossible! [Throws down the pistol. UNCLE starts, and attempts to draw his sword. Uncle. A man so near me! armed and masked Barn. Nay, then there's no retreat. [Plucks a poniard from his breast, and stabs him. Uncle. Oh, I am slain! All gracious Heaven, regard the prayer of thy dying servant; blese, with the choicest blessings, my dearest nephew: forgive my murderer; and take my fleeting soul to endless mercy! [BARNWELL throws off his mask, runs to him, and kneeling by him, raises him. tyred uncle! lift up your dying eyes, and view Barn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, marlook so tenderly upon me-Let indignation your nephew in your murderer.Oh, do not lighten from your eyes, and blast me ere you die-By Heaven, he weeps, in pity of my woes. -Tears, tears, for blood. The murdered, derer-Oh, speak your pious purpose; proin the agonies of death, weeps for his muryou-He would, but cannot.-Oh, why with nounce your pardon then, and take me with such fond affection do you press my murdering hand?-UNCLE sighs, und dies.] Life, that hovered on his lips but till he had sealed my pardon, in that sigh expired! He's gone for ever-and oh! I follow-[Swoons away upon the dead body.] Do I still breathe, and taint with my infectious breath the wholesome air? Let Heaven from its high throne, in justice or in mercy, now look down on that dear, murdered saint, and me the murderer, and if his vengeance spares, let pity strike, and end my wretched being.- -Murder, the worst of crimes, and parricide, the worst of murders, and this the worst of parricides ! Oh may it ever stand alone accurst, [Exit. |