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Lucy. It was well you came, or, by what I can your deliverance; return to your house, and live perceive, you had lost him.

in peace and safety. Mill. That, I must confess, was a danger I did Mill. So, I may hope to see you there again? not foresee; I was only afraid he should have Barn. Answer me not, but fly, lest, in the come without money. You know, a house of en- agonies of my remorse, I take again what is not tertainment, like mine, is not kept without ex- mine to give, and abandon thee to want and mipence.

sery. Lucy. That is very true; but then you should Mill. Say but you will come ! be reasonable in your demands; 'ris pity to dis- Barn. You are my fate, my heaven or my courage a young man.

hell; only leave me now, dispose of me hereatMill. Leave that to me.

ter as you please. [Ereunt Millwood and Lucy.

What have I done? Were my resolutions Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money. founded on reason, and sincerely made? Why,

then, has Heaven suffered me to fall? I sought not Barn. What am I about to do?- -Now, you, the occasion; and, if my heart deceives me not, who boast your reason all-sufficient, suppose your compassion and generosity were my motives. Is selves in my condition, aad determine for ine; virtue inconsistent with itself, or are vice and virwhether it is right to let her suffer for my faults, tue only empty names; or do they depend on or, by this small addition to my guilt, prevent the accidents, beyond our power to produce, or to ill effects of what is past.

prevent; wherein we have no part, and yet must Lucy. These young sinners think every thing be determined by the event?" But why should in the way of wickedness so strange ! But II attempt to reason? All is confusion, horror, could tell him, that this is nothing but what is and remorse! I find I am lost, cast down from very common; for one vice as naturally begets all my late-erected hope, and plunged again in another, as a father a son. But he will find out guilt, yet scarce know how or why! that himself, if he lives long enough.

Such undistinguished horrors make my brain,

[ Aside. Like hell, the seat of darkness and of pain. Barn. Here, take this, and with it purchase

[Erit.

ACT III. .

SCENE I.-A Room in Thoroa'good's House. drugs : the late-found western world's rich earth

glows with unnumbered veins of gold and silver ThorowGOOD and TrueMax discovered (with

ore. On every climate, and on every country, Account Books) sitting at a Tuble. Heaven has bestowed some good peculiar to itThor. METHINKS I would not have you only self. It is the industrious merchant's business to learn the method of merchandise, and practise it collect the various blessings of each soil and clihereafter, merely as a means of getting wealth: it mate; and, with the product of the whole, to enwill be well worth your pains to study it as a

rich his native country.- -Well, I have examiscience, to see how it is founded in reason and ned your accounts; they are not only just, as I the nature of things : how it promotes humanity, have always found them, but regularly kept, and as it has opened, and yet keeps up an intercourse fairly entered. I commend your diligence. Mebetween nations, far remote from one another in thod in business is the surest guide; he, who nesituation, customs, and religion; promoting arts, glects it, frequently stumbles, and always wanindustry, peace, and plenty: by mutual benefits ders perplexed, uncertain, and in danger.--Are diffusing mutual love from pole to pole.

Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? True. Something of this I have considered, and He does not use to be the last on these occahope, by your assistance, to extend my thoughts sions. much farther. I have observed those countries, True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, where trade is promoted and encouraged, do not I thought in some confusion. If you please, I'll make discoveries to destroy, but to improve man- go and hasten him. I hope he has not been guilkind by love and friendship; to tame the fierce, ty of any neglect. and polish the most savage ; to teach them the Thor. I am now going to the Exchange ; let advantage of honest traffic, by taking from them, him know, at my return I expect to find him reawith their own consent, their useless superflui- dy.

[Ereunt. ties, and giving them, in return, what, from their ignorance in manual arts, their situation, or some

Enter MARIA with a book, Sits and reads. other accident, they stand in need of.

Mar. How forcible is truth! The weakest Thor. It is justlý observed: the populous east, mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and colluxuriant, abounds with glittering gems, bright lected in itself, with indifference beholds the pearls, aromatic spices, and health-restoring united force of earth and hell opposing. Such

souls are raised above the sense of pain, or so Mar. I fear as much, and therefore would nesupported, that they regard it not. The martyr ver have my father know it. cheaply purchases his heaven; small are his suf- True. That is impossible. ferings, great is his reward. Not so the wretch Mar. What is the sum? who combats love with duty; whose mind, weak- True. It is considerable; I have marked it ened and dissolved by the soft passion, feeble and here, to shew it, with the letter, to your father, hopeless, opposes his own desires

-What is an at his return. hour, a day, a year of pain, to a whole life of Mar. If I should supply the money, could you tortures such as these?

so dispose of that, and the account, as to con

ceal this unhappy mismanagement from my faEnter TRUEMAN.

ther? True. Oh, Barnwell ! oh, my friend ! how art True. Nothing more easy. But can you inthou fallen!

tend it?-Will yoa save a helpless wretch from Mar. Ha! Barnwell! What of him! Speak, ruin?-Oh, it were an act worthy such exalted say, what of Barnwell?

virtue as Maria's! Sure Heaven, in mercy to my True. It is not to be concealed : I have news friend, inspired the generous thought. to tell of him, that will afflict your generous fa- Mar. Doubt not, but I would purchase so ther, yourself, and all who know him.

great a happiness at a much dearer price. But Mar. Defend us, Heaven!

how shall he be found ? True. I cannot speak it. See there.

True. Trust to my diligence for that. In the

[Gives a letter. mean time, I will conceal bis absence from your Mar. (Reads.] I know my absence will sur father, or find such excuses for it, that the real prise my honoured master and yourself; and the cause shall never be suspected. more, when you shall understand, that the rea- Mar. In attempting to save from sharne, one son of my withdrawing, is my having embezzled whom we hope may yet return to virtue, to Heapart of the cash with which I was entrusted. Af-ven, and you, the only witnesses of this action, I ter this, it is needless to inform you, that I in-appeal, whether I do any thing unbecoming my tend never to return again. Though this might sex and character. have been known, by examining my accounts; True. Earth must approve the deed, and Heayet, to prevent that unnecessary trouble, and to ven, I doubt not, will reward it. cut off all fruitless expectations of my return, I Mar. If Heaven succeeds it, I am well rehave left this from the lost

warded. A virgin's fame is sullied by suspicion's

GEORGE BARNWELL, | lightest breath; and, therefore, as this must be a True. Lost indeed! Yet how he should be secret from my father, and the world, for Barnguilty of what he there charges himself withal, well's sake, for mine, let it be so to him. (Ereunt. raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never had youth a higher sense of virtue. Justly he thought,

SCENE II.-A Room in Millwood's House. and as he thought he practised; never was life more regular than his.--An understanding un

Enter Lucy and BLUNT. common at his years, an open, generous manliness of temper, bis manners easy, unaffected, and en- Lucy. Well, what do you think of Millwood's gaging.

conduct now? Mar. This, and much more, you might have Blunt. I own it is surprising: I do not know said with truth. He was the delight of every eye, which to admire most, her feigned, or his real and joy of every heart that knew him.

passion ; though I have sometimes been afraid True. Since such he was, and was my friend, that her avarice would discover her. But his

I support his loss? See, the fairest, happiest youth and want of experience make it the easier maid this wealthy city boasts, kindly condescends to impose on him. to weep for thy unhappy fate, poor, ruined Barn- Lucy. No, it is his love. To do him justice, well!

notwithstanding his youth, he does not want unMar. Trueman, do you think a soul, so deli- derstanding. But you men are much easier im. catc as bis, so sensible of shame, can ever sub- posed on in these affairs, than your vanity will mit to live a slave to vice?

allow you to believe. Let me see the wisest of True. Never, never. 'So well I know him, I you all as much in love with me as Barnwell is am sure this act of his, so contrary to his nature, with Millwood, and I will engage to make as must have been caused by some unavoidable ne- grcat a fool of him. cessity.

Blunt. And, all circumstances considered, to Mar. Is there no means yet to preserve him make as much money of him too?

True. Oh, that there were ! but few men re- Lucy. I cannot answer for that. Her artifice, cover their reputation lost, a merchant never. in making him rob his master at first, and the Nor would be, I fear, though I should find him, various stratagems by which she has obliged him ever be brought to look his injured master in the to continue that course, astonish even me, who face.

know her so well.

can

an end.

Blunt. But then you are to consider that the Blunt. Is it possible she could persuade him money was his master's.

to do an act like that? He is by nature honest, Lucy. There was the difficulty of it. Had it grateful, compassionate, and generous ; and been his own, it had been nothing. Were the though his love, and her artful persuasions, have world his, she might have it for a smile. But wrought him to practise what he most abhors ; those golden days are done: he is ruined, and yet we all can witness for him, with what relucMillwood's hopes of farther profits there are at tance he has still complied : so many tears he

shed over each offence, as might, it possible, Blunt. That is no more than we all expected. sanctify theft, and inake a merit of a crime.

Lucy. Being called by his master to make up Lucy. 'Tis true, at the naming of the murder his accounts, he was forced to quit his house and of his uncle, he started into rage; and, breaking service, and wisely flies to Millwood for relief from her arms (where she till then had held him, and entertainment.

with well-dissembled love, and false endearBlunt. I have not heard of this before : how ments), called her cruel, monster, devil, and told did she receive him?

her she was born for his destruction. She thought Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered it not for her purpose to meet his rage with her what he meant, was astonished at his impudence, rage, but affected a most passionate fit of grief, and, with an air of modesty peculiar to herself, railed at her fate, and cursed her wayward stars, swore so heartily that she never saw him before, that still her wants should force her to press him that she put me out of countenance.

to act such deeds, as she must needs abhor as Blunt. That is much indeed! But how did well as he. She told him necessity had no law, Barnwell behave?

and love no bounds; that therefore he never truly Lucy. He grieved; and at length, enraged at loved, but meant, in her necessity, to forsake her. this barbarous treatment, was preparing to be Then she kneeled, and swore, that, since by his gone; and making towards the door, shewed a refusal he had given her cause to doubt his love, sum of money, which he had brought from his she never would see him more, unless, to prove master's, the last he is ever likely to have from it true, he robbed his uncle to supply her wants, thence.

and murdered him to keep it from discovery. Blunt. But then, Millwood

Blunt. I am astonished. What said he? Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, return- Lucy. Speechless he stood; but in his face you ed to her old arts of lying, swearing, and dis- might have read, that various passions tore his sembling; hung on his neck, wept, and swore it very soul. Oft he in anguish threw his eyes towas meant in jest.—The amorous youth melted wards heaven, and then as often bent their beams into tears, threw the money into her lap, and on her; then wept and groaned, and beat his swore he had rather die than think her false. troubled breast : at length, with horror not to be Blunt. Strange infatuation !

expressed, he cried, — Thou cursed fair, have I Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. As not given dreadful proofs of love? What drew doubts and fears, followed by reconcilement, ever' me from my youthful innocence, and stained increase love where the passion is sincere; so in my then unspotted soul, but love? What caused him it caused so wild å transport of excessive me to rob my worthy, gentle master, but cursed fondness, such joy, such grief, such pleasure, and * love? What makes me now a fugitive from his such anguish, that nature seemed sinking with service, loathed by myself, and scorned by all the weight, and his charmed soul disposed to quit the world, but love? What fills my eyes with his breast for hers. Just then, when every pas-\' tears, my soul with torture never felt on this side sion with lawless anarchy prevailed, and reason death before? Why love, love, love! And why, was in the raging tempest lost

, the cruel, artful above all, do I resolve (for, tearing his hair, he Millwood prevailed upon the wretched youth to cried, I do resolve) to kill my uncle?' promise -what I tremble but to think of. · Blunt. Was she not moved? It makes me weep

Blunt. I am amazed! What can it be? to hear the sad relation.

Lucy. You will be more so, to hear it is to at- Lucy. Yes, with joy, that she had gained her tempt the life of his nearest relation, and best point. She gave him no time to cool, but urged benefactor.

him to attempt it instantly. He is now gone. If Blunt. His uncle! whom we have often heard he performs it, and escapes, there is more money him speak of as a gentleman of a large estate, for her; if not, he will never return, and then and fair character, in the country where he lives? she is fairly rid of him.

Lucy. The saine. She was no sooner possessed Blunt. It is time the world were rid of such of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her a monster. avarice, insatiate as the grave, demanded this Lucy. If we do not use our endeavours to prehorrid sacrifice. Barnwell's near relation, and vent the murder, we are as bad as she. unsuspected virtue, must give too easy means to Blunt. I am afraid it is too late. seize this good man's treasure; whose blood must Lucy. Perhaps not. Her barbarity to Barnseal the dreadful secret, and prevent the terrors well makes me hate her. We have run too great of her guilty fears.

a length with her already. I did not think her

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or myself so wicked as I find, upon reflection, / for my disguise. (Plucks out a vizor.) - This is

his hour of private meditation. Thus daily he Blunt. It is true, we have been all too much prepares his soul for Heaven; while I But

But there is something so horrid in murder, what have I to do with Heaven? Ha! no strugthat all other crimes seem nothing when com- gles, consciencepared to that : I would not be involved in the Hence, hence remorse, and every thought that's guilt of it for all the world.

good; Lucy. Nor I, Heaven knows. Therefore let The storin, that lust began, must end in blood. us clear ourselves, by doing all that is in our [Puts on the vizor, draws a pistol, and exit. power to prevent it. I have just thought of a way that to me seems probable. Will you join SCENE IV-A close Walk in a Wood. with me to detect this cursed design? Blunt. With all my heart. He, who knows of

Enter UNCLE. a murder intended to be committed, and does not Unc. If I were superstitious, I should fear some discover it, in the eye of the law and reason, is a danger lurked unseen, or death were nigh. A murderer.

heavy melancholy clouds my spirits. My imagiLucy. Let us lose no time; I will acquaint you nation is filled with ghastly forms of dreary graves, with the particulars as we go: [Exeunt. and bodies changed by death; when the pale

lengthened visage attracts each weeping eye, and SCENE III.-A walk at some distance from a fills the musing soul at once with griet' and borcountry seat.

ror, pity and aversion. I will indulge the thought.

The wise man prepares himself for death, by maEnter BARNWELL.

king it familiar to his mind. When strong retiecBarn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of tions hold the mirror pear, and the living in the day: Either the sun has slipped behind a cloud, dead behold their future self, how does each inor journeys down the west of heaven with more ordinate passion and desire cease, or sicken at than common speed, to avoid the sight of what the view! The mind scarce moves; the blood, I am doomed to act. Since I set forth on this curdling and chilled, creeps slowly through the accursed design, where'er I tread, methinks, the veins : fixed, still, and motionless, we stand, so solid earth trembles beneath my feet. Murder like the solemn objects of our thoughts, we are my uncle Yonder limpid stream, whose almost at present what we must be hereafter; hoary fall has made a natural cascade, as I pass till curiosity awakes the soul, and sets it on ened by, in doleful accents seemed to murmur quiry. Murder! The earth, the air, and water seemed concerned, But that is not strange: the world

Enter Barnwell, at a distance. is punished, and nature feels a shock, when Pro- Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power, seen vidence permits a good man's fall. Just Heaven! every day, yet never understood, but by the inthen what should I feel for him that was my communicative dead, what art thou ? The extenfather's only brother, and since his death has sive mind of man, that with a thought circles the been to me a father; that took me up an infant earth’s vast globe, sinks to the centre, or ascends and an orphan, reared me with tenderest care, above the stars; that worlds exotic finds, or thinks and still indulged me with most paternal fond- it finds, thy thick clouds attempts to pass in vain ; ness? Yet here I stand his destined murderer- lost and bewildered in the horrid gloom, defeatI stiffen with horror at my own impiety—It is ed, she returns more doubtful than before, of noyet unperformed—What if I quit my bloody pur- thing certain but of labour lost. pose, and Ay the place? [Going, then stops.] [During this speech, Barnwell sometimes preBut whither, oh, whither shall I fly? My master's sents the pistol, and draws it back again. once friendly doors are ever shut against me ;

Barn. Oh!''tis impossible. and without money Millwood will never see me

[Throwing down the pistol. more; and she has got such firin possession of [Uncle starts, and attempts to draw his sword.) my heart, and governs there with such despotic Unc. A man so near me! Arned and masksway, that life is not to be endured without her. Ay, there is the cause of all my sin and sorrow! Barn. Nay, then, there's no retreat. it is more than love; it is the fever of the soul, [Plucks a poignard from his bosom, and stabs and madness of desire. In vain does nature, reae

him. son, conscience, all oppose it; the impetuous Unc. Oh! I am slain. All gracious Heaven, passion bears down all before it, and drives me regard the prayer of thy dying servant ! bless on to lust, to theft, and murder. Oh, conscience with thy choicest blessings, my dearest vephew! feeble guide to virtue, thou only shewest us forgive my murderer, and take my fleeting soul when we go astray, but wantest power to stop to endless mercy ! us in our course! -Ha ! in yonder sbady [Barnuell throws off his mask, runs to him, walk I see my uncle-Ile is alone-Now und, kneeling by him, raises and chufeshim.

ed

Barn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, martyr- , and if his vengeance spares, let pity strike and ed uncle ! lift up your dying eyes, and view your end my wretched being.-Murder the worst of nephew in your murderer-Oh, do not look so crimes, and parricide the worst of murders, and tenderly upon me!-Let indignation lighten this the worst of parricides !- -Cain, who stands from your eyes, and blast me ere you

die.

-By on record from the birth of time, and must to its Heaven, he weeps, in pity of my woes.- -Tears, last tinal period, as accursed, slew a brother fatears for blood !- -The murdered, in the ago- voured above him: detested Nero, by another's nies of death, weeps for his murderer.—Oh, hand, dispatched a mother that he feared and speak your pious purpose; pronounce my par- hated: but I, with my own hand, have murdered don then, and take me with you- -He would, a brother, mother, father, and a friend, most but cannot- Oh, why, with such fond affec-loving and beloved. This execrable act of tion, do you press my murdering hand ?— [Un- mine is without a parallel.

-Oh, may it cle sighs und dies.]What, will you kiss me? stand alone, the last of murders, as it is the

-Life, that hovered on his lips but till he had worst ! sealed my pardon, in that sigh expired.- -He is The rich man thus, in torment and despair, gone for ever, and, oh! I follow

[Swoons Preferred his vain, his charitable prayer. away upon his uncle's dead body.) Do I still The fool, his own soul lost, would fain be wise breathe, and taint with my infectious breath the For others' good, but Heaven his suit denies. wholesoine air! Let Heaven, from its high By laws and means well-known we stand or fall; throne, in justice or in mercy now look down on And one eternal rule remains for all. [Erit. that dear murdered saint, and me the murderer,

ever

ACT IV.

SCENE I.- A Room in THOROW GOOD's House.

Enter ThorOWGOOD and Lucy. Mar. How falsely do they judge, who censure Thor. This woman here has given me a sad, or applaud, as we are afflicted or rewarded here! and, abating some circumstances, too probable an I know I am unhappy; yet cannot charge myself account of Barnwell's defection. with any crime, more than the coinmon frailties

Lucy. I am sorry, sir, that my frank confession of our kind, that should provoke just leaven to of my former unhappy course of life should cause mark me out for sufferings so uncommon and se- you to suspect my truth on this occasion. vere. Falsely to accuse ourselves, Heaven must Thor. It is not that; your confession has in it abhor. Then it is just and right that innocence all the appearance of truth. Among many other should suffer; for Heaven must be just in all its particulars, she informs me, that Barnwell has ways. Perhaps by that we are kept from moral been influenced to break his trust, and wrong me, evils, much worse than penal, or more improved at several times, of considerable sums of money. in virtue. Or may not the lesser evils that we Now, as I know this to be false, I would fain sustain, be made the means of greater good to doubt the whole of her relation, too dreadful to others ? Might all the joyless days and sleepless be willingly believed. nights that I have passed, but purchase peace for Mar. Sir, your pardon ; I find myself on a sudthee! What news of Barnwell?

den so indisposed that I must retire. Providence True. None; I have sought him with the great opposes all attempts to save him. Poor ruined est diligence, but all in vain.

Barnwell! Wretched, lost Maria! (Aside. Erit. Mar. Does my father yet suspect the cause of Thor. How am I distressed on every side! his absence?

Pity for that unhappy youth, fear for the life of True. All appeared so just and fair to him, ita much valued friend and then my child—the is not possible he ever should. But his absence only joy and hope of my declining life !

-Her will no longer be concealed. Your father is wise ; melancholy increases hourly, and gives me painand though he seems to hearken to the friendly ful apprehensions of her loss- -Oh, Trueman, excuses I would make for Barnwell, yet I am this person inforins me that your friend, at the afraid he regards thein only as such, without suf- instigation of an impious woman, is gone to rob fering them to influence his judgment.

and murder his venerable uncle. Mar. How does the unhappy youth defeat all True. Oh, execrable deed! I am blasted with our designs to serve him? Yet I can never repent horror at the thought. what we have done. Should he return, 'twill make Lucy. This delay may ruin all. his reconciliation with my father easier, and pre- Thor. What to do or think I know not. That serve him from the future reproach of a mali- he ever wronged me, I know, is false; the rest cious unforgiring world.

may be so too; there is all my hope.

True. Trust not to that; rather suppose all

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