THE story of this piece is very simple and affecting, and is said to have been founded on a fact which happened on the western coast of England. The circumstance of a son, long absent from his parents, keeping himself, on his return to visit them, for some time unknown, is unforced; while at the same time their inducement, from the depth of distress and penury, to perpetrate his murder, for the sake of the treasures he had shown them, is productive of some very fine scenes of intermingled horror and tenderness. Mr. Lillo rendered the distresses of comnon and domestic life as interesting to the audience, as those of kings and heroes; and the ruin brought on private families by an indulgence of avarice, lust, &c. as the havoc made in states and empires by ambition, cruelty, er tyranny. His George Barnwell, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham, are all planned on common and well-known stories; yet they have always drawn tears from the audience, and even the critics have laid down their pens to take out the handkerchief.
Enjoys the sad prerogative above him,
SCENE I-A Room in OLD WILMOT's House. To think, and to be wretched.-What is life,
O. Wi. The day is far advanc'd; the cheerful
Pursues with vigour his repeated course; No labour lessens, nor no time decays His strength or splendour: evermore the same, From age to age his influence sustains Dependent worlds, bestows both life and motion On the dull mass that forms their dusky orbs, Cheers them with heat, and gilds them with brightness.
Yet man, of jarring elements compos'd,
To him that's born to die! or what that wisdom, Whose perfection ends in knowing we know nothing!
Mere contradiction all! a tragic farce, Tedious though short, and without art elab'rate. Ridiculously sad-
Enter RANDAL. Where hast been, Randal?
Ran. Not out of Penryn, Sir; but to the strand, To hear what news from Falmouth since the
Who posts from change to change, from the first O. Wil. It was a dreadful one.
Of his frail being till his dissolution,
Ran. Some found it so. A noble ship from
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 perished,
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 '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, There dwells more goodness than the rigid race 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,
Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich and great; 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,
Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity ? Believe me, Sir, my honest soul abhors The barb'rous thought.
O. Wil. What! canst thou feed on air? I have have not left wherewith to purchase food For one meal 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 obligations
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 commands before; But, heaven's my witness, I obey you now With strong reluctance and a heavy heart. Farewell, my worthy master! O. Wil. Farewell-Stay-
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!-As thou art yet a stranger to the world, 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! 1 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.
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 farther. 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 need'st not any other. 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
Thy own advantage, at that man's expense Who shall be weak enough to think thee honest. Ran. You mock me, sure.
O. Wil. I never was more serious.
Ran. Why should you counsel what you scorn'd to practise?
O. Wil. No more of that.—Thou'st serv'd me O. Wil. Because that foolish scorn has been 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, refused to leave
I've been an idiot, but would have thee wiser, And treat mankind, as they would treat thee,
As they deserve, and I've been treated by 'em. Thou'st seen, by me, and those who now despise
How men of fortune fall, and beggars rise; Shun my example; treasure up my precepts; The world's before thee-be a knave and prosper. What, art thou dumb? [After a long pause. Ran. Amazement ties my tongue. Where are your former principles?
Suppose I have renounc'd 'em: I have passions, And love thee still; therefore would have thee
Ran. Is this the man I thought so wise and | Patience shall cherish hope, nor wrong his honour just?
What! teach and counsel me to be a villain! Sure grief has made him frantic, or some fiend Assumed his shape-I shall suspect my senses. High-minded he was ever, and improvident; Bat pitiful and generous to a fault:
Pleasure he loved, but honour was his idol. 0, 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 charmed be- [Exit.
SCENE II.—A Parlour in CHARLOTTE's House.
Enter CHARLOTTE and MARIA.
Char. What terror and amazement must they [feel Who die by shipwreck?
Mar. 'Tis a dreadful thought!
Char. Ay; is it not, Maria ? to descend, Living and conscious, to that wat'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 promised me to sing. Though cheerfulness and I have long been stran-
Harmonious sounds are still delightful to me. There's sure no passion in the human sou!,, But finds its food in music-I would hear The song composed by that unhappy maid, Whose faithful lover 'scap'd a thousand perils From rocks, and sands, and the devouring deep: And after all, being arrived at home, Passing a narrow brook, was drowned there, And perished in her sight.
Mar. Cease, cease, heart-easing tears; Adieu, you flutt'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,
Dear cause of all my pain, On the wide stormy main, Thou wast preserved in vain, Though still ador'd;
Hadst thou died there unseen.
My wounded eyes had been Sav'd from the direst scene
Maid e'er deplor'd. [CHARLOTTE finds a letter. Char. What's this? A letter, superscribed
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
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, tossed with tempests, still endures its rage, No second choice shall violate my vows; High heaven, which heard them, and abhors the perjured,
Can witness, they were made without reserve; Never to be retracted, ne'er dissolved By accidents or absence, time or death.
Mar. And did your vows oblige you to support His haughty parents, to your utter ruin? Well may you weep to think on what you've
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 admire, }
And mourn for you, as you lament for them. 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 gained Humility, I'm richer for my loss.
Mar. You have the heavenly art, still to im
Agn. Few else would think it so:
Those who would once have thought themselves
By the least favour, though 'twere but a look, I could have shown them, now refuse to see me. 'Tis misery enough to be reduced
To the low level of the common 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 con- tempt;
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 hus-
Tired with our woes, and hopeless of relief,
Char. No matter whence-return it back un- Grows sick of life.
I have no love, no charms, but for my Wilmot,
Mar. Alas! Wilmot's dead;
And, urged by indignation and despair, Would plunge into eternity at once, By foul self-murder.
Char. Gracious heaven, support him! Agn. His fixed love for me,
Whom he would fain persuade to share his fate,
« EelmineJätka » |