A TRAGEDY, IN FIVE ACTS.-BY GEORGE LILLO. ACT I. Persons Represented. TRUEMAN. SCENE I-A Room in Thorowgood's house. Enter THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN. True. Sir, the packet from Genoa is arrived. (Gives letters.) Thor. Heaven be praised, the storm that threatened our royal mistress, pure religion, liberty, and laws, is for a time diverted; by which means, time is gained to make such preparations on our part as may, heaven concurring, prevent his malice, or turn the meditated mischief on himself. True. He must be insensible indeed, who is not MILLWOOD. LUCY. MARIA. affected when the safety of his country is con. cerned. Sir, may I know by what means-if I am too bold Thor. Your curiosity is laudable; and at some future period I shall gratify it with the greater pleasure, because from thence you may learn how honest merchants, as such, may sometimes contribute to the safety of their country, as they do at all times to its happiness; that if hereafter you should be tempted to any action that has the appearance of vice or meanness in it, upon reflecting on the dignity of our profession, you may with honest scorn rejcct whatever is unworthy of it. True. Should Barnwell or I, who have the benefit of your example, by our ill conduct bring any im- | tends; for as I know love to be es sential to happiputation on that honourable name, we must be left ness in the marriage state, I had rather my without excuse. approbation should confirm your choice than direct it. Thor. You compliment, young man. (Trueman bows respectfully.) Nay, I am not offended. As the name of merchant never degrades the gentleman, so by no means docs it exclude him; only take heed not to purchase the character of complaisance at the expense of your sincerity. True. Well, sir, have you any commands for me at this time? Thor. Only to look carefully over the files, to see whether there are any tradesman's bills unpaid; and if there are, to send and discharge them. We must not let artificers lose their time, so useful to the public and their families, in unnecessary attendance. Enter MARIA. [Exit Trueman. Thor. Well, Maria, have you given orders for the entertainment? I would have it in some measure worthy the guests. Let there be plenty, and of the best; that the courtiers, though they should deny us citizens politeness, may at least commend our hospitality. Maria. Sir, I have endeavoured not to wrong your well-known generosity by an ill-timed parsi mony. Thor. Nay, it was a needless caution; I have no cause to doubt your prudence. Maria. What can I say? how shall I answer as I ought this tenderness, so uncommon, even in the best of parents? But you are without example; yet, had you been less indulgent, I had been most wretched. That I look on the crowd of courtiers that visit here with equal esteem, but equal indifference, you have observed, and I must needs confess: yet, had you asserted your authority, and insisted on a parent's right to be obeyed, I had submitted, and to my duty sacrificed my peace. Thor. From your perfect obedience in every other instance, I feared as much, and therefore would leave you without a bias in an affair wherein your happiness is so immediately concerned. Maria. Whether from a want of that just ambition that would become your daughter, or from some other cause, I know not; but I find high birth and titles do not recommend the man who owns them to my affections. Thor. I would not that they should, unless his merit recommends him more. A noble birth and fortune, though they make not a bad man good, yet they are a real advantage 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, so love shall never make me act contrary to my duty. Sir, have I your permisto retire? Thor. I'll see you to your chamber. Maria. Sir, I find myself upfit for conversation at present: I should but increase the number of the company, without adding to their satisfac-sion tion. Thor. Nay, my child, this melancholy must not be indulged. Maria. Company will but increase it. I wish you would dispense with my absence; solitude Best suits my present temper. Thor. You are not insonsible 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 their condescension, and think their labour lost. Maria. He that shall think his time or honour lost in visiting you, can set no real value on your daughter's company, whose only merit is that she is yours. The man of quality, who chooses to converse with a gentleman and merchant of your worth and character, may confer honour by so doing, but he loses none. Thor. Come, come, Maria, I need not tell you that a young gentleman may prefer your conversation to mine, and yet intend me no disrespect at all; for though he may lose no honour in my company, it is very natural for him to expect more pleasure in yours. I remember the time when the company of the greatest and wisest man in the kingdom would have been insipid and tiresome to me if it had deprived me of an opportunity of enjoying your mother's. Maria. Yours, no doubt, was as agreeable to her; for generous minds know no pleasure in society but where it is mutual. Thor. Thou knowest I have no heir, no child but thee; the fruits of many years' successful industry must all be thine; now it would give me pleasure great as my love, to see on whom you would bestow it. I am daily solicited by men of the greatest rank and merit for leave to address you; but I have hitherto declined it, in hopes that by observation I should learn which way your inclination [Exeunt SCENE II-A Room in Millwood's House. MILLWOOD discovered; LUCY waiting. Mill. How do I look to-day, Lucy? Lucy. O, killingly, madam! A little more red, and you'll be irresistible! But why this more than ordinary care of your dress and complexion? What new conquest are you aiming at? Mill. A conquest would be new indeed; Lucy. Not to you, who make them every day,but to me. Well, it is what I'm never to expect, unfortunate as I am: but your wit and beauty – Mill. First made me a wretch, and still continue me so. Men, however generous or sincere to one another, are all selfish hypocrites in their affairs with us. We are no otherwise esteemed or regarded by them, but as we contribute to their satisfaction. It is a general maxim among the knowing part of mankind, that a woman without virtue, like a man without honour or honesty, is capable of any action, though never so vile: and yet what pains will they not take, what arts not use, to seduce us from our innocence, and make us contemptible and wicked, even in their own opinions? Then is it not just, the villains, to their cost, should find us so? But guilt makes them suspicious, and keeps them on their guard; therefore, we can take advantage only of the young and innocent part of the sex, who, having never injured women, apprehend no injury from them. Lucy. Ay, they must be young indeed. Mill. Such a one, I think, I have found. As I've passed through the city, I have often observed him receiving and paying considerable sums of money; from thence I conclude he is employed in affairs of consequence, Lucy. Innocent, handsome, and about eighteen! you will 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, I made a full stop and, gazing wistfully on his face, asked him his name: he blushed, and bowing very low, answered, George Barnwell. I begged his pardon for the freedom I had taken, and told him that he was the person I had long wished to sec, and to whom I had an affair of importance to communicate, at a proper time and place. He named a tavern; I talked of honour and reputation, and invited him to my house: he swallowed the bait, promised to come, and this is the time I expect him. (Knocking at the door.) Somebody knocks: d'ye hear? I'm at home to nobody to-day but him. [Exit Lucy.] Less affairs must give way to those of more consequence; and I am strangely mistaken if this does not prove of great importance to me and him, too, before I have done with him. Now, after what manner shall I receive him? Let me considerwhat manner of person am I to receive? He is young, innocent, and bashful; therefore I must take care not to put him out of countenance at first. But, then, if I have any skill in physiognomy, he is amorous: and with a little assistance, will Soon get the better of his modesty. I will trust to nature, who does wonders in these matters. If to seem what one is not, in order to be the better liked for what one really is; if to speak one thing, and mean the direct contrary, be art in woman, then I know nothing of nature. Enter BARNWELL, bowing very low; LUCY at a distance. Bern. Pardon me, madam, (Advancing.) Mill. So unhoped for,- (Still advances: Barnwell salutes her, and retires in confusion.) To see you here-excuse the confusion Barn. I fear I am too bold. know your real sentiments on a very particular affair. Barn. Madam, you may command my poor thoughts on any subject: i have none that I would conceal. Mill. You'll think me bold. Mill. What, then, are your thoughts of love? Barn. If you mean the love of woman, I have not thought of it at all. My youth and circumstances make such thoughts improper in me yet; but, if you mean the general love we owe mankind, I think no one has more of it in his temper than myself. I do not know that person in the world whose happiness I do not wish, and would not promote, were it in my power. in an especiai manner, I love my uncle and my master; but above all, my friend. Mill. You have a friend, then, whom you love? Barn. Ashe does me, sincerely. Mill. He is, no, floubt, often blessed with your company and conversation? Barn. We live in one house together, and both erve the same worthy merchant. Mill. Happy, happy youth! whoe'er thon art, I envy thee, and so must all, who see and know this youth. (Aside.) What have I lost, by being formed a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had I been a man, I might, perhaps, have been as happy in your friendship as he who now enjoys it; but an it is-Oh! Barn. I never observed women before, or thig is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. (Aside) You seem disordered, m.dam; may I know the cause? Mill. Do not ask me, I can never speak it, whatever is the cause; I wish for things impossible, I would be a servant, bound to the same inaster as you are, to live in one house with you. Barn. How strange, and yet how kind, her words is as strange! I feel desires I never knew before: I must be gone, while I have power to go. (Aside.) Madam, I humbly take my leave. Mill. You will not, sure, leave me so soon? Mill. You cannot be so cruel. I have prepared a poor supper, at which I promised myself company. your Barn. I am sorry I must refuse the honour or calls you designed me; but my duty to my maservice; he me hence. I never yet neglected hir, that should I wrong him, though he migh Mill. Alas! sir, all my apprehensions proceed is so gentle, and so good a matorgive me, I should from the fear of your thinking me so. Please, sir, to sit. I am as much at a loss how to receive this bonour as I ought, as I am surprised at your good-/ never forgive mystised, by the first man, the second ness in conferring it. Barn. I thought you had expected me; 1 pro mised to come. Mill. This is the more surprising; few men are such religious observers of their word. Barn. All who are honest are. Mill. To one another; but we silly women are seldom thought of consequence enough to gain a place in your remembrance. (Laying her hand on hus. as if by accident.) Barn. Her disorder is so great, she don't perceive she has laid her hand on mine, Heaven, how she trembles! What can this mean? (Aside.) Mill. The interest I have in all that relates to you, (the reason of which you shall know hereafter) excites my curiosity; and, were I sure you would pardon may presumption, I should desire to Mill. Am T Go, then, proud, hard-hearted youth! But know, you thou avour ever stooped to ask? the only man that could be found, who would let me sue twice for greater favours. Barn. What shall I do?-How, shall I go or stay? (A side.) Mill. Yet do not, do not leave met I wish my look upon you, when I behold those eyes-Oh, sex's pride would meet your scorn; but, when I spare my tongue, and let my blushes speak! This flood of tears to that will force their way, and declare what woman's modesty should hide, Barn. O, heavens! sbo loves me, worthless as I am; her looks, her words, her flowing tears, con fess it: and can I leave her, then? Oh, never, never! Madam, dry up those tears. You shall command me always: I will stay here for ever if | you d have me. Lucy. So! she has wheedled him out of his virtue cf obedience already, and will strip him of all the rest one after another, till she has left him as few as her ladyship, or myself. (Aside.) Mill. Now you are kind, indeed; but I mean not to detain you always; I would have you shake off all slavish obedience to your master, but you may tervet im still. 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. Enter BLUNT. Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table. (Aside.) Blunt. What! 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. Blunt. I don't like this fooling with a handsome young fellow: while she's endeavouring to ensnare him, she may be caught herself. Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, there is something in youth and innocence 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, as men are ours; though, as you observed, we are sometimes caught ourselves: but that, I dare say, will never be the case with our mistress. Bmt. I wish it may prove so; for you know we all depend upon her: should she trifle away her time with a young fellow that there is nothing to be got by, we must all starve. Lucy. There's no danger of that, for I am sure she has no view in this affai hut interest. Blunt. Well, and what hopes are Lore of success in that? Lucy. The most promising that can be. 'Tis true, the youth has his scruples; but she'll soon teach him to answer them, by stifling his conscience. O the lad is in a hopeful way, depend upon it! ACT JL [Exeunt. SCENE L-A Room in Thorowgood's house. Barn. How strange are all things round me! Like some thief, who treads forbidden ground, fearful I enter each apartment of this well-known house. To guilty love, as if that were too little, already have I added breach of trust. A thief! Can I know myself that wretched thing, and look my honest friend and injured master in the face? Though hypocrisy may awhile conceal my guilt, at length, it will be known, and public shame and ruin must ensue. In the meantime, 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 them. 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 upon him. (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. I cannot bear this usage from a friend, one whom, till now, I ever found so loving, whom yet I love; though this unkindness strikes at the root of friendship, and might destroy it in any breast but mine. Barn. I am not well. Sleep has been a stranger to these cyes, since you beheld them last. True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln 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, whatever they are, are mine alone; you have no interest in them, nor ought your concern for me 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: even now, though ignorant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the heart. Barn. It will not be always thus: friendship and all engagements cease, as circumstances and occaons vary; and, since you once may hate me, perhaps it might be better for us both, that now you loved me less. True. Sure, I but dream! without a cause, would Barnwell use me thus? Ungenerous, and ungrate ful youth, farewell! I shall endeavour to follow your advice. (Going.) Yet, stay; perhaps I am too rash: pr'ythee, forgive me, Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind, and let me know the cause that thus transports you from yourself; my friendly counsel may restore your peace. Barn. All that is possible for man to do for man, your generous friendship may effect; but, here, even, that's in vain. True. Something dreadful is labouring in your breast! O, give it vent, and let me share your grief! it will 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. O torture insupportable! (Aside.) True. Then why am I excluded? Have I a thought I would conceal from you? Barn. If still you urge me on this hated subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again. True. It is 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 is 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. Barn. Then, as much as one, lost to himself, 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 preservation 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 past, and follow you. [Exit Trueman.] I might have trusted Trueman to have applied to my uncle to have repaired the wrong I have done my master; but what of Millwood? 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. How, then, can I determine? Enter THOROWGOOD. Thor. 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 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 overcome me. (Aside.) O, sir! you know not the nature and extent of my offence; and I should abuse your mistaken bounty to receive them. Though I had rather die, than speak my shame; though racks could not have forced the guitly secret from my breast, your kindness has. Thor. Enough, enough; whatever it be, this concern shows you are 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. Mill. That angry look tells me that here I am an unwelcome guest; I feared as much; the unhappy are so, everywhere. Barn. Will nothing but my utter ruin content you? Mill. Unkind and cruel! Lost myself, your happiness is now my only care. Barn. 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, directed here. Barn. Why did you come at all? Mill. I never shall trouble you more; I am come to take my leave for ever. Such is the malice cf my fate. I go hopeless, despairing ever to return. This hour is all I have left me. 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 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. Condeinn you? No; I approve your reso Barn. It will be known, and you recall your par-lution, and rejoice to hear it; it is just, it is necesdon and abhor me. Thor. I never will; so heaven confirm to me the pardon of my offences. 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, then, on my knees, confess. sary; I have well weighed, and found it so. 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.) Lucy. Ay; we are all out; this is a turn so unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my part; they |