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Lucy. It was well you came, or, by what I can perceive, you had lost him.

your deliverance; return to your house, and live
in peace and safety.

Mill. So, I may hope to see you there again?
Barn. Answer me not, but fly, lest, in the

Mill. That, I must confess, was a danger I did not foresee; I was only afraid he should have 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 be reasonable in your demands; 'tis pity to discourage a young man.

Mill. Leave that to me.

Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money.

Barn. What am I about to do?—Now, you, who boast your reason all-sufficient, suppose your selves in my condition, aad determine for me; whether it is right to let her suffer for my faults, or, by this small addition to my guilt, prevent the ill effects of what is past.

Mill. Say but you will 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. Is virtue inconsistent with itself, or are vice and virtue only empty names; or do they depend on accidents, beyond our power to produce, or to 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 [Exit.


SCENE I-A Room in Thorow good's House. THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN discovered (with

Account Books) sitting at a Table. Thor. METHINKS I would not have you only learn the method of merchandise, and practise it hereafter, merely as a means of getting wealth: it will be well worth your pains to study it as a science, to see how it is founded in reason and the nature of things: how it promotes humanity, as it has opened, and yet keeps up an intercourse between nations, far remote from one another in situation, customs, and religion; promoting arts, industry, peace, and plenty: by mutual benefits diffusing mutual love from pole to pole.

drugs: the late-found western world's rich earth glows with unnumbered veins of gold and silver ore. On every climate, and on every country, Heaven has bestowed some good peculiar to itself. It is the industrious merchant's business to collect the various blessings of each soil and climate; and, with the product of the whole, to enrich his native country. -Well, I have cxamined 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; he, who neglects it, frequently stumbles, and always wanders perplexed, uncertain, and in danger.-Are Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? He does not use to be the last on these occasions.

True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, I thought in some confusion. If you please, I'll go and hasten him, I hope he has not been guilty of any neglect.

True. Something of this I have considered, and hope, by your assistance, to extend my thoughts much farther. I have observed those countries, where trade is promoted and encouraged, do not make discoveries to destroy, but to improve mankind by love and friendship; to tame the fierce, and polish the most savage; to teach them the advantage of honest traffic, by taking from them, with their own consent, their useless superflui-dy. ties, and giving them, in return, what, from their ignorance in manual arts, their situation, or some other accident, they stand in need of.

Thor. It is justly observed: the populous east, luxuriant, abounds with glittering gems, bright pearls, aromatic spices, and health-restoring

Thor. I am now going to the Exchange; let him know, at my return I expect to find him rea[Exeunt.

Enter MARIA with a book. Sits and reads.

Mar. 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 desiresWhat is an hour, a day, a year of pain, to a whole life of tortures such as these?


True. Oh, Barnwell! oh, my friend! how art thou fallen!

Mar. Ha! Barnwell! What of him! Speak, say, what of Barnwell?

True. It is not to be concealed: I have news to tell of him, that will afflict your generous father, yourself, and all who know him. Mar. Defend us, Heaven!

True. I cannot speak it. See there. [Gives a letter. Mar. [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 I was entrusted. After this, it is 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 off 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 there 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.

Mar. 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!

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True. It is considerable; I have marked it here, to shew it, with the letter, to your father, at his return.

Mar. If I should supply the money, could you so dispose of that, and the account, as to conceal this unhappy mismanagement from my father?

True. Nothing more easy. But can you intend it? Will you save a helpless wretch from ruin?-Oh, it were an act worthy such exalted virtue as Maria's! Sure Heaven, in mercy to my friend, inspired the generous thought.

Mar. Doubt not, but I would purchase so great a happiness at a much dearer price. how shall he be found?


True. Trust to my diligence for that. In the mean time, I will conceal his absence from your father, or find such excuses for it, that the real cause shall never be suspected.

Mar. In attempting to save from shame, one whom we hope may yet return to virtue, to Heaven, and you, the only witnesses of this action, I appeal, whether I do any thing unbecoming my sex and character.

True. Earth must approve the deed, and Heaven, I doubt not, will reward it.

Mar. If Heaven succeeds it, I am well rewarded. A virgin's fame is sullied by suspicion'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 so to him. [Exeunt.

SCENE II-A Room in Millwood's House.

Enter Lucy and BLUNT.

Lucy. Well, what do you think of Millwood's conduct now?

Blunt. I own it is surprising: I do not know which to admire most, her feigned, or his real passion; though I have sometimes been afraid that her avarice would discover her. But his youth and want of experience make it the easier to impose on him,

Lucy. No, it is his love. To do him justice, notwithstanding his youth, he does not want unMar, Trueman, do you think a soul, so deli- derstanding. But you men are much easier imcate as his, so sensible of shame, can ever sub-posed on in these affairs, than your vanity will mit to live a slave to vice?

True. Never, never. So well I know him, I am sure this act of his, so contrary to his nature, must have been caused by some unavoidable necessity.

Mar. Is there no means yet to preserve him? True. Oh, that there were! but few men recover their reputation lost, a merchant never. Nor would he, I fear, though I should find him, ever be brought to look his injured master in the face.

allow you to believe, Let me see the wisest of you all as much in love with me as Barnwell is with Millwood, and I will engage to make as great a fool of him,

Blunt. And, all circumstances considered, to make as much money of him too?

Lucy. I cannot answer for that, Her artifice, in making him rob his master at first, and the various stratagems by which she has obliged him to continue that course, astonish even me, who know her so well.

Blunt. But then you are to consider that the money was his master's.

Lucy. There was the difficulty of it. Had it been his own, it had been nothing. Were the world his, she might have it for a smile. But those golden days are done: he is ruined, and Millwood's hopes of farther profits there are at an end.

Blunt. That is po more than we all expected. Lucy. Being called by his master to make up his accounts, he was forced to quit his house and service, and wisely flies to Millwood for relief

and entertainment.

Blunt. I have not heard of this before: how Idid she receive him?

Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered what he meant, was astonished at his impudence, and, with an air of modesty peculiar to herself, swore so heartily that she never saw him before, that she put me out of countenance.

Blunt. That is much indeed! But how did Barnwell behave?

Lucy. He grieved; and at length, enraged at this barbarous treatment, was preparing to be gone; and making towards the door, shewed a sum of money, which he had brought from his master's, the last he is ever likely to have from thence.

Blunt. But then, Millwood

Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, returned to her old arts of lying, swearing, and dissembling; hung on his neck, wept, and swore it was meant in jest.-The amorous youth melted into tears, threw the money into her lap, and swore he had rather die than think her false.

Blunt. Strange infatuation!

Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. As doubts and fears, followed by reconcilement, ever increase love where the passion is sincere; so in him it caused so wild a transport of excessive fondness, such joy, such grief, such pleasure, and such anguish, that nature seemed sinking with the weight, and his charmed soul disposed to quit his breast for hers. Just then, when every passion with lawless anarchy prevailed, and reason was in the raging tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise what I tremble but to think of,

Blunt. I am amazed! What can it be? Lucy. You will be more so, to hear it is to attempt the life of his nearest relation, and best benefactor.

Blunt. His uncle! whom we have often heard him speak of as a gentleman of a large estate, and fair character, in the country where he lives? Lucy. The same. She was no sooner possessed of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, demanded this horrid sacrifice. Barnwell's near relation, and unsuspected virtue, must give too easy means to seize this good man's treasure; whose blood must seal the dreadful secret, and prevent the terrors of her guilty fears.

Blunt. Is it possible she could persuade him to do an act like that? He is by nature honest, grateful, compassionate, and generous; and though his love, and her artful persuasions, have wrought him to practise what he most abhors; yet we all can witness for him, with what reluc tance he has still complied: so many tears he shed over each offence, as might, if possible, sanctify theft, and inake a merit of a crime.

Lucy. 'Tis true, at the naming of the murder of his uncle, he started into rage; and, breaking from her arms (where she till then had held him, with well-dissembled love, and false endearments), called her cruel, monster, devil, and told her she was born for his destruction. She thought it not for her purpose to meet his rage with her rage, but affected a most passionate fit of grief, railed at her fate, and cursed her wayward stars, that still her wants should force her to press him to act such deeds, as she must needs abhor as well as he. She told him necessity had no law, and love no bounds; that therefore he never truly loved, but meant, in her necessity, to forsake her. Then she kneeled, and swore, that, since by his refusal he had given her cause to doubt his love, she never would see him more, unless, to prove it true, he robbed his uncle to supply her wants, and murdered him to keep it from discovery.


Blunt. I am astonished. What said he? Lucy. Speechless he stood; but in his face might have read, that various passions tore his very soul. Oft he in anguish threw his eyes towards heaven, and then as often bent their beams on her; then wept and groaned, and beat his troubled breast: at length, with horror not to be expressed, he cried,- Thou cursed fair, have I not given dreadful proofs of love? What drew me from my youthful innocence, and stained my then unspotted soul, but love? What caused me to rob my worthy, gentle master, but cursed love? What makes me now a fugitive from his service, loathed by myself, and scorned by all the world, but love? What fills my eyes with ( tears, my soul with torture never felt on this side 'death before? Why love, love, love! And why, ' above all, do I resolve (for, tearing his hair, he cried, I do resolve) to kill my uncle?

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Blunt. Was she not moved? It makes me weep to hear the sad relation.

Lucy. Yes, with joy, that she had gained her point. She gave him no time to cool, but urged him to attempt it instantly. He is now gone. If he performs it, and escapes, there is more money for her; if not, he will never return, and then she is fairly rid of him.

Blunt. It is time the world were rid of such a monster.

Lucy. If we do not use our endeavours to prevent the murder, we are as bad as she. Blunt. I am afraid it is too late. Lucy. Perhaps not. Her barbarity to Barnwell makes me hate her. We have run too great a length with her already. I did not think her

we are.

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 prepares his soul for Heaven; while I—But what have I to do with Heaven? Ha! no struggles, conscience

Blunt. It is true, we have been all too much so. 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 is 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 will acquaint you with the particulars as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE III-A walk at some distance from a country seat,


Hence, hence remorse, and every thought that's

The storin, that lust began, must end in blood.
[Puts on the vizor, draws a pistol, and exit.

SCENE IV-A close Walk in a Wood.

Enter UNCLE.

Unc. 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 enquiry.

Enter BARNWELL, at a distance.

Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power, 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 in the horrid gloom, defeated, she returns more doubtful than before, of nocertain but of labour lost.

Barn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of 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!Yonder limpid stream, whose hoary fall has made a natural cascade, as I passed by, in doleful accents seemed to murmurMurder! The earth, the air, and water seemed concerned. But that is not strange : the world is punished, and nature feels a shock, when Providence permits a good man's fall. Just Heaven! then what should I feel for him that was 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 murdererI stiffen with horror at my own impiety-It is yet unperformed-What if I quit my bloody pur-thing pose, 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 is the cause of all my sin and sorrow! it is 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 shewest us when we go astray, but wantest power to stop us in our course!- -Ha! in yonder shady walk I see my uncle-He is alone-Now

[During this speech, Barnwell sometimes presents the pistol, and draws it back again. Barn. Oh! 'tis impossible.

[Throwing down the pistol. [Uncle starts, and attempts to draw his sword.] Unc. A man so near me! Armed and masked

Barn. Nay, then, there's no retreat.
[Plucks a poignard from his bosom, and stabs


Unc. Oh! I am slain. All gracious Heaven, regard the prayer of thy dying servant! bless, with thy 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 and chafes him.

Barn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, martyred uncle! lift up your dying eyes, and view your nephew in your murdererOh, do not look so tenderly upon me!--Let indignation 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, in the agonies of death, weeps for his murderer.- -Oh, speak your pious purpose; pronounce my pardon then, and take me with you-He would, but cannot Oh, why, with such fond affection, do you press my murdering hand?[Uncle sighs and dies.]What, will you kiss me? -Life, that hovered on his lips but till he had sealed my pardon, in that sigh expired.- -He is gone for ever, and, oh! I follow- -[Swoons away upon his uncle's 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!Cain, who stands on record from the birth of time, and must to its last final period, as accursed, slew a brother favoured above him: detested Nero, by another's hand, dispatched a mother that he feared and hated: but I, with my own hand, have murdered a brother, mother, father, and a friend, most loving and beloved.- -This execrable act of mine is without a parallel. Oh, may it ever stand alone, the last of murders, as it is the worst!

The rich man thus, in torment and despair,
Preferred his vain, his charitable prayer.
The fool, his own soul lost, would fain be wise
For others' good, but Heaven his suit denies.
By laws and means well-known we stand or fall;
And one eternal rule remains for all.



SCENE I.—A Room in THOROWGOOD's House.

Mar. How falsely do they judge, who censure or applaud, as we are afflicted or rewarded here! I know I am unhappy; yet cannot charge myself with any crime, more than the common frailties of our kind, that should provoke just Heaven to mark me out for sufferings so uncommon and severe. Falsely to accuse ourselves, Heaven must abhor. Then it is just and right that innocence should suffer; for Heaven must be just in all its ways. Perhaps by that we are kept from moral evils, much worse than penal, or more improved in virtue. Or may not the lesser evils that we sustain, be made the means of greater good to others? Might all the joyless days and sleepless nights that I have passed, but purchase peace for thee! What news of Barnwell?

True. None; I have sought him with the greatest diligence, but all in vain.

Mar. Does my father yet suspect the cause of his absence?

True. All appeared so just and fair to him, it is not possible he ever should. But his absence will no longer be concealed. Your father is wise; and though he seems to hearken to the friendly excuses I would make for Barnwell, yet I am afraid he regards them only as such, without suffering them to influence his judgment.

Mar. How does the unhappy youth defeat all our designs to serve him? Yet I can never repent what we have done. Should he return, 'twill make his reconciliation with my father easier, and preserve him from the future reproach of a malicious unforgiving world.




Thor. This woman here has given me a sad, and, abating some circumstances, too probable an account of Barnwell's defection.

Lucy. I am sorry, sir, that my frank confession of my former unhappy course of life should cause you to suspect my truth on this occasion.

Thor. It is not that; your confession has in it all the appearance of truth. Among many other particulars, she informs me, that Barnwell has been influenced to break his trust, and wrong me, at several times, of considerable sums of money. Now, as I know this to be false, I would fain doubt the whole of her relation, too dreadful to be willingly believed.

Mar. Sir, your pardon; I find myself on a sudden so indisposed that I must retire. Providence opposes all attempts to save him. Poor ruined Barnwell! Wretched, lost Maria! [Aside. Exit.

Thor. How am I distressed on every side! Pity for that unhappy youth, fear for the life of a much valued friend-and then my child-the only joy and hope of my declining life!—Her melancholy increases hourly, and gives me painful apprehensions of her loss- -Oh, Trueman, this person informs me that your friend, at the instigation of an impious woman, is gone to rob and murder his venerable uncle.

True. Oh, execrable deed! I am blasted with horror at the thought.

Lucy. This delay may ruin all.

Thor. What to do or think I know not. That he ever wronged me, I know, is false; the rest may be so too; there is all my hope.

True. Trust not to that; rather suppose all

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