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PRESERVATION; OR, THE Hovel of the Rocks: A PLAY.
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PRESERVATION; OR, THE HOVEL OF THE ROCKS. A PLAY, IN FIVE ACTS; INTERSPERSED WITH PART OF LILLO's DRAMA, IN THREE ACTS, CALLED "FATAL CURIOSITY."
BY J. B. WILLIAMSON, DIRECTOR OF THE THEATRE IN CHARLESTON.
Performed in LONDON, and at BOSTON (Massachusetts) with the most flattering Success.
[COPY-RIGHT SECURED ACCORDING TO LAW.]
CHARLESTON: PRINTED BY T. C. COX, NO. 137, TRADD STREET, ONE DOOR FROM THE [...]AY. M.DCCC.
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Prefatory Address.
ENGAGED, professionally, for a number of years in the direction of theatres, an intimate acquaintance with dramatic authors, early as well as modern, was an unavoidable consequence: the plays of Lillo, preeminently claim attention; the pure ethics, the striking example, the powerful sympathy, inculcated and excited in them, together with the sublime and nervous simplicity of his language, and pathos of his characters, rank him high as a dramatist: an elegant French Critic quotes some scenes of Lillo's George Barnwell, as "a standard of dramatic writing." To the mutations of manners, in part, and to the improved state of the English stage, are ascribable, that extreme sensibility, and refinement of taste, which condemn the plays of this author to the closet: to purge the passions by scenes of terror and agony, is no longer held as an essential of the Tragic Muse! The Play of "Fatal Curiosity" has been frequently exhibited under the direction of that excellent critic, the [Page vi] late Mr. Colman; but the sombre tints of the subject, the undivided interest of the incidents, chaining the mind to the heart-rending catastrophe, (after repeated efforts, on the part of the public, to relish the bold, but terrific colouring of Lillo) returned it to the shelf; sealed up from future representations, by faintings, groans, and every other possible expression of agony, in the audience.
Impressed with its merit, and sedulously pursuing every research for the public amusement, I took the Play to pieces, and interwove with it an episodical plot; with a view, by dividing the attention, without weakening the interest of the original, to relieve the incidents; and the course of events opening a probable medium for changing the catastrophe, I adopted, it:—In the performance it has answered my most sanguine expectations.
If the admirers of Lillo, in his majestic terrors, will forgive the freedom I have used; if the public can reap one additiona gratification at the theatre from my labours, my object is completely attained. I write not for applause; my [Page vii] end is not fame: Lost, alas! is that talent, for which I was covetous of praise—mute is the voice, which, from the rapturous applause of theatres, caught not the estimation of its own value, half so much, as from the reflected expression of my gratitude.—Peace, gentle Shade! yet, sweetly embalmed in the memory of an enlightened public.
The AUTHOR.
Charleston, March 20, 1800.
The Characters, and all the retained Passages from LILLO, throughout the Play, are marked ['] with the note of quotation.
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DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Original by Lillo: Charleston, 1800.
- 'OLD WILMOT,
- Mr. WILLIAMSON.
- 'YOUNG WILMOT,
- Mr. CHALMERS.
- 'RANDAL,
- Mr. TAYLOR.
- 'CHARLOTTE,
- Mrs. PLACIDE.
- 'AGNES,
- Mrs. JONES.
- 'MARIA,
- Mrs. CHAMBERS.
Characters by the Author of Preservation:
- ARNOLD,
- Mr. MARSHALL
- MALIGN,
- Mr. TURNBULL.
- FLINT,
- Mr. PRIGMORE.
- BOY,
- Mrs. MARSHALL.
TIME—Twenty-four Hours.
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PRESERVATION: OR THE HOVEL OF THE ROCKS.
ACT I.
SCENE. A View of the BEACH from amongst the ROCKS, towards day-close; clouded horizon; sea in motion; distant thunder, and some lightning.
Enter OLD WILMOT alone.
O. WILMOT.
HOW fierce and stormy night comes blust'ring on!
The bending welkin threatens; and the wind
Seems pent to gather force: the boiling sea,
Self-agitated, from beneath heaves up
Its pond'rous motion—and the heavy swell,
With distant horror bodes the tempest's rage.
And yet, how fine the morn! Whose early beams
Danc'd o'er the rip'ling waves; and nature smil'd
As if no change could ruffle her smooth reign.
Sad emblem of my life! Whose op'ning dawn
Soft nurture led; whose rising Sun broke forth
Without a cloud; whose full meridian,
The golden horn of ample Plenty crown'd;
Whose afternoon's by chilling blasts deform'd,
And age's evening usher'd in by storms
Of furious want, loud grief, and bursting scorn!
[Page 2]My wife! Lov'd partner of my happier days,
And keenest curse of these—fair form disgrac'd!
On some sad errand of precarious help,
Hath sallied forth.—This hour is mine, to spend
In luxury of grief amidst these rocks,
And horrors of the storm: congenial all,
With the sad ravage of my care-beat mind!
[Wind and rain is heard.]
The breezes freshen! And the curling sea
Ascends in foam! Disast'rous mariners!
Whoe'er you are, expos'd to its fell scope,
Accept a father's pity, and his prayers:
A father! Who has lost, for ever lost!
In some such crush of elemental strife,
An only son! If my poor feeble aid,
Should rescue in the hour of imminence
A life! But one, of all who're now in peril,
Some parent shall, with melting bosom, bless
The ruthless miseries that drive me forth,
Reckless of all the horrors of the night:
Mis'ries! That leave to chance, or fate, no hold
T'inflict one pang, beyond what I have felt.
[A distant gun is fired.]
Ha! A signal of distress! Oh! Have mercy
On the poor suffering wretches, Heaven!
Exit O. WILMOT.
SCENE II.
A view of the Sea running very high and breaking. Several Guns are irregularly fired. A Vessel is seen dismasted and beating in the storm. She strikes on a Rock and sinks. Thunder and lightning.
[Page 3]
SCENE III. A Parlour in CHARLOTTE's House.
Enter CHARLOTTE and MARIA.
'CHARLOTTE.
'What terror and amazement must they feel,
'Who die by shipwreck!
'MARIA.
''Tis a dreadful thought!
'CHARLOTTE.
'Ay, is it not, Maria? To descend
'Living and conscious to the wat'ry tomb!
'Alas! Had we no sorrows of our own,
'The frequent instances of other's woe,
'Must give a generous mind a world of pain.
MARIA.
This storm is felt at sea: Some ship has fired Repeated signals of distress.
CHARLOTTE.
Alas!
I fear no human aid can reach them.
To live a mere spectator near the coast!
To hear the furious equinoxial blast,
And see no week pass by, unmourn'd by some,
Is what the inland dwellers scarce have sense of.
[CHARLOTTE finds a letter.]
'What's this? A letter! Superscrib'd to me;
'None could convey it here, but you, Maria:
'Ungenerous, cruel maid! To use me thus!
'To join with flattering man to break my peace,
'And persecute me to the last retreat.
'MARIA.
'Why should it break your peace, to hear the sighs
'Of honorable love?—This letter is—
'CHARLOTTE.
[Page 4]'No matter whence; return it back unopen'd.
'I have no love, no thought, but for my Wilmot,
'Nor would have any.
'MARIA.
'Strange infatuation!
'Wilmot is dead, or living, dead to you.
'CHARLOTTE.
'I'll not despair: Patience shall cherish hope;
'Nor wrong his honor by unjust suspicion.
'I know his truth, and will preserve my own.
'But to prevent all future importunity,
'Know, thou incessant foe to my repose,
'Whether he sleeps secure from mortal cares,
'In the deep bosom of the boist'rous main,
'Or toss'd by tempests, still endures its rage;
'No second choice shall violate my vows:
'High Heaven that heard them, and abhors the perjur'd,
'Can witness they were made without reserve:
'Never to be retracted, ne'er dissolv'd,
'By accident, or absence, time, or death.
'MARIA.
'And did your vows oblige you to support
'His haughty parents to your utter ruin?—
'You well may weep to think on what you've done.
'CHARLOTTE.
'I weep to think that I can do no more
'For their support. What will become of them!
'The hoary, helpless, miserable pair!
'MARIA.
'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.
'CHARLOTTE.
[Page 5]'So pride would tell me,
'And vain self-love—but I believe them not:
'And if by wanting pleasure, I have gain'd
'Humility, I'm richer by the loss.
'MARIA.
'You have the heavenly art, still to improve
'Your mind by all events.—But here come one,
'Whose pride seems to increase with her misfortunes,
'Her faded dress, unfashionably fine,
'As ill conceals her poverty, as that
'Strain'd complaisance, her haughty swelling heart,
'Tho' perishing for want, so far from asking,
'She ne'er receives a favor uncompell'd,
'And while she ruins, scorns to be oblig'd.—
'Let me depart; I know she loves me not.
Exit.
Enter MRS. WILMOT.
'CHARLOTTE.
'This visit's kind!
'MRS. WILMOT.
'Few else would think it so.—
'Those who would once have thought themselves much honor'd
'By the least favor, tho' 'twere but a look,
'I could have shewn them, now refuse to see me.
'Tis misery enough to be reduc'd
'To the low level of the common herd,
'Who, born to beggary, envy all above them;
'But 'tis the curse of curses, to endure
'The insolent contempt of those we scorn!
'CHARLOTTE.
'By scorning we provoke them to contempt;
'And thus offend, and suffer in our turns:—
'We must have patience.
'MRS. WILMOT.
[Page 6]'No; I scorn them yet.
'But there's no end of suff'ring: Who can say
'Their sorrows are complete? My wretched husband
'Tired with our woes, and hopeless of relief,
'Grows sick of life—
'CHARLOTTE.
'Gracious Heav'n support him!
'MRS. WILMOT.
'And urg'd by indignation, and despair,
'Would plunge into eternity at once
'By foul self-murder! His fix'd love for me,
'Whom he would fain persuade to share his fate,
'And take the same uncertain, dreadful course,
'Alone with-holds his hand.
'CHARLOTTE.
'And may it ever!
'MRS. WILMOT.
'I've known with him the two extremes of life—
'The highest happiness, and deepest woe;
'With all the sharp and bitter aggravations,
'Of such a vast transition.—Such a fall
'Is the decline of life!—I have as quick,
'As exquisite a sense of pain as he,
'And would do any thing—but die—to end it;
'But there my courage fails. Death is the worst
'That fate can bring, and cuts off every hope.
'CHARLOTTE.
'We must not choose; but strive to bear our lot,
'Without reproach or guilt. By one rash act
'Of desperation, we may overthrow
'The merit we've been raising all our days,
'And lose our whole reward. And now, methinks,
'Now more than ever, we have cause to fear,
'And be upon our guard. The hand of Heaven
'Spreads clouds on clouds, o'er our benighted heads,
'And, wrapt in darkness, doubles our distress.
'MRS. WILMOT.
[Page 7]'I came not to hear this!
'CHARLOTTE.
'Forgive my fears—
'It should excite our vigilance and care,
'(Now we are tried by multiplied afflictions)
'To mark each motion of our swelling hearts;
'Lest we attempt to extricate ourselves,
'And seek deliverance by forbidden ways—
'To keep our hopes and innocence entire,
'Till we're dismiss'd to join the happy dead,
'Or Heaven relieves us here.
'MRS. WILMOT.
'You will persist!—
'Unless you mean t'offend me, spare advice.
'Your moral lecture may inflame, not heal.
'CHARLOTTE.
'Far be all thoughts from Charlotte's breast to pain,
'I hop'd, at least, I should not give offence.
'MRS. WILMOT.
'You could not think so, had you thought at all.
'But I take nothing ill from thee. Adieu!
'I've tarried longer than I first intended,
'And my poor husband mourns the while alone.
CHARLOTTE.
You must not go; I fear you are displeas'd;
You shall not part from me at all in anger:
The storm's not over; and he can't expect you.
I have a little matter in debate,
And need your counsel.—Nay, you must go with me.
Exeunt.
SCENE IV. The BEACH. Distant view of the Sea.
Enter MALIGN and FLINT.
MALIGN.
The wind's abated, Flint, and there's less surf! We shall go off by day-break. Where are the men?
FLINT.
[Page 8]Below upon the beach: They hauled the boat up as the gale came on; and are now getting her afloat again. It was a smoaker!
MALIGN.
Faith was it! So much the better for us who live by it. Were any of the people sav'd, think you?
FLINT.
Not a soul, I warrant; I saw her upon her beam ends by the lightning—She drove stern in, and went down like a stone.
MALIGN.
There was no boat went off at their signals!
FLINT.
It was impossible: The wind blew in shore, the tide was in, and the breakers roll'd mountain high! She went down at the North Point. We shall get at her at ebb. I shall not go to bed; but watch if any thing comes on shore.
MALIGN.
That's right! And mind we have no claimants sav'd on hen-coops and spare yards—to balk our industry—no lingering wretches 'scap'd amongst the rocks. You understand me—'twill be a friendly part.
FLINT.
Psha! Never fear; d'ye think I'm grown too tender in your service, here on the Cornish coast to risk our lives for gain, and give it back? No, No!
[Going.]
MALIGN.
And, d'ye hear? Bring me her papers, if you find them—bills of lading—they are the first to be taken care of. Besides I have a business for you concerning my long-liv'd kinsman, Wilmot.
FLINT.
A business! Why, what would you do further? They've nothing left!
MALIGN.
[Page 9]Do you, who've help'd on their destruction, ask me that? I have enmity and interest too to spur me on. His lingering days detain the inheritance, that by young Wilmot's loss, must now be mine. Tho' he has mortgag'd his life-interest in it beyond its value, help may yet step in 'twixt him and death. He lives too long: But of this hereafter.—The wreck is our first care; we, who endure the bleak blasts of the storm, must be rewarded for our patience.
Exeunt.
SCENE V. The inside of the HOVEL; A Lamp burning. Young WILMOT discovered lying on a rude Couch, the BOY chafing his temples.
BOY.
Poor drench'd wretch—how slowly he recovers—
Life's trembling flame yet hovers round his heart,
As if uncertain whether to return.—
He seems a foreigner of note.—Alas!
This is a rough reception, in a land
Where he, perhaps, is but a curious stranger,
Intent on wisdom's humanizing gain:—
Experience will convince him, that our shores
Are not so easily accessible, as are
Th' expanding inmates our warm bosoms hold,
To worth of ev'ry clime: Partially known,
Our country thus, like her intrepid sons▪
Wears a stern aspect, seeming full of peril,
And frowning in th' approach—but inward tried,
The genial streams of pure benevolence,
Safety and plenty, freedom, social virtues,
Flow unreserv'd to all.
Y. WILMOT.
Oh-h-h!—
BOY.
[Page 10]He sighs! O Heav'n!.
What language shall I find to give him comfort?
But Nature's wants are limited in all;
And those, her gen'ral tongue (soft feeling guide!)
Her universal charity explains.
Y. WILMOT.
(WILDLY.)
She strikes! She strikes! I will not keep below—
The deck is safest—oh-h-h!—
BOY.
My native tongue—
Partial sentiment!—Why should my bosom throb,
To hear those sounds, familiar to my ear?
A fellow creature sav'd, is nature's theme,
Of whate'er climate, nation, sex, or kind;
And yet, I own, it amplifies the blessing,
And exalts the joy!—What cheer, sir?
Y. WILMOT.
(Still Wildly.)
My friend—
Where are you?—Oh!—
BOY.
He is at hand, sir—Pray, sir,
Be compos'd—
Y. WILMOT.
(Recovering.)
Amazement!—What place is this?
BOY.
You're amongst friends, and safe; tho' wreck'd here on the coast of Cornwal.—
Y. WILMOT.
Cornwal! Blest Providence!
Gentle youth! that seem'st in kind compassion,
So tender o'er a stranger in distress,
Inform me how I was preserved; by whom?
Already I perceive I am your debtor!—
BOY.
The common offices of man to man,
You have received, no more. The very rock,
That running northward, out into the sea,
[Page 11]Proves oft thus fatal, providently yields
This friendly hovel in your hour of need:—
No farther debtor have I means to make you.
Y. WILMOT.
Amazement all!—I have no trace of thought,
No mem'ry past the moment of our danger!
You seem the gentle messenger from Heaven,
Of preservation! The strain of your discourse,
And soft benevolence, but ill agree
With this lone, unaccommodated dwelling!
What are you?
BOY.
My labour, sir, is fishing.
An aged parent and myself, ev'n here,
Wear the bleak winter through. Tho' once we knew
More affluent days; yet still our hearts
Are soft, as e're prosperity had spread
For other dwellings, her inconstant wing.
Y. WILMOT.
Alas!—
BOY.
In brief, this low'ring afternoon,
My Mother waited my return from fishing,
With all a parent's fears.—I saw your danger;
But ere the storm grew high, knowing the rocks,
I made the land.—
Y. WILMOT.
You saw us then?
BOY.
I did;
Mark'd your distress; and would have risked my life
To give you help: But 'twas not possible;
For now the tempest burst with wildest fury!
Our sleepless eyes still sought your danger out:
We heard your guns, and trembling wept and pray'd;
'Till watching at the entrance of our hovel,
We heard the footing and the speech of men!—
[Page 12]An aged gentleman, whose family
Has fallen to decay, who frequent strays
O'er these wild rocks alone, had seen your peril:
Your friend, almost exhausted, reach'd the shore;
And, with th' assistance of that moody man,
Brought you, who then had perish'd else, to land;
And bore you up the rock.
Y. WILMOT.
Say'st thou an ancient gentleman?—
BOY.
Yes, sir, once of good estate:
But having fallen sadly to decay,
Sometimes, we fear, not in his perfect mind,
He lingers o'er the weather-beaten beach—
He said he lost an only son at sea;
And it must touch him nearly.
Y. WILMOT.
What's his name?
BOY.
Wilmot—Ah Wilmot!
(Weeps and turns away.)
Y. WILMOT.
Gracious God! My father!
Aside.
BOY.
It is a dangerous profession, sir,
And gives too many fatal cause to weep!
But you're preserv'd! And those thrice happy friends,
Who take a tender part in all your fortunes,
On mem'ry's page shall mark this perilous night,
To dedicate it in its round to joy.
Y. WILMOT.
It is a blessing! More than I can tell you—
The tide of anxious bliss that fills my soul,
O'er powers the weakness of my shatter'd frame!
You shall partake the joy those friends will feel,
And share in all the good of my deliv'rance.
BOY.
My fate, alas! admits no hope of good.—
A parent's grief makes me not feel my own:
[Page 13]Her wants, are all the use I have for life:
Those once remov'd by Providence, I own
The world has no temptation, life no charm,
To make me wish mine lengthen'd past an hour.
Y. WILMOT.
Why should you slight the treasure of a being,
On which you are too young to set a value?
The blended hope, and mutual inclination,
The extacies of love, the bliss of friendship,
And all the social bonds that link mankind,
Shall take their turn, and teach you yet to prize it.
BOY.
Alas! Those fine emotions of the soul,
Full oft'ner lead to misery, than joy;—
They are but inlets to the tide of fate:—
But I o'er-stay your present need of rest:
That poor relief this dwelling may afford,
Is freely yours—I'll wait you, sir, at sun-rise,
When, if you'll listen to an artless tale,
To prove me right, not a capricious railer;
And yet though young in years—old in misfortune!
I'll lay my sorrows, one by one, before you—
The least of which might make me loath a being,
Expos'd to such a depth of cureless woe.
Exit.
Y. WILMOT.
Poor Youth! The sport of fortune, like myself!
Wreck'd on the coast of Cornwal! And preserv'd!
Sav'd by my father from the jaws of death!
By what mysterious, indirect events,
Our very wish is thwarted and fulfill'd!
The long anticipated moment comes,
Fraught with its aim, and opposite, at once;
And proves our hopes and fears alike delusive:—
This morning, full of joy, I view'd the coast,
Long look'd for, long possess'd, by fancy's aid—
[Page 14]That very coast—the harbour of my hopes—
With hostile fury dash'd us to the bottom;
My father, wand'ring forth to feed despair,
Rescues his every comfort from the deep!
[Going.]
Enter ARNOLD, meeting him.
ARNOLD.
My Wilmot!—
(Embracing him.)
Y. WILMOT.
Arnold!—
ARNOLD.
This is indeed to live—
How fares my more than brother? I have news
Will pain your heart with joy! But arm yourself
With fortitude to bear it.—
Y. WILMOT.
I am arm'd—
May I not say I know it? My father—
ARNOLD.
Amazement!—
Y. WILMOT.
The gentle creature, in whose care you left me,
Unconscious of its moment, told me all—
Told me, my father!—Ah! Does my mothe live?
ARNOLD.
Yes, yes.—
Y. WILMOT.
O, Heaven!—But you have seen—conversed
With the dear author of my being—tell me—
I fear affliction, more than time, has chang'd him.
ARNOLD.
But that the cause is past, I would conceal it;
Misfortune's heavy hand has bent his age;
Sorrow and desolation mark his look—
The smile that spread upon his furrow'd face,
In cordial gratulation on our safety;
Vanish'd at once; and gloomy care return'd:
[Page 15]I scarcely knew him—in this foreign garb,
Thus chang'd, no wonder that he knew not me.
Y. WILMOT.
Has he no knowledge whom he has preserv'd?
ARNOLD.
No thought; nor did he seek to know: heedless
Of circumstance—and press'd by inward grief—
Y. WILMOT.
Could'st thou not end that pain—and say his son—
ARNOLD.
I fear'd to break it to him on the sudden;
Lest joy should be more fatal than his grief.
When we perceiv'd you breath'd, I led him forth;
Intending to reveal it by degrees—
But suddenly he turn'd, and cried, "His wife,
"His aged help-mate, mourn'd his lengthen'd stay.
"Her sorrows needed not vain fears for him!"
Bid me "be careful of my friend"—and left me.
Y. WILMOT.
O, Nature! Nature! Wherefore is this pang?
My heart is not a seat for anguish now,
Sorrow is past; and ev'ry hour to come—
And yet the sense of what they have endur'd,
Obstructs the rising bliss, and damps my joy.
ARNOLD.
'Your treasure's safe, I hope?
Y. WILMOT.
'Tis here, thank Heav'n!
'Being in jewels, when I saw our danger,
'I hid it in my bosom.
ARNOLD.
'I observ'd you!
'And wond'red how you could command your thoughts,
'At such a time of terror and confusion.
Y. WILMOT.
'My thoughts were then at home. Soul-cheering spot,
'Thou seat of plenty, liberty, and health!
[Page 16]'After a long and tedious absence, Arnold,
'With what delight we breathe our native air,
'And tread the genial soil that bore us first!
'Tis said, the world is ev'ry wise man's country;
'Yet after, having view'd its various nations,
'I'm weak enough still to prefer my own,
'To all I've seen besides.—You smile, my friend!
'And think, perhaps, 'tis instinct, more than reason.
'Why be it so: Instinct preceded reason,
'Ev'n in the wisest men.
ARNOLD.
'Believe me, Wilmot,
'Your grave reflections were not what I smiled at:
'I own their truth. That we've return'd to England
'Affords me all the pleasure you can feel.
'Yet I must think a warmer passion moves you;
And feel my Lucy's image, too, confirm it.
'Thinking on this I smil'd.
Y. WILMOT.
O, Arnold—Arnold!
'Thou know'st, and ever knew'st my ardent love;
'How much depends on this important crisis;
'And should'st not be surpris'd to see me thus.
ARNOLD.
Surpris'd! 'Tis sympathy—'tis fellow feeling—
I know your cares, add weigh them by my own.
Y. WILMOT.
'The sinking fortunes of our ancient house,
'Compell'd me young to leave my native country,
'My weeping parents, and my lovely Charlotte.—
You were the willing part'ner of the venture;
To make your fortune worthy of your Lucy.
'Now should they, Arnold, doubtful of our truth,
'Or in despair ever to see us more,
'Have given themselves to some more happy lovers?
'Distraction's in the thought, and doubt is death!
ARNOLD.
[Page 17]'The wretch who fears all that is possible,
'Must suffer more than him who feels the worst
'A man can feel, yet lives exempt from fear:
'How have I seen you doubt, and weep, and fear
'Your parents might not live, your wish'd return;
'A woman may be false, as friends are mortal;
'And yet your aged parents still are living,
'And our fair mistresses may yet be constant.
Y. WILMOT.
'True, they may; I doubt, but I despair not:
'My hopes are strong, and lively as my fears;
'They tell me Charlotte is as true as fair;
'That we shall meet, never to part again;
'That I shall see my parents, kiss the tears,
'From their pale hollow cheeks, chear their sad hearts,
'And drive that gaping phantom, meagre want,
'For ever from their board, their days to come,
'Crown all with peace, with pleasure and abundance,
'Receive their fond embraces, and their blessings,
'And be a blessing to them▪
ARNOLD.
My generous Wilmot—
Your feelings agitate beyond your strength.
Rest here, this night—I find no need of sleep;
Trust to my friendly vigilance and care:
I'll seek your Charlotte out, and bring you news,
Before I clasp my Lucy to my breast.
Y. WILMOT.
Thou best of friends—But keep a cautious guard;
Nor hazard all, by an abrupt disclosure.
ARNOLD.
Never fear!—
Y. WILMOT.
[Page 18]It was a needless charge—but
My Charlotte's gentle nature could not bear it!
Nor could I spare ev'n thee, the ecstatic blessing,
To be, myself, the messenger of joy.
ARNOLD.
I will observe you well.
(Going.)
Y. WILMOT.
I thank you. Yet stay—
My parents, too, you will behold them both;
There pour out all the measure of my bliss—
No, no! my heart—e'en that I cannot yield thee—
I would enjoy it all!—
ARNOLD.
Trust to my management; I understand,
And will minutely follow your instructions.
Y. WILMOT.
Adieu, my friend! Oh, hasten, to me, back;
You'll find me with impatient throbbing heart,
Expecting vour return.
ARNOLD.
Adieu!—
Y. WILMOT.
Farewell!—
Exeunt.
END OF ACT THE FIRST.
[Page 19]
ACT II.
SCENE. The ROCKS.—View of the Sea. Calm horizon. External view of the Hovel.
Enter Y. WILMOT alone.
Y. WILMOT.
HAIL smiling day! And thou my native land!
'With transport I behold thy verdant fields,
'Thy lofty mountains, tow'ring o'er the flood;
'Thy num'rous herds, thy flocks, and winding streams.
The storm is past! Again returning light,
With eye serene, has spread a gen'ral calm!
Ev'n the rememb'rance fades; for now my mind,
By healing rest, and soothing hope compos'd,
To cheerful memory commits the past,
For gratitude alone!—No Arnold yet!
Well I'll be patient;—this kind humble pair,
The aged widow, and her gentle son,
Whose lowly minds, and winter-pierced roof,
In genuine hospitality, might shame
The affluent—would teach a stoic patience:
Hopeless of change, they eat the bitter bread
Of toil, in scarcely-shelter'd solitude;
And patient resignation [...] and ev'n here,
Discharge the various debt of soft humanity.
[The BOY appears defending the rock, with boat-hook and net for fishing.]
Here comes the boy! There is in his air,
Something that speaks him wretched; yet that shews
A govern'd spirit, yielding to his reason:
Such duty, such observant, tender love
He pays his mother, that fair nature smiles,
Ev'n through the rugged front of their hard lot,
[Page 20]And tempers misery to meet their strength.—
Good morrow gentle youth!
He comes forward.
BOY.
How fare you, sir?
Y. WILMOT.
Thanks, my kind host; the danger I've escap'd,
And all its perilous effects are past:—
The only traces it has left, are pleasing.
BOY.
May those impressions never be effac'd;
Nor yield to those, more poignant, which it leaves▪
On minds more soften'd by affliction's hand:
That every gush of sorrow wounds anew!
Y. WILMOT.
Alas! What mean you?—Why dost thou, fondly,
With that inquisitive, and tear-full eye,
Explore the surface of yon liquid plain?
BOY.
I'll tell you, sir;—but 'tis a useless sorrow—
Yet I must think, tho' you escap'd, last night—
Many unhappy souls—who've left to mourn
Life's dearest ties, met their untimely fate.
Y. WILMOT.
Most true; 'tis still the lot of man to suffer,
In person; or in some fond tie more dear:
Yet life abounds with solid real ills,
Home-felt, and we must meet them face to face;
Without the evil-fruited pains of fancy,
To search for those are merely possible.
BOY.
Alas, sir! Fancy will not be commanded;
But realizes every ill we know;
And memory will be busy:—The eye
That's dimm'd by sorrow's trembling drops, finds out
A touching semblance in each stroke of fate,
Assimilating all!—No step I take
[Page 21]But 'wakes my woes afresh within my mind—
I ask your pardon, sir; I am to blame.—
Y. WILMOT.
You wrong me to apologize for grief;—
I am the child of misery myself;
And prone to pity, what I can't relieve:—
You promis'd me the story of your life.—
BOY.
The tale's but short: I see the tide's not in yet,
And 'till the boat's afloat, you may command me.—
Yet it is mournful—why should I afflict you?
Y. WILMOT.
I see you doubt, nature cast not my mind
In that soft frame, to sympathize in woe
Not strictly local—yet, trust me, were it so,
What she with-held, adversity's supplied:
The tempest has reviv'd your grief.—
BOY.
Revived!
Is it reviv'd—that never yet has died?
O, sir! would nature yield to soothing time,
It is impossible! Since we are doom'd for life,
To make our dwelling in the rifted rocks
That were the bane, and ruin of our peace;
To draw our daily pittance from the sea;
While all our wealth and hopes lie buried there!
Y. WILMOT.
Alas! Can it be possible? Such cruel fate—
BOY.
My father, sir, like most born near the coast▪
Conceiv'd an early passion for the sea,
And, many years, successful, follow'd it:—
'Till competence, my mother, and myself,
Smil'd on his easy home, and made it dear.
He quitted sea; but still employ'd his wealth
In foreign traffic—On some trifling losses,
[Page 22]He form'd the luckless, fatal resolution,
To make one closing voyage, and risk no more.
My mother strove, with anxious boding heart,
And tears, in vain, to win him from his purpose:
He urg'd my fortune—talk'd of large advantage;
Affectionate his motive—and he conquered:
Expended wealth—nay strain'd his credit too,
To make the voyage a rich one. He sailed;
Not to be tedious, he was fortunate;—
Reach'd his port safe, dispos'd of all his cargo;
Made a large profit—and was freighted back.—
Y. WILMOT.
And yet to fail— Good Heaven!
BOY.
Upon the coast
Of England, in the very sight of harbour,
A hurricane came on, and all was lost—
Wealth, happiness, and parent—all were lost!
Y. WILMOT.
Most sensibly I feel your great distress.
BOY.
Oh! It was great—beyond the reach of hope.
The underwriters, by a quirk in law,
Eluded right—before one ray of comfort,
Broke through the all-surrounding gloom of grief,
A hungry train of harden'd creditors,
Beset us close: those whom our brighter days
Had struck with envy, triumph'd now; and ere
One year of truest sorrow had elaps'd,
My mother and myself, stripp'd, robb'd of all,
Driv'n from our home, were friendless in the streets.
Y. WILMOT.
Merciless wretches!
BOY▪
One friend, one tender friend—
Pardon my streaming eyes—he was a friend—
[Page 23]No more!—who would have stretch'd a saving hand▪
Had sail'd for India—we were quite friendless!
Y. WILMOT.
Unfortunate! In that sad exigence,
What could you do?
BOY.
Strength from despair rose up:
I saw my other parent droop, and bend
Before the storm; myself her only hope:—
I task'd my heart, I struggled with my grief;
And strove by work, to wait the wish'd return
Of our dear friend; to try our cause at law,
And see us righted: a year or two elaps'd,
From bad, to worse. Ev'n charity forsook us!
A poor reluctant gathering, of silver;
And scanty drops of ostentatious gold,
With frigid insult giv'n, too plainly prov'd,
Public benevolence is private pride!—
At length no place would give us ev'n a shelter.
Y. WILMOT.
Oh Heav'n! what pow'r could then sustain your minds,
In such an hour of trial and distress!
BOY.
A course there was—but honor still was left.—
I could not tamely see my mother perish!
Frantic I flew along the beach, intending
To plunge from off that rock, into the sea.—
Within yon cliff, I found that lonely dwelling,
Which formerly an Hermit liv'd and died in:
His few conveniences of life were left,
Untouch'd, unvisited by human form:
A desp'rate hope appear'd—and in that hope,
Exhausted nature sunk in gentle sleep.
Y. WILMOT.
'Twas sure the hand of Providence that led you.
BOY.
[Page 24]Methought I still was waking, but I saw
A little skiff with oars, and net for fishing;—
Methought, I ventur'd and threw in the net;
Which straight was fill'd! I drew it to the land,
And being press'd by hunger, made my meal;
Delicious, too, it seem'd: I wak'd; part real,
And part fiction; yet agreeing! I despair'd—
'Till at the foot of the o'erhanging rock,
I saw the skiff and net, lay dry and safe!
Y. WILMOT.
O, Heav'n—
BOY.
I ran I flew, to my dear mother—
Brought her to the spot; clasp'd her to my bosom;
Comforted, saw her resign'd and cheerful;
Then went and try'd the net, with some success:
My skill improv'd: and thus, sir, we have liv'd:
Within the bosom of these rocks, we found
That shelter—and from the stormy deep, that food,
More merciless and cruel man denied.—
Y. WILMOT.
Thou just, inscrutable, and great First Cause!
How wisely thy own immediate aid,
Peculiar Providence, is pointed out,
And manifest to all! be sceptics ye who can.
BOY.
Alas! my wretched story has distress'd you.
Y. WILMOT.
Of various mixt emotions of distress,
Not one, but found some antidote at hand;
For, while I felt the detail of your sufferings,
And thought your grief past cure, my fancy glanc'd
Upon your obvious preservation,
Anticipating all the wish'd event,
That yet shall crown your patience with deliv'rance,
[Page 25]And blest the wide protecting hand of Heav'n!—
Say, of that absent friend—have you not heard?
BOY.
Never: a story of his death was spread,
Yet nothing certain—but that he came no more.
Y. WILMOT.
During your residence here on the rock,
If I conceiv'd you right, you have not held
An intercourse with any that you knew?
BOY.
Never.
Y. WILMOT.
How long is that?
BOY.
Above three years.
Y. WILMOT.
Perhaps that friend, return'd by this, ev'n now
Deplores your loss, and seeks, in vain, to find you.
BOY.
'Tis barely possible;—nor is it fit we hope,
To sharpen woe, by bitter disappointment:
We're now resign'd, and humbled to our fate;
And would not crush his youth, and better prospects
With our sad weight.—
Y. WILMOT.
Nay, there I blame you much;
You wrong the title which your story gave him;
If ever friendship glow'd within his breast—
BOY.
I pray you spare me—
Y. WILMOT.
Think what pain he feels,
If hast'ning to your aid—what have I said?
Your tears flow faster, something is conceal'd
You will not trust me with; perhaps your friend.—
BOY.
Spare me, I pray you, and inquire no more;
Advice is fruitless: 'tis a private sorrow,
[Page 26]Belongs to me alone—'tis past all remedy;
And probing gives one pang, it may be spar'd.
Y. WILMOT.
You do not know—a tender friendly hand—
BOY.
No more! I see the skiff afloat—excuse me—
Necessity compels me, sir, to leave you.
Y. WILMOT.
Nay gentle youth, forbear your work this day:
Let hope, and better prospects chear your mind.
BOY.
Oh! do not urge it; while I am employ'd,
My mind's engag'd—that's more than all to me:
For with th' afflicted, who are past all hope,
Reflection, like the serpent in the fable,
Ungrateful turns, and fastens on the breast,
Whose ill-judg'd softness yields it an asylum!
Exit.
Enter a SAILOR.
SAILOR.
What cheer, my master? Are you the gentleman
That was wreck'd in the squall last night?
Y. WILMOT.
I am, my friend.
SAILOR.
A gentleman in foreign rigging, much like your's;
Hail'd me, and bid me bring you this. Is it for you?
Y. WILMOT.
'Tis Arnold's hand! why should he write! I tremble—
Yes; 'Tis for me.
SAILOR.
Very well, my master, that's all!
Exit.
Y. WILMOT.
I fear some fatal news; what can it be?
[Reads.]
Be not alarm'd my dear Wilmot, that I do not return; know that your Charlotte is [Page 27] well, your parents both living, and oppress'd by no care but what your fortune will relieve them from; be perfectly at ease in this intelligence: But, your friend, your unhappy Arnold, is undone. Lucy, his best beloved; the mistress of his fate; what shall I tell thee? Is no more— perhaps she lives—but where?—I am distracted— pardon this incoherence—many years are past since the family plung'd in inextricable ruin, have left the place: My enquiries are fruitless—pity is a stranger here, they answer my impatience with a coldness that tortures me to madness. Embrace your fortune, Wilmot, while it smiles; let not my distraction damp your joy; you will find me, at the inn—but what time, I know not; for till my Lucy is found, life is for no other purpose than to seek her, if living, or, by laying it down, to follow her, if dead.
Thy unhappy ARNOLD.
Ah, most unhappy!—but thy calm philosophy,
And cooler temper, with less swaying passion,
Will reason on events, when the first shock
Is soften'd, that would o'erwhelm your friend▪—
Yes!—I will embrace my happier fortune,
Now while she smiles▪ and from it comfort thee.
Exit.
SCENE II. A room in OLD WILMOT's House.
OLD WILMOT, alone.
O. WILMOT.
'The day is far advanced. The chearful sun,
'Pursues with vigour his repeated course;
[Page 28]'No labor lessens, nor no time decays
'His strength, or splendor: 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,
'Chears them with heat, and gilds them with his brightness—
'Yet man, of jarring elements compos'd,
'Who posts from change to change, from the first hour
'Of his frail being, to his dissolution,
'Enjoys the sad prerogative above him,
'To think and to be wretched!—What is life
'To him that's born to die—
'Or what the wisdom, whose perfection ends
'In knowing, we know nothing?
'Mere contradiction all: A tragic farce;
'Tedious, tho' short; elab'rate, without art—
'Ridiculously sad!—
Enter RANDAL,
'Where hast been, Randal?
RANDAL.
'Not out of Penryn, sir, but to the strand,
'To hear what news from Falmouth since the storm
'Of wind last night.—
O. WILMOT.
'It was a dreadful one.
RANDAL.
'Some found it so. A noble ship from India,
'Ent'ring the harbour, run upon a rock,
'And there was lost.
O. WILMOT.
What came of those on board her?
RANDAL.
'Tis thought all perish'd.
O. WILMOT.
[Page 29]Not so, Randal, hear
What befel. It chanc'd at Ev'n, musing alone
Amongst the rocks, more ruffled in my thoughts,
Than the vext sea, or wind; watching th' event,
I mark'd the tempest's fury. Two wretches 'scap'd;
And human pity, kindling in my breast,
Told me the genial current that once ran there,
Was not dry'd up: One reach'd the craggy point▪
And would have plung'd again;—but I restrain'd
His gen'rous purpose: just within our reach
A surge now cast the other; ere its retreat,
We caught, and bore him up the oozy steep:—
The wretched tenants of the hovel took them,
For present shelter, and immediate help.
RANDAL.
Too well I know your mind, to doubt its joy,
At this so timely succour.
O. WILMOT.
Mere weakness,
Randal; and to be prov'd by the event:
How joyful!—By this they had been past fear,
'Of future tempests, and a wreck on shore.
'Now they're expos'd to both.—Where's your mistress?
RANDAL.
'I saw her pass the High-street, toward the min'ster.
O. WILMOT.
'To visit Charlotte; 'twas her last night's promise.
'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,
[Page 30]'Whom we shall ne'er see more, the rich and great
'Who own her charms more than supply the place
'Of shining heaps, 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 tired, or exhausted. Curst condition!
'To live a burden to one only friend,
'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!
'I must dismiss him—Why should I detain
'A grateful gen'rous youth to perish with me?
'His service may procure him bread elsewhere,
'Tho' I have none to give him.—Prithee, Randal,
'How long hast thou been with me?
RANDAL.
'Fifteen years.
'I was a very child when first you took me,
'To wait upon your son, my dear young master.
'I oft have wish'd I'd gone to India with him,
'Tho' you, desponding, give him o'er for lost.
'I am to blame: this talk revives your sorrow.
O. WILMOT.
'Alas! Alas!—
Weeps.
RANDAL.
'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.
O. WILMOT.
'No more of that: Thou'st serv'd me longer since▪
'Without reward; so that account is balanced;
'Or rather, I'm thy debtor. I remember,
'When poverty began to shew her face
'Within these walls, and all my other servants,
[Page 31]'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, refus'd to leave me.
RANDAL.
'Nay, I beseech you, sir!—
O. WILMOT.
'With my distress,
'In perfect contradiction to the world,
'Thy love, respect, and diligence increas'd.—
'Now all the recompence within my power,
'Is to discharge thee, Randal, from my hard,
'Unprofitable service.—
RANDAL.
'Heav'n forbid!
'Shall I forsake you in your worst necessity?
'Believe me, sir, my honest soul abhors
'The barb'rous thought.
O. WILMOT.
'What! can'st thou feed on air?
'I have not left wherewith to purchase food
'For one meal more.
RANDAL.
'Rather than leave you thus,
'I'll beg my bread; and live on other's bounty,
'While I serve you.
O. WILMOT.
'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 he gives thee.—Go thy ways:
'I will no more suppress thy youthful hopes
'Of rising in the world.
RANDAL.
[Page 32]''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. WILMOT.
'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 of me;
'I will not want thee—trouble me no more!
RANDAL.
'Be not offended, sir, and I will go.
'I ne'er repin'd at your commands before;
'But Heav'n's my witness! I obey you now▪
'With strong reluctance, and a heavy heart.
'Farewell my worthy master!
Going.
O. WILMOT.
'Farewell.—Stay!
'As thou art yet a stranger to the world,
'Of which, alas! I've had too much experience,
'I should, methinks, before we part, bestow
'A little counsel on thee—dry thine eyes:
'If thou weep'st thus, I shall proceed no further.
'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;
'And that attain'd, thou need'st not any other.
'This will instruct thee to conceal thy views,
'And wear the face of probity and honor,
''Till thou hast gain'd thy end: which must be ever
'Thy own advantage, at that man's expense,
'Who shall be weak enough, to think thee honest.
RANDAL.
'You mock me, sure!
O. WILMOT.
[Page 33]'I never was more serious.
RANDAL.
'Why should you counsel, what you scorn'd to practice?
O. WILMOT.
'Because that foolish scorn, has been my ruin.
'I've been an ideot, but would have thee wiser;
'And treat mankind, as they would treat thee, Randal,
'As they deserve, and I've been treated by them:
'Thou'st seen by me, and those who now despise me,
'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.)
RANDAL.
'Amazement ties my tongue.
'Where are your former principles?
O. WILMOT.
'No matter!
'Suppose I have renounc'd them: I have passions,
'And love thee still; therefore would have thee think,
'The world is all a scene of deep deceit;
'And he who deals with mankind, on the square,
'Is his own bubble, and undoes himself:
'Farewell—and mark my counsel, boy.
Retires up.
RANDAL.
'Amazement!
'Is this the man I thought so wise and just?
'What! Teach and counsel me to be a villain!
'Sure grief has made him frantic! Or some fiend,
'Assum'd his shape: I shall suspect my senses.
'High-minded he was ever, and improvident,
'But pityful and gen'rous to a fault.—
[Page 34]'Pleasure he lov'd—but honour was his idol;—
'O fatal change! O horrid transformation!
Exit Randal.
O. WILMOT.
Why there's one pang dispatch'd—when will all end,
And settle into rest?—Is life worth this?
This hourly compunction and despair,
This degradation, and this shame, I feel?
Oh, no! No!—Why do I then endure it?
One friendly stroke—and all would be at peace.
What bar?—Conscience? No—I can silence that,
And plead direful necessity:—Is't fear?—
I'm at a point more curst than fear can reach,
And desp'rate bay, would make a coward valiant!
My fearful wife, whom some fool'd hope restrains,
Recoils herself—and holds—and pulls me back:—
Together, we have trod the changing scene;
Gather'd the roses—borne the thorns together;
And hand in hand, on the steep hill of life,
Have shap'd our downward course: and can I then,
In all this wilderness of woe, forsake her—
Leave her to bear the winter of our fate,
In cheerless solitude, and pine alone?
Impossible!—I must endure with her,
Till the cold, heavy, and oppressive hands
Of beggary and want, in hopeless age,
Shall bend her views with mine, to peaceful death.
END OF ACT THE SECOND.
[Page 35]
ACT III.
SCENE. CHARLOTTE'S House.
Enter CHARLOTTE and MARIA.
MARIA.
'Madam, a stranger in a foreign habit,
'Desires to see you.
CHARLOTTE.
'In a foreign habit!—
''Tis strange and unexpected: But admit him.
Exit MARIA.
'Who can this stranger be? I know no foreigner—
Enter YOUNG WILMOT.
'Nor any man like this.
Y. WILMOT.
'Ten thousand joys—
(Going to embrace her.)
CHARLOTTE.
'Sir, you're too bold: Forbear, and let me know
'What business brought you here, or leave the place.
Y. WILMOT.
'She knows me not! Am I forgot, or scorn'd?
CHARLOTTE.
'Can I forget a man, I never knew?
Y. WILMOT.
'With what aversion, what contempt, she views me!
'She's lost, my fatal absence has undone me.
Aside.
'O! could thy Wilmot have forgot thee, Charlotte?
CHARLOTTE.
'Ha! Wilmot! Say! What do your words import?
'O gentle stranger! Ease my swelling heart,
'That else will burst! Canst thou inform me ought?
'What dost thou know of Wilmot?
Y. WILMOT.
[Page 36]'This I know:
'When all the winds of Heav'n seem'd to conspire,
'Against the stormy main, and dreadful peals
'Of rattling thunder deafen'd ev'ry ear,
'And drown'd th' affrighted mariners loud cries;
'When livid lightning, spread its sulphurous flames
'Thro' all the dark horizon, and disclos'd
'The raging seas, incens'd to his destruction;
'When the good ship, in which he was embark'd,
'Unable longer to support the tempest,
'Sunk to the oozy bottom of the deep,
'And left him struggling with the warring waves;
'In that dread moment, in the jaws of death,
'When his strength fail'd, and ev'ry hope forsook him;
'And his last breath press'd tow'rd his trembling lips,
'The neighb'ring rocks, that echo'd to his moan,
'Return'd no sound articulate—but Charlotte.
CHARLOTTE.
'The fatal tempest, whose description strikes
'The hearer with astonishment, is ceas'd;
'And Wilmot is at rest. The fiercer storm
'Of swelling passions, that o'erwhelms the soul,
'And rages worse than the mad stormy seas,
'In which he perish'd, ne'er shall vex him more.
Y. WILMOT.
'Thou seem'st to think he's dead; enjoy that thought;
'Persuade yourself that what you wish is true,
'And triumph in your falshood. Yes, he's dead;
'You were his fate: The cruel winds and waves,
'That call him pale, and breathless, on the shore,
[Page 37]'Spar'd him for greater woes—to know his Charlotte,
'Forgetting all her vows to him, and Heav'n,
'Had cast him from her thoughts. Then, then, he died;
'But never can have rest. Ev'n now he wanders,
'A sad, repining, discontented ghost,
'The unsubstantial shadow of himself,
'And pours his plaintive groans in thy deaf ears,
'And stalks, unseen, before thee.
CHARLOTTE.
''Tis enough!
'Detested falshood now has done its worst.—
'And art thou dead? And would'st thou die, my Wilmot?
'For one thou thought'st unjust? Thou soul of truth!
'What must be done? Which way shall I express
'Unutterable woe?—Or how convince
'Thy dear departed spirit, of the love,
'Th' eternal love, and never failing faith,
'Of thy much injur'd, lost, despairing Charlotte?
Y. WILMOT.
'Be still, my flutt'ring heart; hope not too soon!
'Perhaps I dream, and this is all illusion.
[Aside.]
CHARLOTTE.
'If, as some teach, the spirit after death,
'Free from the bounds, and ties, of sordid earth,
'Can trace us to our most conceal'd retreat,
'See all we act, and read our very thoughts;
'To thee, O Wilmot! kneeling, I appeal.
'If e'er I swerv'd in action, word, or thought,
'Or ever wish'd to taste a joy on earth,
'That center'd not in thee, since last we parted;
'May we ne'er meet again; but thy loud wrongs
'So close the ear of mercy to my cries,
[Page 38]'That I may never see those bright abodes,
'Where truth, and virtue, only have admission,
'And thou inhabit'st now.—
Y. WILMOT.
'Assist me Heav'n!
'Preserve my reason, memory, and sense!
'O moderate my fierce, tumultuous joys,
'Or their excess will drive me to distraction.—
'O Charlotte, Charlotte! Lovely, virtuous maid!
'Can thy firm mind, in spite of time and absence,
'Remain unshaken, and support its truth;
'And yet thy frailer memory retain,
'No image, no idea of thy lover?
'Why do you gaze so wildly? Look on me;
'Turn thy dear eyes this way; observe me well—
'Have scorching climates, time, and this strange habit,
'So chang'd, and so disguis'd thy faithful Wilmot,
'That nothing in my voice, my face, or mein,
'Remains to tell my Charlotte—I am he?
[After viewing him some time, she approaches weeping—he takes off his turban—she shrieks, and then turning towards him, sinks on his bosom.]
'Why dost thou weep? Why dost thou tremble thus?
'Why doth thy panting heart, and cautious touch,
'Speak thee but half convinced? Whence are thy fears?
Why art thou silent? Canst thou doubt me still?
CHARLOTTE.
'No, Wilmot! No; I'm blind with too much light:
'O'ercome with wonder, and opprest with joy—
'The struggling passions barr'd the doors of speech;
'This vast profusion of extreme delight,
[Page 39]'Rising at once, and bursting from despair,
'Baffles the aid of words, and mocks description.
'But for one sorrow, one sad scene of anguish,
'That checks the swelling torrent of my joys,
'I could not bear the transport—
Y. WILMOT.
'Let me know it—
'Give me my portion of thy sorrow, Charlotte;
'Let me partake thy grief, or bear it for thee.
CHARLOTTE.
'Alas! my Wilmot! These sad tears are thine;
'They flow from thy misfortunes. I am pierc'd
'With all the agonies of strong compassion,
'With all the bitter anguish you must feel,
'When you shall hear your parents—the distress,
'The poverty, to which they are reduc'd,
'In spite of my weak aid—
Y. WILMOT.
'My joy's complete!
'From this blest hour, the happiest of my life,
'I'll date my rest. My anxious hopes and fears,
'My weary travels, and my dangers past,
'Are now rewarded all! Now I rejoice
'In my success, and count my riches gain.
'For know, my soul's best treasure! I have wealth
'Enough to glut ev'n avarice itself:
'No more shall cruel want, or proud contempt,
'Oppress the sinking spirits, or insult
'The hoary heads of those who gave me being.
CHARLOTTE.
''Tis now, O riches! I conceive your worth!
'You are not base, nor can you be superfluous,
'But when misplac'd in base, and sordid hands.
'Fly, fly, my Wilmot, leave thy happy Charlotte;
'Thy filial piety, the sighs and tears,
'Of thy lamenting parents, call thee hence.
Y. WILMOT.
[Page 40]'I have a friend, the partner of my travels,
'Who in the storm, last night, was shipwreck'd with me.
CHARLOTTE.
'Shipwreck'd last night!—O you immortal powers!
What have you suffer'd! Terror and alarm
For unknown wretches, to the rage expos'd
Of such a tempest, fill'd my restless mind—
Oh! had I known, that—how were you preserv'd?
Y. WILMOT.
Thou tested triumph of unblemish'd truth!
'Let that, and all my other strange escapes,
'And perilous adventures, be the theme
'Of many a happy winter's night to come.
'My present purpose, was to intreat my angel,
'To know this friend, this other better Wilmot;
To sooth the sad affliction of the soul,
Under the sharpest trial man e'er suffer'd!
'And come with him this evening to my father's.
He is at hand—
CHARLOTTE.
Thy friend, my Wilmot! sure
He wants no other claim to thy Charlotte's
Attentive care: and I consent with pleasure.
Y. WILMOT.
'Heav'ns! what a night! How shall I bear my joy?
'My parent's, your's, my friend's, all will be mine!
'And mine like water, air, or the free splendid sun,
'The undivided portion of you all!
'If such the early hopes, the vernal bloom,
'The distant prospect of my future bliss,
'Then what the ruddy autumn! What the fruit,
'The full possession of thy heavenly charms!
Exeunt.
[Page 41]
SCENE II. Another part of the Beach—a Cave under the Rock.
Enter MALIGN and FLINT, from the Cave.
MALIGN,
with Bills of Lading.
Reads.
"Muslins—arrack—silks—raw-silk— Calico—"What say'st thou, two of them escaped the wreck?
FLINT.
Two, only!
MALIGN.
"Cotton"—She's richly freighted—
Two! 'Sdeath, that's unlucky—What are they, Flint?
FLINT.
They say they're passengers, I think, and strangers—
MALIGN.
The silks must be unpack'd: they're spoilt.—
"Ingots, four hundred ounces—gold dust—pearl—"
Keep sharp look-out 'long shore;—"the spices"— spoilt.
"Wilmot!"—How's this? "Wilmot—Wilmot!" Death! Hell!
Is Wilmot, then at last—What think'st thou, Flint?
Here's Wilmot's name; part owner of this freight!
If he's preserv'd we've made a bless'd night's work!
All my long-labour'd—high-built expectation,
O'erthrown at last. But two!—We must be speedy.
Why art thou dumb man? Something must be thought on!
FLINT.
I've news will make you dumb: Wilmot's return'd—
'Tis now explain'd! A while since, i'th' High-street,
(I would have told you, but you would not hear me)—
Two strangers pass'd me: and the crowd that star'd,
[Page 42]Said they had 'scap'd the wreck—I kept aloof;
And follow'd—till they gain'd the door of her,
Whose love to young George Wilmot, has supported
His parents, to her ruin.—
MALIGN.
Ha! Say'st thou?
FLINT.
They were admitted; and the rumour ran,
Wilmot was one!—I came to tell you, and—
MALIGN.
Perdition seize 'em!—Shall I live to see
That ancient spendthrift, whose damn'd pride has scorn'd me,
Ev'n in his poverty, lift up his head,
In contumelious affluence, again?—
Young Wilmot, too, inherit that estate,
Just tumbling in my grasp! Come Hell, rather;
And riot in the works of fair creation!—
I scare myself with shadows: If he's come back,
He's beggar'd by the storm; there's hope; We'll find
A secret way of dealing with his claim.
Now, Flint's the time to shew thy zeal and service:
No starts of conscience, nor no stops of fear,
If thou would'st have me able to reward thee!
FLINT.
Conscience, I know but for my own advantage;
And fear—but only that of being poor.
You've seen me stand a gale—and look i'th' teeth on't,
When the fierce blast, has turn'd our boat keel-upwards,
And there I've strode, till the next breaker,
Dash'd her in pieces on the shelvy beach!
I shall not back for trifles.—
MALIGN.
[Page 43]I think it;
And therefore freely trust thee with my life.—
If Wilmot is return'd, he must be dealt with:
I will be satisfied forthwith—and know!—
Be you still diligent about the wreck.—
I'll strait to Wilmot's—I'the planted elms,
That open on the house, you'll find me waiting,
At day-close—there, be sure I see you, arm'd:
Be resolute—succeed in this—you're made forever!
Exeunt.
SCENE III. A STREET, in Penryn.
Enter RANDAL alone.
RANDAL.
'Poor! Poor! and friendless! Whither shall I wander,
'And to what point direct my views, and hopes?
'A menial servant!—No—What, shall I live
'Here, in this land of freedom, live distinguish'd,
'And mark'd the willing slave of some proud subject!—
'And swell his useless train, for broken fragments;
'The cold remains of his superfluous board?—
'I would aspire to some thing more, and better.—
'Turn thy eyes, then, to the prolific ocean;
'Whose spacious bosom opens to thy view:
'There deathless honour, and unenvied wealth,
'Have often crown'd the brave adventurer's toils.
'This is the native uncontested right,
'The fair inheritance of ev'ry spirit,
'That dares put in his claim—My choice is made:
'A long farewell to Cornwal, and to England!
[Page 44]'If I return—but stay—what stranger's this,
'Who as he views me, seems to mend his pace?
Enter YOUNG WILMOT.
Y. WILMOT.
'Randal!—The dear companion of my youth!
'Sure lavish fortune means to give me all
'I could desire, or ask, for this blest day,
'And leave me nothing to expect hereafter.
RANDAL.
'Your pardon, sir! I know but one on earth,
'Could properly salute me by that title,
'You're pleas'd to give me, and I could not think
'That you are he—that you are Wilmot.—
Y. WILMOT.
'Why?
RANDAL.
'Because I could not bear the disappointment,
'If I should be deceiv'd.
Y. WILMOT.
'Im pleas'd to hear it:
'Thy friendly fears, better express thy thoughts,
'Than words could do.
RANDAL.
'O Wilmot! O! My master!
'Are you return'd?—
Y. WILMOT.
'I have not yet embrac'd
'My parents—I shall see you at my father's.
RANDAL.
'No, I'm discharg'd from thence—O, sir! such ruin—
Y. WILMOT.
'I've heard it all, and hasten to relieve 'em:
'Sure Heav'n has bless'd me to that very end:
'I've wealth enough; nor shalt thou want a part.
RANDAL.
'I have a part already—I am blest
'In your success, and share in all your joys.
Y. WILMOT.
[Page 45]'I doubt it not. But tell me, dost thou think,
'(My parents, not suspecting my return,)
'That I may visit them and not be known?
RANDAL.
''Tis hard for me to judge. You are already
'Grown so familiar to me, that I wonder
'I knew you not at first: yet it may be;
'For you're much alter'd, and they think you dead.
Y. WILMOT.
'This is certain; Charlotte beheld me long,
'And heard my loud reproaches, and complaints,
'Without rememb'ring she had ever seen me.
RANDAL.
Is't possible! The tender maid, whose sighs
Have number'd every hour of your absence?
Y. WILMOT.
'Tis true:—But has my Charlotte—tell me, Randal,
So tenderly deplor'd my uncertain fate?
RANDAL.
Like one, who cherish'd hope—but as a duty,
To quell despair, and chear the mourners round her.
It still has been her task to hide her grief,
To weep within—and speak in strains of comfort,
With tender care assuaging the misfortunes,
That have o'ertaken my poor master's house.—
Touch'd by th' Ithurial-spear of poverty.
Those hollow friends, who seem like angels fair,
In fortune's beam—regain'd their reptile form:
She only stood the test—and shar'd their ruin.
Y. WILMOT.
The heav'nly maid!—I could for ever listen
To her deserv'd applause.—Time presses now—
'My mind at ease, grows wanton: I would fain
'Refine on happiness. I would try, Randal,
'If it be possible, by seeing first
'My parents, as a stranger, to improve
Their pleasure by surprise.—
RANDAL.
[Page 46]'It may, indeed,
'Inhance your own, to see from what despair,
'Your timely coming, and unhoped success,
'Have given you power to raise them.
Y. WILMOT.
I've here, written,
A letter from my Charlotte, to my father,
'To recommend me, as a friend of her's,
'To his acquaintance.—Meaning to defer
'Discov'ring who I am, till she arrives,
'And thou, and all who love me, ev'ry friend
'Who witnesses my happiness to night,
'Will, by partaking, multiply my joys.
RANDAL.
'May ev'ry joy you find, prove firm, and lasting.
'I will attend you, sir.
Y. WILMOT.
'I am much thy debtor;
'But, I shall find a time to quit thy kindness.
'O Randal! but imagine to thyself,
'The floods of transport, the sincere delight,
'That all my friends will feel, when I disclose,
'To my astonish'd parents, my return,
'And then confess, that I have well contriv'd,
'By giving others joy t'exalt my own.—
'As pain, and anguish, in a generous mind,
While kept concealed, and to ourselves confin'd,
Want half their force—so pleasure, when it flows
In torrents round us, more extatic grows.
Exeunt.
END OF ACT THE THIRD.
[Page 47]
ACT IV.
SCENE. OLD WILMOT'S House. A Saloon, and entrance into the interior apartments.
Enter OLD WILMOT and MRS. WILMOT.
O. WILMOT.
'Here take this Seneca: this haughty pedant,
'Who, governing the master of mankind,
'And awing power imperial, prates of patience;
'And praises poverty—possess'd of millions:—
'Sell him, and buy us bread. The scantiest meal,
'The vilest copy of this book e'er purchas'd,
'Will give us more relief in this distress,
'Than all his boasted precepts.—Nay, no tears;
'Keep them to move compassion, when you beg.
MRS. WILMOT.
'My heart may break—but never, stoop to that.
O. WILMOT.
'Nor would I live to see it—but dispatch.
Exit MRS. WILMOT.
'Where must I charge this length of misery,
'That gathers force, each moment, as it rolls,
'And must, at last overwhelm me—but on hope;
'Vain, flattering, delusive, groundless hope;
'A senseless expectation of relief,
'That has for years deceived me?—Had I thought,
'As I do now, as wise men ever think,
'When first this Hell of poverty o'ertook me,
'That power to die, implies a right to do it,
'And should be us'd, when life becomes a pain;
'What plagues had I prevented? My poor wife,
'Is still a slave to prejudice, and fear—
'I would not leave my better part, the dear
[Page 48]'Faithful companion of my happier days—
'I'll try once more—
Re-enter MRS. WILMOT.
'Return'd, my life, so soon!
Enter YOUNG WILMOT.
MRS. WILMOT.
'The unexpected coming of this stranger,
'Prevents my going yet.
Y. WILMOT.
'You're, I presume,
[Gives a letter.]
'The gentleman, to whom this is directed.
'What wild neglect, the token of despair,
'What indigence, what misery appears
'In this once happy house! What discontent,
'What anguish, and confusion, fill the faces
'Of its dejected owners!
[Aside.]
O. WILMOT.
[Having read the letter.]
'Sir, such welcome,'As this poor house affords, you may command.—
'Our ever friendly neighbour—once we hop'd
'T'have call'd fair Charlotte by a dearer name—
'But we have done with hope—I pray excuse
'This incoherence—we had once a son.
MRS. WILMOT.
'That you are come from that dear virtuous maid,
'Revives in us the mem'ry of a loss,
'Which, tho' long since, we have not learnt to bear.
Y. WILMOT.
'The joy to see them, and the bitter pain,
'To see them thus, touches my very soul
'With tenderness and grief, that will o'erflow.
'They know me not, and yet I shall, I fear,
'Defeat my purpose, and betray myself.
[Aside.]
O. WILMOT.
'The lady calls you, here, her valu'd friend;
'Enough, tho' nothing more shou'd be imply'd,
'To recommend you to our best esteem;
[Page 49]'A worthless acquisition! May she find
'Some means, that better may express her kindness.
'But she, perhaps, hath purpos'd to enrich
'You with herself, and end her fruitless sorrow
'For one, whom death alone can justify,
'For leaving her so long. If it be so,
'May you repair his loss, and be to Charlotte,
'A second happier Wilmot! Partial nature,
'Who only favours youth; as feeble age
'Were not her offspring, or below her care,
'Has seal'd our doom: no second hope shall spring,
'To dry our tears, and dissipate despair.
MRS. WILMOT.
'The last, and most abandon'd of our kind,
'By Heav'n and earth neglected, or despis'd!
'The loathsome grave, that robb'd us of our son,
'And all our joys in him, must be our refuge.
Y. WILMOT.
'Let ghosts unpardon'd, or devoted fiends,
'Fear without hope, and wail in such sad strains;
'But grace defend the living from despair!
'The darkest hours precede the rising sun,
'And mercy may appear, when least expected.
O. WILMOT.
'This I have heard, a thousand times repeated,
'And have, believing, been as oft deceiv'd.
Y. WILMOT.
'Behold in me an instance of its truth.
'At sea twice shipwreck'd, and as oft the prey
'Of lawless pirates; by the Arabs thrice
'Surpriz'd, and robb'd on shore; and once reduc'd
'To worse than these, the sum of all distress,
'That the most wretched feel on this side Hell,
'Ev'n slavery itself: yet here I stand,
'Except one trouble, that will quickly end,
'The happiest of mankind.
O. WILMOT.
[Page 50]'A rare example
'Of fortune's caprice; apter to surprise,
'Or entertain, than comfort, or instruct.
'If you would reason from events, be just,
'And count when you escaped, how many perish'd;
'And draw your inf'rence thence.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Alas! who knows,
'But we were render'd childless by some storm,
'In which you, tho' preserv'd, might bear a part?
Y. WILMOT.
'How has my curiosity betray'd me,
'Into superfluous pain! I faint with fondness;
'And shall, if I stay longer, rush upon 'em,
'Till with excess of pleasure, and surprise,
'Their souls transported, their frail mansions quit,
'And leave 'em breathless in my longing arms.
'By circumstances then, and slow degrees,
'They must be let into a happiness,
'Too great for them to bear at once, and live:
'That Charlotte will perform. I need not feign,
'To ask an hour for rest.
[Aside.]
Sir, I intreat'The favor to retire, where for a while
'I may repose myself, You will excuse
'This freedom, and the trouble that I give you:
'Tis long since I have slept, and nature calls.
O. WILMOT.
'I pray no more: Believe we're only troubled,
'That you should think any excuse were needful.
Y. WILMOT.
'The weight of this, to me, is some incumbrance,
'And its contents of value: if you please
'To take the charge of it, till I awake,
'I shall not sleep the worse.
[Takes a casket from his bosom, and gives it to Mrs. Wilmot.]
[Page 51]'If I should sleep,
'Till I am ask'd for, as perhaps I may,
'I beg that you would wake me.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Doubt it not:
'Distracted as I am with various woes,
'I shall remember that.—
Mrs. Wilmot retires.
Y. WILMOT.
'Merciless grief!
'What ravage has it made! How has it chang'd
'Her lovely form and mind! I feel her anguish,
'And dread, I know not what, from her despair.
'My father too!—O grant him patience, Heav'n!
'A little longer, a few short hours more,
'And all their care and mine, shall end for ever.
Exeunt into the interior apartment.
SCENE continues.
MRS. WILMOT alone.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Who should this stranger be?—And then this casket—
'He says it is of value, and yet trusts it,
'As if a trifle, to a stranger's hand.—
'His confidence amazes me—Perhaps
'It is not what he says—I'm strongly tempted
'To open it, and see!—No, let it rest.—
'Why should my curiosity excite me,
'To search, and pry into th' affairs of others;
'Who have t'employ my thoughts, so many cares
'And sorrows of my own?—
[She opens it.]
With how much ease
'The spring gives way!—Surprising! Most prodigious!
'My eyes are dazzled, and my ravish'd heart,
'Leaps at the glorious sight!—
[Page 52]
[After a long pause of admiration.]
A pleasing dream!'For sure it was a happiness to think,
'Tho' but a moment, such a treasure mine.
'Nay, it was more than thought, I saw and touch'd
'The bright temptation—and I see it yet!—
'Tis here! 'Tis mine! I have it in possession!—
'Must I resign it?—Must I give it back?
'Am I in love with misery and want—
'To rob myself, and court so great a loss?
'Retain it then—but how?—
(Pauses.)
'There is a way—
'Why sinks my heart?—Why does my blood run cold?
'Why am I thrill'd with horror?—'Tis not choice—
'But dire necessity, suggests the deed.
Enter OLD WILMOT.
O. WILMOT.
'The mind contented, with how little pains,
'The wand'ring senses yield to soft repose!
'He's fallen asleep already—happy man!
'What dost thou think, my Agnes, of our guest!
'He seems to me a youth of great humanity:
'Just ere he clos'd his eyes, that swam in tears,
'He wrung my hand, and press'd it to his lips;
'And with a look, that pierc'd me to the soul,
'Begg'd me to comfort thee: and—dost thou hear me?
MRS. WILMOT.
My husband!—Hush my heart—'tis yet unweigh'd!
Aside.
O. WILMOT.
'What art thou gazing on?—Fie, 'tis not well.
'That casket was deliver'd to you clos'd:
'Why have you open'd it? Should this be known,
'How mean must we appear!—
MRS. WILMOT.
'And who shall know it?—
O. WILMOT.
[Page 53]'There is a kind of pride, a decent dignity,
'Due to ourselves; which, spite of our misfortunes,
'May be maintain'd, and cherish'd to the last.
'To live without reproach, and without leave
'To quit the world—shews sovereign contempt,
'And noble scorn of its resentless malice.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Shews sovereign madness—and a scorn of sense—
(Puts the casket open into his hand.)
Read there an argument for life, more strong,
Than the most firm opinionist e'er hatch'd,
For foul self-murder!—When you have thought on't,
I will expect your answer with my charge.
Exit Mrs. Wilmot.
O. WILMOT.
[After a pause.]
An argument for life!—what can she mean?'Tis for the owner then—How bright's the lustre,
How immense the worth of these fair jewels!
Ay! Such a treasure would expel for ever
Base poverty, and all its abject train;
The mean devices, we're reduc'd to use,
To keep out famine, and preserve our lives,
From day to day, the cold neglect of friends;
The galling scorn, or more provoking pity
Of an insulting world—possess'd of these,—
Plenty, content, and power, might take their turn,
And lofty pride bare its aspiring head
At our approach, and once more bend before us!
O woman! Woman! Too powerful tempter!
How could'st thou form a thought, so very damning,
So advantageous, so secure and easy?
And yet so cruel, and so full of horror!—
[Page 54]Generous, unhappy man! What, what could urge thee,
To put thy life, and fortune, in the hands
Of wretches, mad with anguish! Self-defence,
Sounds the alarm, thro' all the tortur'd passions;
And apt occasion, with seductive stealth,
Points to the means! 'Tis but a single murder!
Necessity, impatience, and despair,
The three wide mouths, of that true Cerberus,
Grim poverty, demand: they shall be stopp'd!
Ambition, persecution, and revenge
Devour their millions daily:—and shall I—
O! What is man, his excellence and strength,
When in an hour of trial, and desertion,
Reason, his noblest pow'r, may be suborn'd,
To plead the cause of vile assassination!
Exit.
SCENE II. The BEACH, amongst the Rocks.
First a gun is fired very near; then Enter the BOY, hastily and alarmed, with a small Cabinet in his hand.
BOY.
Merciless dogs—more barbarous than the storm?
What have the poor unhappy suff'rers done,
That you should plunder what the waves have spar'd,
Adding your outrage to the bolts of fate?
I will preserve this from your ruffian hands—
O Heav'ns!—This cabinet—O! Providence!
Ten thousand terrors kindle at the sight;—
And fond remembrance startles o'er my thoughts—
What haste, my beating heart—
[Page 55]It was engrav'd—here on—
[Rubs the ornament and reads.]
Ha! Arnold!—O Heav'n!
Had I one hope reserv'd—for last night's storm,
To make the number of my woes complete?
Enter FLINT and two FELLOWS.
FLINT.
Come hither, young one—you must deliver up that box, it belongs to the wreck.
BOY.
Oh! Does it indeed?
[Weeps.]
FLINT.
Does it! Ay: so hand it over.
BOY.
For what purpose, sir?
FLINT.
What purpose! Why to be taken care of, to be sure.
BOY.
I will take care of it, then sir; great care—
Till its right owner shall demand it of me—
I live here i'th' rock—
FLINT.
You! No, no, my boy! The owner wont come in a hurry to claim it—he's gone to sea again.
BOY.
Gone to sea?—
FLINT.
Ay; in the maw of a shark. So make no more words, but hand us over the box directly—or we shall use you a little roughly.—
BOY.
Oh my torn heart! I will not give it up—
'Tis possible the owner may be sav'd—
FLINT.
Sav'd or not, we'll have the box—why you young robber would you plunder the wreck? Seize [Page 56] him, lads, and duck him; that he may tell no tales— but search him, first. He has more valuables about him that belong to the ship.
[They seize him.]
BOY.
Must I then lose the last—oh! Arnold! Arnold!
Good masters, treat me not so rudely.—You—
You have the law of might at least! 'Tis your's.
[Lets the cabinet go, and seizes it again, on seeing Arnold at a distance.]
Ha!—Here's help at hand! I will not part with't—
You have no right—I'll lose my life first!—Help!—
FLINT.
Stop his mouth—to the rock with him—
BOY.
Help, stranger, help!—Oh! Arnold!—Help!
Enter ARNOLD. (Speaks entering.)
ARNOLD.
My name!—
And brutal violence!—Villains let go the boy.
FLINT.
Let go the boy! For what? He's a thief: He has been plundering the wreck.
ARNOLD.
(After viewing him some time.)
—Impossible!The gentle youth, whose tender care last night—
Villains! Unloose his arms: take off your hands—
Or I will cut them off.—
[Draws his sabre; they release the Boy.]
What has he done?
FLINT.
Done! Why stole that box there, in his hands,
We caught him at it.
ARNOLD.
Ha!—My cabinet—
Aside.
BOY.
(Kneeling.)
Kind stranger, hear me![Page 57]I am no thief: I found this cabinet,
Left by the tide, at ebb, upon the strand;
And as by certain marks, it witness'd strongly—
Of circumstances near to my affections—
(Weeps.)
Would have preserv'd it from their russian hands.
Witness, that Power, which reads the human soul,
And blots the perjur'd utterly from grace,
The wealth of worlds, health, freedom, life,— were poor,
Compar'd with that first bliss my heart could feel,
To yield it safely to its owner's hands.
ARNOLD.
What means this tumult, and his eager warmth?
Fellows, begone! The cabinet is mine.
FLINT.
Come lads! We're losing time. Would we had silenc'd him!
Exeunt Flint and Fellows.
BOY.
(Alarmed.)
Your's!—Did I hear you rightly?—Said you— your's?
ARNOLD.
Yes:—you have found that owner:—I am he.
BOY.
You!
(Surveying him wiih fixed attention.)
Oh, my presaging heart! How—how long.
(Agitated▪)
O, sir! Excuse the anxious perturbation,—
The wildness—the disorder—you behold—
How
(With hesitation.)
long has it been yours!ARNOLD.
These many years.
(Alarmed.)
BOY.
Confided to your hand by some dear friend?
ARNOLD.
It was: by one much dearer to my heart,
Than is the vital stream, that lodges there.
BOY.
His last bequest—a dying token—
ARNOLD.
[Page 58]No!
It was a pledge of love—of living faith—
And fond remembrance!
BOY.
(Eagerly.)
Then lives he still?ARNOLD.
My kind,
My gentle boy! What means this wild alarm?
You search my very soul.—I see some error—
BOY.
O, gen'rous stranger! Think, one moment think▪
Your bosom glows—I can perceive it does!
With every tender, and humane affection—
Think! that upon your voice—your candor, truth,
In this most touching moment of my life,
My all of comfort—or despair—depends.
ARNOLD.
What mean you?
BOY.
Impatient heart! Oh! Give me
The respite of a moment;—hence, disguise—
You say that it was once a pledge of love—
Indeed it was—of tender faithful love;
As ever maid confess'd—or lover swore.
Friend of my Arnold, I will telll thee all!
(She takes off the cap—her hair flows down her shoulders: he recognizes her.]
ARNOLD.
Oh! heav'nly Pow'rs!
BOY.
Has he ne'er nam'd—his Lucy?
ARNOLD.
Be still my transports! The dear maid herself!
Aside.
LUCY.
Sev'n woeful years are past, since that poor pledge,
(The picture of my former self enclos'd,
Gift of our parting hour) my Arnold vow'd
To keep—to part from, only with his life.—
[Page 59]Judge of my feelings then—when rolling years,
Of penury, and pining grief, and toil,
Have chang'd my prospects—nay, my very sex,
And left no hope—to wing my fruitless pray'rs;
To find that pledge, after a hideous storm,
Cast by the sea upon a ruthless beach,—
To hear a stranger claim—O, sir! reveal
To me—
ARNOLD.
My grief, my pains—my joy—my transport!
Think what my feelings are—and such are his!—
To leave that tender maid—to quit her arms,
Without one joy, save what this pledge contain'd.
[He takes a picture from his neck, and gives her, which she views with agitation.]
To wander thro' inhospitable climes,
Scorch'd in the torrid zone—and dragging life
In slav'ry—her truth his only hope!
To break his chains, and to accumulate
Unhop'd for wealth—To hasten to her back,
With all a lover's constant, unchang'd faith.—
Shipwreck'd and saved—to find a wreck on shore,
More fatal to his peace— his mistress lost—
His happiness—his hope!—To find them thus
Again, when least expected!—To remain,
(Chang'd by the burning sun, and foreign garb)
Unknown—to hear the lovely mourner's truth—
To gaze on—to enfold—to clasp—his Lucy!
(He embraces her, and she sinks in his arms.)
LUCY.
Arnold! Oh!—
ARNOLD.
My life! Sole object of my thoughts,
Aim and reward of all my anxious toils,
Look up—look up, my Lucy—Heav'nly Powers!
Where is that glowing tint, that rob'd thy cheek?
[Page 60]The lustre of thine eyes!—Look up, or Arnold,
In sight of harbour, is again o'erwhelm'd,
Beyond the reach of fate to save him more.
LUCY.
Heigh ho!
(Sighs.)
ARNOLD.
Transporting sound! My Lucy—lean—
Lean on my bosom.—
LUCY.
Oh!—
[Recovering slowly, and gazing on him some time.]
Can it be possible?—
ARNOLD.
Why dost thou view me with that doubtful look?
Thy faithful Arnold—Ah! Why starts that tear?
LUCY.
(Kneeling.)
O Gracious Power! to whom my streaming eyes,Have oft been rais'd—to whom the trembling drops
Of patient resignation, have been shed;
Accept the tear of heart-felt gratitude!
And such thanksgiving as a heart confus'd,
In its first moments of returning joy,
Can offer up!
[He raises her; she is turning towards him, but checks herself—then hides her face on his shoulder.]
Excuse my blushes, Arnold!
You find me chang'd, indeed!—A poor, poor creature!—
My mother, too! Oh! I have much to tell you—
ARNOLD.
Let me behold thy face—Ha! She'll faint again—
LUCY.
No!—'twill away: A little overpower'd;
Joy is a guest, has long been absent here.
ARNOLD.
Receive it then with smiles, a welcome stranger!
[Page 61]Not as a sojourner for hours or days,
But one that's come to share your heart with Arnold—
To stay for years—to pass a whole life with you!
LUCY.
To share with Arnold! It is Arnold's self!—
Affliction's lesson to me has been patience:
Joy is tumultuous—I can't restrain it!
Teach me, calm daughter of successful hope,
Tranquility—teach me calmly to reason
And know myself—thus happy as I am!
ARNOLD.
My heav'nly girl!—But how thus chang'd?
LUCY.
Wilt thou, my Arnold, enter our poor hovel,
And view the means that have preserv'd me for thee?
Methinks too, (I would banish ev'ry sorrow now)
I hardly feel this transport as I ought,
'Till my dear parent knows, and shares my bliss.
ARNOLD.
Conduct me, angel, that my eyes may trace,
Each line of excellence, thy duteous heart
Has nobly fill'd;—and may thy fair example,
Dart clear conviction thro' the sceptic tribe,
That virtue ever should repel despair;
Claiming that bounteous Pow'r's peculiar care;
Who, 'midst each worldly maze, preserves due rule,
Who loves, yet chastens in affliction's school;
Whose trials, no well founded hope destroy;
But fit the mind for scenes of lasting joy.
Exeunt.
END OF ACT THE FOURTH.
[Page 62]
ACT V.
SCENE. A PLANTATION, opening on Wilmot's House.
Enter MALIGN alone.
MALIGN.
I've watch'd in vain his coming forth—silent
And gloomy, as the mansions of the dead,
No cheerful sound is heard; no busy step,
In this, once riotous, deserted hall:—
The mournful Lares, on their altars mute,
Have long forgot the sacrifice of joy;
And sprigntly notes of music, and of mirth;
The sighing echo's, answ'ring but to sounds
Of wailings and complaint;—the creaking doors,
And windows, ratt'ling to the evening blast.
Quick comes the close of day; the hazy clouds
Must'ring i'th'east, lead on the approach
Of sable-hooded night, before its time:—
Now! Or never.—Tomorrow shall behold
Them guarded round with friends—
(Goes towards the entrance.)
The door, on jar,
Bespeaks the fearless poverty within:
I'll enter.—Come, coward spleen, provoke me:
If I can creep and sting him to the heart—
Genius of Italy, now guide it home;
Th'invention thy keen policy has form'd—
(Draws a dagger.)
And night's concealing veil shall cover all.—
(Enters the house.)
[Page 63]
SCENE II. OLD WILMOT'S, House. Leading to the interior apartment.
Enter MRS. WILMOT alone from within.
MRS. WILMOT.
He sleeps secure:—Would it were done!—Some Pow'r,
Restrains my arm, and shields him from the blow!
[Takes the casket from a table.]
Where's my husband?—The glorious vision's here,
That fires my mind—my blood is up in arms!
If he should wake, I must restore it back;
And face again grim poverty, and all
It's yelling train;—I cannot bear the thought:
My eager fancy has out-stripp'd it far;
Shook off dishonour—and forbad despair—
And hail'd the hour of joy!—And shall I then
Encounter them again? Not for a world:
A fall from such a glorious height as this,
Is worse than death—
Enter OLD WILMOT.
O. WILMOT.
Aye, much worse than death, indeed,
These ardent struggles of the tortur'd mind!
'Tis nobler far, to shut out life ourselves—
MRS. WILMOT.
'Pursue no further this detested theme:
'I will not die, I will not leave the world,
'For all that you can urge, until compell'd.
O. WILMOT.
'To chace a shadow, when the setting sun
'Is darting his last rays, were just as wise,
'As your anxiety for fleeting life,
'Now the last means for its support are failing:
[Page 64]'Were famine not as mortal as the sword,
'This warmth might be excus'd:—But take thy choice;
'Die how you will, you shall not die alone.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Nor live, I hope.
O. WILMOT.
'There is no fear of that.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Then we'll both live.
O. WILMOT.
'Strange folly!—Where's the means?
MRS. WILMOT.
'There.—Those jewels—
O. WILMOT.
'Ha! Take heed—
'Perhaps thou dost but try me—yet take heed—
'There's nought so monstrous, but the mind of man,
'In some conditions, may be brought t'approve:
'Theft, sacrilege, treason, and parricide,
'When flattering opportunity entic'd,
'And desperation drove, have been committed
'By those, who once would start to hear them nam'd.
MRS. WILMOT.
'And add to these, detested suicide;
'Which, by a crime much less, we may avoid.
O. WILMOT.
'The inhospitable murder of our guest!
MRS. WILMOT.
''Tis less impiety—less against nature,
'To take another's life—than end our own.
O. WILMOT.
'It is no matter, whether this, or that
'Be in itself the less or greater [...]rim [...]:
'Howe'er we may deceive ourselves or others,
'We act from inclination, not by rule,
[Page 65]'Or none could act amiss: and that all err,
'None but the conscious hypocrite denies.
MRS. WILMOT.
Necessity has claims beyond all rule:
'Nature and reason, too, may justly plead
'For our own preservation.
O. WILMOT.
'Rest contented:
'Whate'er resistance I may seem to make,
'I am betray'd within: my will's seduc'd,
'And my whole soul infected.—The desire
'Of life returns, and brings with it a train
'Of appetites, that rage to be supplied.—
'Whoever stays to parley with temptation,
'Parley's to be o'ercome!—
MRS. WILMOT.
'Then nought remains,
'But the swift execution of a deed,
'That is not to be thought on, or delay'd—
Resolve, without a moment—by what means
'Shall we effect his death?
O. WILMOT.
Why, what a fiend—
'How cruel, how remorseless, and impatient,
'Have pride and poverty made thee!
MRS. WILMOT.
'Barbarous man!
'Whose wasteful riots ruin'd our estate,
'And drove our son, ere the first down had spread
'His rosy cheeks, spite of my sad presages,
'Earnest intreaties, agonies and tears,
'To seek his bread 'mongst strangers, and to perish
'In some remote, inhospitable land—
'The loveliest youth, in person and in mind,
'That ever crown'd a groaning mother's pains!
'Where was thy pity, where thy patience then?
'Thou cruel husband! Thou unnat'ral father!
[Page 66]'Thou most remorseless, most ungrateful man!
'To waste my fortune, rob me of my son,
'To drive me to despair, and then reproach me,
'For being what thou'st made me.—
O. WILMOT.
'Dry thy tears:
'I ought not to reproach thee. I confess
'That thou hast suff'red much: So have we both.
'But chide no more: I'm wrought up to thy purpose.
'The poor ill-fated, unsuspecting victim,
'Ere he reclined him on the fatal couch,
'From which he's ne'er to rise, took off the sash,
'And costly sabre, that thou saw'st him wear,
'And thus, unthinking, furnish'd us with arms
'Against himself. Steal to the door,
'And bring me word, if he be still asleep.
Exit Mrs. Wilmot.
'Or I'm deceiv'd, or he pronounc'd himself,
'The happiest of mankind. Deluded wretch!
'Thy thoughts are perishing, thy youthful joys,
'Touch'd by the icy hand of grisly death,
'Are with'ring in their bloom—But thought extinguish'd,
'He'll never know the loss,
'Nor feel the bitter pangs of disappointment—
'Then I was wrong in counting him a wretch:
'To die well pleas'd,
'Is all the happiest of mankind can hope for.
'To be a wretch, is to survive the loss
'Of every joy, and even hope itself,
'As I have done—why do I mourn him then?
'For, by the anguish of my tortur'd soul,
'He's to be envy'd, if compar'd with me.—
Enter Mrs. WILMOT, with the sabre of Young Wilmot.
MRS. WILMOT.
[Page 67]'The stranger sleeps at present; but so restless
'His slumbers seem, they can't continue long.
'Here I've secur'd his sword.
O. WILMOT.
'O Agnes! Agnes!
'If there be a hell, 'tis just we should expect it.
[Goes to take the weapon, but lets it fall.]
MRS. WILMOT.
'Shake off this panic, and be more yourself.
O. WILMOT.
'What's to be done? On what had we determin'd?
MRS. WILMOT.
'You're quite dismay'd!
O. WILMOT.
'Give me the fatal steel:
'Tis but a murder! Who would stick at murder,
Thus goaded, and thus tempted to the deed?
'But follow me—and see how little cause,
'You had to think, there were the least remains
'Of manhood, pity, mercy, or remorse,
'Left in this savage breast.
[Going the wrong way.]
MRS. WILMOT.
'Where do you go?
'The street is that way—
O. WILMOT.
'True! I had forgot.
MRS. WILMOT.
'Quite, quite confounded!
O. WILMOT.
'Well, I recover.—I shall find the way.
[Exit into the inner apartment.]
MRS. WILMOT.
'O softly! Softly! The least noise undoes us—
'What are we doing? Misery and want,
'Are lighter ills than this!—I cannot bear it—
'Stop, hold thy hand—inconstant, wretched woman!
[Page 68]'What! Doth my heart recoil? O Wilmot! Wilmot!
'What pow'r shall I invoke to aid thee, Wilmot?
Exit.
Enter CHARLOTTE and RANDAL, ARNOLD and LUCY.
CHARLOTTE.
'What strange neglect! The doors are all unbar'd,
'And not a living creature to be seen!
MRS. WILMOT returns.
My friend! My mother! O, forgive th' excess
Of pleasure, that transports me thus to see you!
Are you not my mother?—
MRS. WILMOT.
What mean you?—Ha!
(Looks round disturbed.)
CHARLOTTE.
Too long that tender name has spoke our grief—
Mournful memento of our common loss!—
But why this coldness—this reserve? O, where,
Where is the object, should inspire your joy?
Where is the stranger?—
MRS. WILMOT.
What joy?—What stranger?
(Agitated.)
CHARLOTTE.
Oh! We are come to give, and to receive,
A thousand greetings.—The Heav'ns have heard
Our misery; and in the amplest bounty sent—
MRS. WILMOT.
What stranger? And what greetings should we know?
Is mis'ry but the subject of your scorn?
This insult cancels all—speak, speak quickly!
What stranger should we know—and why conceal—
CHARLOTTE.
(Alarmed.)
Why do you look with such amazement on us?
Where is he? Tell me, has he not been here?
Would he defer your happiness so long?
[Page 69]Or could a habit, so disguise him to you,
That you refuse to own him?
MRS. WILMOT.
Oh God, and nature!—
What prodigy of horror is disclosing,
'To render murder venial?
CHARLOTTE.
Your son!—Your son—
MRS. WILMOT.
Hush!—
[She stands stupid in astonishment. Looks round to the door, leading to the inner apartment— then on Charlotte, with great anxiety.]
CHARLOTTE.
You terrify me, madam!—'Tis your son—
My ever faithful—our dear, long-lost, Wilmot.
MRS. WILMOT.
Ha ha! ha! ha! ha!—
[Bursts into loud laughter.]
CHARLOTTE.
Oh Heav'n's! What have I done? unthinking wretch!
'Tis the effect of sudden bursting joy!—
Compose thyself, dear mother of my Wilmot—
MRS. WILMOT.
Wilmot—am I a mother? Nay—'Tis past recal—
His father slew him too! Oh! Don't reveal it.—
[Weeps bitterly.]
ARNOLD.
I dread some mischief lurks beneath this passion!
Her words are wild! Her accents are despair!—
MRS. WILMOT.
No stranger has been here—That's not his blood!
Those jewels!—Are not his—he's not my son!
Yet 'twas a cruel deed—a deed of horror!—
Some mother! Who has rear'd the blooming boy—
Frantic with grief, shall tear his body up,
Tho' we have buried it!—Blasting the name of Wilmot.
ARNOLD.
[Page 70]What means those dreadful words, and frantic air?
My mind misgives me! Patience, reason, help her!
[Mrs. Wilmot, after a pause, recovers; starts, and looks towards the inner apartment.]
MRS. WILMOT.
Oh! Wilmot! Wilmot!—Hold thy desp'rate hand!—
Enter OLD WILMOT, in great disorder, with Young Wilmot's dagger, smeared with blood.
O. WILMOT.
(Wildly.)
What voice is that?—Is there more slaughter toward?
MRS. WILMOT.
'Tis done!—Your son! Your son!—
[Swoons and falls on the floor.]
RANDAL.
'Ha! That is the sabre,
'My young master wore!—
ARNOLD.
'Do not stand to gaze,
'On those mute phantoms of despair and horror:
'Let us search further—Randal lead the way.
Exeunt.
Manent OLD WILMOT and MRS. WILMOT.
O. WILMOT.
Look up, Agnes!—Blame not my erring arm—
The treasure of a conscience undefil'd,
Shall more than compensate the damned gains
Of such a deed!—
(He raises her.)
MRS. WILMOT.
Can it be possible?
Has earth a place for misery like this?
Where—where—Oh!—
[Recovering slowly, looks around—and seeing the bloody sword, screams aloud.]
[Page 71]The dreadful vision's here!—
Abhorred wretch! Fell murd'rer of my child!
Inhuman father!—Lost, abandon'd Wilmot!—
O. WILMOT.
Grace defend us! Oh! We are not so curst.—
MRS. WILMOT.
Do not accuse thy erring mother, Wilmot,
'With too much rigor, when we meet above,—
'To give thee life, for life, and blood for blood,
'Is not enough! Had I ten thousand lives,
'I'd give them all to speak my penitence,
'Deep and sincere, and equal to my crime.—
[Snatches the sword, and attempts to stab herself— he prevents her.]
O. WILMOT.
Hold your rash hand! and know—but tell me, tell me—
Is he our son?
MRS. WILMOT.
Yes! Yes, thou cruel monster!
More barb'rous now—than is the deed we've done!
[Struggles for the dagger.]
Unloose the steel, or strike it to my heart
In mercy.—Here thou preaching suicide!
Behold thy convert—Let thy practice seal
[Kneels.]
(Now there is cause!) the doctrine with thy blood.
'Let life forsake the earth, and light the sun,
'Death and deep darkness, bury in oblivion
'Mankind, and all their deeds—that no posterity
'May ever rise to hear our horrid tale,
'Or view the grave of such detested parricides.—
O. WILMOT.
Bliss of my youth and comfort of my age!
Agnes! Look up, and hail a scene of wonder!
Let penitence atone our dark design,
And drive the fiend of desperation hence!—
[Page 72]Let thankfulness for mercy and deliverance
O'ercome our conscious shame.—Behold he lives!
The back Scene draws off and discovers MALIGN on the ground wounded. YOUNG WILMOT supporting CHARLOTT RANDAL and ARNOLD.
MRS. WILMOT.
My boy! My boy! Ah!—dost thou live indeed?
(She rushes to embrace him.)
Y. WILMOT.
In bliss unutterable! Nay, dry those tears—
My ever honor'd—my beloved parents!—
(Kneels and kisses them.)
And that I live, next to the care of Heaven,
Is owing to my father's guardian arm:—
That villain else—that most unnat'ral villain!
(Pointing to Malign.)
Who has confess'd, spite of the ties of blood,
And laws divine and human that he sought
My life—had stol'n on my defenceless sleep,
And dealt on me that death—his just reward.
MALIGN.
I own my crime—nay more, my folly too!)
Had I, with patience, waited the event,
The father's desp'rate hand had done the deed,
And slaughter'd his own son!—I overheard,
But fear'd his resolution.—May this awake
Fell rancour 'twixt your souls—and hence may feuds
Spread discord through your families forever!
I die! Wilmot, remember this—the blow,
That's mortal here—thy parents meant for thee.
Oh!—
[Dies.]
Y. WILMOT.
[Page 73]Horrid effect of desperation's rage!
To plunge into eternity, thus bold,
With falsehood on his tongue!
[OLD WILMOT and MRS. WILMOT both kneel.]
O. WILMOT.
Not so, my son!
Thy parents kneel, and ask of thee forgiveness,
And intercession, at the Throne of Mercy,
For their acknowledg'd guilt!—Yet, let me say,
And 'tis but justice—that the guilty thought,
Whose soul conception punishes itself,
Was not imagin'd, thinking you our son.
That were impossible!—Heav'n made our guilt
Thy preservation! When most offended,
Restrain'd the self-inflicted scourge, and bid
Its amplest mercy beam upon our fault!—
Can'st thou forgive?—
Y. WILMOT.
My ever honor'd parents!
This posture fits not you—O, rise! And let
No thought of sorrows past, o'er cloud the joy,
That waits to crown us thro' our lives to come!—
Heav'n weighs our trials, and compares our strength;—
And proves, in its vast mercies, it accepts
The sacrifice of penitence sincere.—
ARNOLD.
Nay, multiplies our joys, by its afflictions!—
For know, thou happy father, it is thine,
Twice t'have preserv'd the valued life you gave.
Let that appease each self-accusing thought:
For in your son, and me, his friend, behold
The objects of your charitable succour
In last night's storm!—
O. WILMOT.
[Page 74]O, Providence!—My son, my son!
(Embracing.)
Thy mercies are too great! My old fond breast,
Will burst with the full transport.—My daughter!
(Embracing Charlotte.)
Thou, noble, generous girl! Wilt too, be happy!
Agnes! Thou faithful partner of my dang'rous voyage,
Thro' life's tempestuous sea—Oh, what a rock
We have escap'd! Yet had we been forsaken,
As I, too oft, have impiously urg'd,
Where, where had we been now!—But dry thy tears;
And hail the harbour, where our days to come,
In peace and resignation, shall atone
The past—be grateful for the present—and
In the future—know no will but Heav'n's.—
Y. WILMOT.
I've here a grateful debt—my gentle boy!
Enter LUCY.
O, my Charlotte! When you shall hear his story—
CHARLOTTE.
I've heard it all, with wonder and delight!
Y. WILMOT.
And now, my Arnold! Could I hope to find
Thee happy—What were there left to ask?
Were but thy Lucy now—
ARNOLD.
Behold her here!
In this poor garb—by Heav'n directed duty—
LUCY.
Has prov'd that the unworthiest means,
The feeblest, poorest efforts of humanity,
Are in the hand Omnipotent—a medium
Of great deliv'rance! Guilt only should create
Despair; where guilt is not, despair is guilt:—
[Page 75]Proud and impatient under our afflictions,
We often counter-work the hidden movement,
Of watchful Providence, to make us blest.—
May heav'n-born poesy, with art sublime,
Full, pregnant of the moral cause—inspire
Some future poet, to enrich the scene,
To paint our humble, artless, homefelt-tale,
In plain simplicity—to give the stage
Its noblest use—To yield comfort with counsel,
And fair virtue's lesson—in soft pleasure's garb!
To spread, by heart-adorning sympathy,
The bliss, which each in this fond circle feels;
From such a depth of darkness and distress,
Such great, unlook'd for, timely PRESERVATION!
Exeunt.
FINIS.