Now all my hopes are dead! A little while But in this rage she must abhor my presence. Re-enter ANNA. Anna. My lord! My lord! Lord R. Speak: I can hear of horror. Anna. Is no more: She ran, she flew like lightning up the hill; And headlong down Lord R. Twas I, alas! 'twas I That fill'd her breast with fury; drove her down The precipice of death! Wretch that I am! Upon the brink she stood, and cast her eyes Lord R. I will not vent, In vain complaints, the passion of my soul, makes Me turn aside, must threaten worse than death. [The Curtain descends slowly to Music. LILLO. GEORGE LILLO, was by profession a jeweller, and was born in the neighbourhood of Moorgate, in London, on the 4th of Feb. 1693; in which neighbourhood he pursued his occupation for many years, with the fairest and most unblemished character. He was strongly attached to the Muses, yet seemed to have laid it down as a maxim, that the devotion paid to them ought always to tend to the promotion of virtue, morality, and religion. In pursuance of this aim, Mr. Lillo was happy in the choice of his subjects, and showed great power of affecting the heart, by working up the passions to such a height, as to render the distresses of common and domestic life equally interesting as those of kings and heroes; and the ruin brought on private families by an indulgence of avarice, lust etc., as the havock made in states and empires by ambition, cruelty and tyranny. His George Barnwell, Fatal Curiosity, and Arden of Feversham are all planned on common and well-known stories; yet they have, perhaps, more frequently drawn tears from an audience, than the more pompous tragedies of Alexander the Great, All for Love, etc. Mr. Lillo, as before observed, has been happy in the choice of his subjects; his conduct and the management of them is no less merito-2 rious, and his pathos very great. If there is any fault to be objected to his writings, it is, that sometimes he affects an elevation of style somewhat above the simplicity of his subject, and the supposed rank of his characters; but the custom of tragedy will stand in some degree of excuse for this; and a still better argument perhaps may be admitted in vindication, not only of our present author, but of others in the like predicament; which is, that even nature itself will justify this conduct; since we find even the most humble characters in real life, when under peculiar circumstances of distress, or actuated by the influence of any violent passions, will at times be elevated to an aptuess of expression, and power of language, not only greatly superior to themselves, but even to the general language and conversation of persons of much higher rank in life, and of minds more perfectly cultivated. Our author died Sept. 5d. 1759, in the 47th year of his age; and a few months after his death the celebrated Fielding printed the following character of him in The Champion: "He had a perfect knowledge of human nature, though his contempt of all base means of application, which are the necessary steps to great acquaintance, restrained his conversation within very narrow bounds. He had the spirit of an old Roman, joined to the innocence of a primitive christian; he was contented with his little state of life, in which his excellent temper of mind gave him a happiness beyond the power of ricres; and it was necessary for his friends to have a sharp insight into his want of their services, as well as good inclination or abilities to serve him. In short, he was one of the best of men, and those who knew him best will most regret his loss." GEORGE BARNWELL. THIS play was acted 1731, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane with great success, "In the newspapers of the time" says the Biographia Dramatica, "we find, that on Friday, ad of July 1731, the Queen sent to the playhouse in Drury-lane, for the manuscript of George Barnwell, to peruse it, which Mr. Wilks carried to Hampton Court. This tragedy heing founded on a well known old ballad, many of the critics of that time, who went to the first representation of it, formed so contemptuous an idea of the piece, in their expectations, that they purchased the ballad (some thousands of which were used in one day on this account), in order to draw comparisons between that and the playa But its merit soon got the better of this contempt, and presented them with scenes written so true to the heart, that they were compelled to subscribe to their power, and lay aside their ballads to take their handkerchiefs." The original performer of the character of George Barnwell, Mr. Ross, relates, that "in the year 1752, he played this part. Dr. Darrowby was sent for by a young merchant's apprentice, who was in a high fever; upon the Doctor's approaching kim, he saw his patient was afflicted with a disease of the mind. The Doctor being alone with the young man, he confessed, after much solicitation, that he had made an improper acquaintance with a kept mistress; and had made free with money intrusted to his care, by his employers, to the amount of zoo pounds. Secing Mr. Ross in that piece, hø was so forcibly struck, he had not enjoyed a moment's peace since, and wished to die, to avoid the shame he saw hanging over him. The Doctor calmed his patient by telling him, if his father made the least hesitation to give the money, he should have it from him. The father arrived, put the amount into the son's hands, they wept, kissed, embraced. The son soon recovered, and lived to be a very eminent merchant. Dr. Barrowby never told me the name; but one even athendo me, you have done some good in your profession, more perhaps than many a clergyman who preached study I had for nine or ten years, at my benefit, a note sealed up with ten guineas, and these words, "a tribate of patitude from one who is highly obliged, and saved from ruin, by seeing Mr. Ross's performance of Barnwed Wat will the virulent decriers of stage-plays say to this? ACT I. Thorow. Nay, 'twas a needless caution; 1 have no cause to doubt your prudence. Sam L.-A Room in THOROWGOOD'S House. Maria. Sir, I find myself unfit for converEnter THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN. sation. I should but increase the number of True. Sir, the packet from Genoa is arrived. the company, without adding to their satisfac[Gives Letters. tion. Thorow. Heaven be praised! the storm that Thorow. Nay, my child, this melancholy threatened our royal mistress, pure religion, must not be indulged. liberty, and laws, is for a time diverted. By Maria. Company will but increase it. I this means, time is gained to make such pre- wish you would dispense with my presence. paration on our part, as may, heaven concur- Solitude best suits my present temper. ring, prevent his malice, or turn the meditated Thorow. You are not insensible, that it is mischef on himself. True. He must be insensible indeed, who is not affected when the safety of his country is concerned. Sir, may I know by what means? - am not too bold chiefly on your account these noble lords do me the honour so frequently to grace my board. Should you be absent, the disappointment may make them repent of their condescension, and think their labour lost. Thorow. Your curiosity is laudable; and I gratify it with the greater pleasure, because nour lost in visiting you, can set no real value from thence you may learn how honest mer- on your daughter's company, whose only merit chants, as such, may sometimes contribute to is that she is yours. The man of quality who the safety of their country, as they do at all chooses to converse with a gentleman and times to its happiness; that if hereafter you merchant of your worth and character, may should be tempted to any action that has the confer honour by so doing, but he loses none. appearance of vice or meanness in it, upon Thorow. Come, come, Maria, I need not reflecting on the dignity of our profession, tell you, that a young gentleman may prefer you may with honest scorn reject whatever is your conversation to mine, and yet intend me unworthy of it. Maria. He that shall think his time or ho no disrespect at all; for though he may lose True. Should Barnwell, or I, who have the no honour in my company, 'tis very natural benefit of your example, by our ill conduct for him to expect more pleasure in yours. I bring any imputation on that honourable name, remember the time when the company of the we must be left without excuse. greatest and wisest man in the kingdom, would Thorow. You compliment, young man. have been insipid and tiresome to me, if it [Trueman bows respectfully] Nay, I'm not had deprived me of an opportunity of enjoyaffended. As the name of merchant never de-ing your mother's. grades the gentleman, so by no means does Maria. Yours, no doubt, was as agreeable exclude him; only take heed not to pur- to her: for generous minds know no pleasure chase the character of complaisant at the ex- in society but where 'tis mutual. al this time? pense of your sincerity. Thorow. Thou knowest I have no heir, no True. Sir, have you any commands for me child, but thee; the fruits of many years successful industry must all be thine. Now it Thorow. Only look carefully over the files, would give me pleasure, great as my love, to to see whether there are any tradesmen's bills see on whom you will bestow it. I am daily ampaid; if there are, send and discharge 'em. solicited by men of the greatest rank and merit We must not let artificers lose their time, so for leave to address you; but I have hitherto useful to the public and their families, in un- declined it, in hopes that, by observation, I ressary attendance. [Exit Trueman. should learn which way your inclination tends; for, as I know love to be essential to happiness in the marriage state, I had rather my approbation should confirm your choice than Enter MARIA. Well, Maria, have you given orders for the direct it. entertainment? I would have it in some mea- Maria. What can I say? How shall I ansure worthy the guests. Let there be plenty, swer as I ought this tenderness, so uncommon and of the best, that the courtiers may at least even in the best of parents? But you are withcoramend our hospitality. out example; yet, had you been less indul Maria. Sir, I have endeavoured not to wrong gent, your well-known generosity by an ill-timed on the crowd of courtiers that visit here, with equal esteem, but equal indifference, you have observed, and I must needs confess; yet, had is capable of any action, though ever so vile; you asserted your authority, and insisted on and yet what pains will they not take, what a parent's right to be obeyed, I had submitted, arts not use, to seduce us from our innocence, and to my duty sacrificed my peace. I had been most wretched. That I look parsimony. and make us contemptible and wicked, even Thorow. From your perfect obedience in in their own opinion? Then is it not just, the every other instance, I feared as much; and villains, to their cost, should find us so? But therefore would leave you without a bias in guilt makes them suspicious, and keeps them an affair wherein your happiness is so imme- on their guard; therefore we can take advandiately concerned. tage only of the young and innocent part of Maria. Whether from a want of that just the sex, who never having injured women, ambition that would become your daughter, apprehend no danger from them. or from some other cause, I know not; but I Lucy. Ay, they must be young indeed! find high birth and titles don't recommend the Mill. Such a one I think I have found. As man who owns them to my affections. I have passed through the city, I have often Thorow. I would not that they should, un- observed him receiving and paying considerless his merit recommends him more. A no-able sums of money; from thence I conclude ble birth and fortune, though they make not he is employed in affairs of consequence. a bad man good, yet they are a real advantage to a worthy one, and place his virtues in the fairest light. Maria. I cannot answer for my inclinations; but they shall ever be submitted to your wisdom and authority. And as you will not compel me to marry where I cannot love, love shall never make me act contrary to my duty. Sir, have I your permission to retire? Thorow. I'll see you to your chamber. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-A Room in MILLWOOD'S House. Enter MILLWOOD and Lucy. Lucy. Is he handsome? Mill. Ay, ay, the stripling is well made, and has a good face. Lucy. Innocent, handsome, and about eighteen! You'll be vastly happy. Why, if you manage well, you may keep him to yourself these two or three years. Mill. If I manage well, I shall have done with him much sooner. Having long had design on him, and meeting him yesterday, made a full stop, and gazing wishfully on hi face, asked his name. He blushed, and, bow ing very low, answered George Barnwell. Mill. How do I look to-day, Lucy? Lucy. O, killingly, madam! A little more begged his pardon for the freedom I had red, and you'll be irresistible!-But why this taken, and told him that he was the person more than ordinary care of your dress and had long wished to see, and to whom I hat complexion? What new conquest are you an affair of importance to communicate at: aiming ng at? proper time and place. He named a tavern Mill. A conquest would be new indeed! I talked of honour and reputation, and in Lucy. Not to you, who make 'em every vited him to my house. He swallowed the day-but to me-Well, 'tis what I'm never to bait, promised to come, and this is the time expect-unfortunate as I am-But your wit expect him. [Knocking at the Door] Some and beauty body knocks. D'ye hear, I'm at home t Mill. First made me a wretch, and still con- nobody to-day but him. [Exit Lucy] Les tinue me so. Men, however generous and affairs must give way to those of more con sincere to one another, are all selfish hypo- sequence; and I am strangely mistaken if thi crites in their affairs with us; we are no does not prove of great importance to me otherwise esteemed or regarded by them, but and him too, before I have done with him as we contribute to their satisfaction. Now, after what manner shall I receive him Lucy. You are certainly, madam, on the Let me consider-What manner of person an wrong side of this argument. Is not the ex- I to receive? He is young, innocent, and bash pense all theirs? And I am sure it is our own ful; therefore I must take care not to put hin fault if we han't our share of the pleasure. Mill. We are but slaves to men. Lucy. Nay, 'tis they that are slaves most certainly, for we lay them under contribution. Mill. Slaves have no property; no, not even in themselves: all is the victor's. Lucy. You are strangely arbitrary in your principles, madam. Mill. I would have my conquest complete, out of countenance at first. at a Distance. Enter BARNWELL, bowing very low. Luc Mill. Sir, the surprise and joy! Mill. This is such a favour- [Advancing Mill. So unhoped for! [Still advances like those of the Spaniards in the new world; Barnwell salutes her, and retires in con who first plundered the natives of all the fusion.] To see you here-Excuse the con wealth they had, and then comdemned the fusion wretches to the mines for life, to work for Barn. I fear I am too bold. more. Lucy. Well, I shall never approve of your scheme of government; I should think it much more politic, as well as just, to find my subjects an easier employment. Mill. It is a general maxim among the knowing part of mankind, that a woman without virtue, like a man without honour or honesty, Mill. Alas, sir, I may justly apprehend you think me so. Please, sir, to sit. I am a much at a loss how to receive this honour a I ought, as I am surprised at your goodnes. in conferring it. Barn. I thought you had expected me: promised to come. are such religious observers of their word. forgive me, I should never forgive myself. Barn. All who are honest are. Mill. Am I refused by the first man, the Mill. To one another; but we simple wo- second favour I ever stooped to ask? Go then, men are seldom thought of consequence enough thou proud hard-hearted youth; but know, to gain a place in their remembrance. you are the only man that could be found, mean? [Laying her Hand on his, as by ac- who would let me sue twice for greater fa cident. vours. Barn. Her disorder is so great, she don't Barn. What shall I do? How shall I go or perceive she has laid her hand on mine. stay? Heavens! how she trembles! What can this Mill. Yet do not, do not leave me. I with [Aside. my sex' pride would meet your scorn; but Mill. The interest I have in all that relates when I look upon you, when I behold those to you (the reason of which you shall know eyes-Oh! spare my tongue, and let my hereafter) excites my curiosity; and were I blushes-this flood of tears too, that will force sure you would pardon my presumption, 1 its way, declare-what woman's modesty should should desire to know your real sentiments hide. on a very particular subject. Barn. Oh, heavens! she loves me, worthless Barn. Madam, you may command my poor as I am. Her looks, her words, her flowing thoughts on any subject. I have none that I tears confess it. And can I leave her then? would conceal. Mill. You'll think me bold. Barn. No, indeed. Oh, never, never! Madam, dry up your tears; you shall command me always. I will stay here for ever, if you would have me. Mill. What then are your thoughts of love? Lucy. So, she has wheedled him out of his Barn. If you mean the love of women, I virtue of obedience already, and will strip have not thought of it at all. My youth and him of all the rest, one after another, till she Circumstances make such thoughts improper has left him as few as her ladyship, or myin me yet. But if you mean the general love self. [Aside. we owe to mankind, I think no one has more Mill. Now you are kind indeed; but I mean of it in his temper than myself. I don't know not to detain you always; I would have you that person in the world, whose happiness I shake off all slavish obedience to your master; don't wish, and wouldn't promote, were it in but you may serve him still. my power. In an especial manner, I love my uncle and my master; but above all, my friend. Mill. You have a friend then, whom you love? Barn. As he does me, sincerely. Mill. He is, no doubt, often bless'd with your company and conversation. Barn. We live in one house, and both serve the same worthy merchant. Lucy. Serve him still! Ay, or he'll have no opportunity of fingering his cash; and then he'll not serve your end, I'll be sworn. Enter BLUNT. [Aside. Blunt. Madam, supper's on the table. [Exeunt Barnwell and Millwood. Blunt. What, is all this preparation, this Mill Happy, happy youth! Whoe'er thou art, I envy thee; and so must all who see and elegant supper, variety of wines, and music, know this youth. What have I lost by being formed a woman! I hate my sex, myself. Had I been a man, I might perhaps have been as happy in your friendship, as he who now enjoys it is; but as it is-Oh! Barn. I never observed woman before; or this is, sure, the most beautiful of her sex. Aside] You seem disordered, madam; may know the cause? for the entertainment of that young fellow? Lucy. So it seems. Blunt. How! is our mistress turned fool at last? She's in love with him, I suppose. Lucy. I suppose not. But she designs to make him in love with her, if she can. Blunt. What will she get by that? He seems under age, and can't be supposed to have much money. Mill. Do not ask me I can never speak it, whatever is the cause. I wish for things impossible. I would be a servant, bound to the same master, to live in one house with you. Barn. How strange, and yet how kind her words and actions are! and the effect they Lucy. Nay, were she like me, that would have on me is as strange. I feel desires I certainly be the consequence; for, I confess, never knew before; I must be gone, while there is something in youth and innocence Thase power to go. [Aside] Madam, I humbly that moves me mightily. Lucy. But his master has, and that's the same thing, as she'll manage it. Blunt. I don't like this fooling with a handsome young fellow; while she's endeavouring to ensnare him she may be caught herself. take my leave. Blunt. Yes, so does the smoothness and Mill. You will not, sure, leave me so soon! plumpness of a partridge move a mighty desire Barn. Indeed I must. in the hawk to be the destruction of it. Mill. You cannot be so cruel! I have preLucy. Why, birds are their prey, and men pared a poor supper, at which I promised ours: though, as you observed, we are somemyed your company. times caught ourselves. But that, I dare say, Barn. I am sorry I must refuse the honour will never be the case with our mistress. you designed me; but my duty to my master Blunt. I wish it may prove so; for you calls me hence. I never yet neglected his ser- know we all depend upon her. Should she vire. He is so gentle, and so good a master, trifle away her time with a young fellow that that should I wrong him, though he might there's nothing to be got by, we must all starve. 9 Lucy. There's no danger of that; for I am alone; you have no interest in them, nor ought sure she has no view in this affair but interest. your concern for me to give you a moment's Blunt. Well, and what hopes are there of pain. success in that? True. You speak as if you knew of friendLucy. The most promising that can be. 'Tis ship nothing but the name. Before I saw true, the youth has his scruples; but she'll your grief I felt it. E'en now, though ignosoon teach him to answer them, by stifling rant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to his conscience. Oh, the lad is in a hopeful the heart. way, depend upon it. [Exeunt. Barn. Twill not be always thus. Friendship and all engagements cease as circumstances and occasions vary; and since you once may hate me, perhaps it might be better for us both that now you loved me less. ACT IL True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause 'Barn. How strange are all things round would Barnwell use me thus? Ungenerous me! Like some thief who treads forbidden and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall enground, and fain would lurk unseen, fearful deavour to follow your advice. [Going] Yet, I enter each apartment of this well-known stay; perhaps I am too rash and angry, when house. To guilty love, as if that were too the cause demands compassion. Some unforelittle, already have I added breach of trust. seen calamity may have befallen him, too great A thief! Can I know myself that wretched to bear. thing, and look my honest friend and injured Barn. What part am I reduced to act? master in the face? Though hypocrisy may 'Tis vile and base to move his temper thus, awhile conceal my guilt, at length it will be the best of friends and men. [Aside. known, and public shame and ruin must ensue. True. I am to blame; pr'ythee forgive me, In the mean time, what must be my life? Ever Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind; to speak a language foreign to my heart; to and let me know the cause that thus transhourly add to the number of my crimes, in order ports you from yourself; my friendly counsel to conceal 'em. Sure such was the condition may restore your peace. of the grand apostate, when first he lost his purity. Like me, disconsolate he wandered; and while yet in heaven, bore all his future hell about him. Enter TRUEMAN. True. Barnwell, oh how I rejoice to see you safe! So will our master, and his gentle daughter; who, during your absence, often inquired after you. Barn. Would he were gone! His officious love will pry into the secrets of my soul. [Aside. True. Unless you knew the pain the whole family has felt on your account, you can't conceive how much you are beloved. But why thus cold and silent?-When my heart is full of joy for your return, why do you turn away-why thus avoid me? What have I done? How am I altered since you saw me last? Or rather, what have you done-and why are you thus changed? for I am still the same. Barn. What have I done, indeed! [Aside. Barn. By my face facę he will discover all I would conceal. Methinks already I begin to hate him. [Aside. Barn. All that is possible for man to do for man your generous friendship may effect; but here, even that's in vain. True. Something dreadful is labouring in your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share your grief; 'twill ease your pain, should it admit no cure, and make it lighter by the part I bear. Barn. Vain supposition! My woes increase by being observed: should the cause be known, they would exceed all bounds. True. So well I know thy honest heart, guilt cannot harbour there. Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [Aside. True. Then why am I excluded? Have Ia thought I would conceal from you? Barn. If still you urge me on this hated subject, I'll never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again. True. 'Tis strange-but I have done-say but you hate me not. Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet. True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. It's a blessing I never was worthy of, yet now must stand on terms; and but upon conditions can confirm it. True. What are they? Barn. Never hereafter, though you should wonder at my conduct, desire to know more True. I cannot bear this usage from a friend; one whom till now I ever found so loving; than I am willing to reveal. whom yet I love; though his unkindness strikes True. 'Tis hard; but upon any conditions at the root of friendship, and might destroy it in any breast but mine. Barn. I am not well. [Turning to him] Sleep has been a stranger to these eyes since you beheld 'em last. I must be your friend. Barn. Then, as much as one lost to himself can be another's, I am yours. [Embracing. True. Be ever so; and may heaven restore your peace! But business requires our attendance: business, the youth's best preservative True. Heavy they look, indeed, and swoln with tears;-now they overflow. Rightly did from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. Will my sympathizing heart forebode last night, you go with me? when thou wast absent, something fatal to our Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what has passed, and follow you. [Exit True peace. Barn. Your friendship engages you too far. man] I might have trusted Trueman, and enMy troubles, whate'er they are, are mine gaged him to apply to my uncle to repair the |