wrong I have done my master:-but what of SCENE II.-Another Room in THOROWGOOD'S

Millwood? Yet shall I leave her, for ever leave her, and not let her know the cause? she who loves me with such a boundless passion! Can cruelty be duty? I judge of what she then must feel, by what I now endure. The love of life, and fear of shame, opposed by inclination strong as death or shame, like wind and tide in raging conflict met, when neither can prevail, keep me in doubt. How then can I determine?

Enter THOROWGOOD.

Thorow. Without a cause assigned or notice given, to absent yourself last night was a

fault, young man, and I came to chide you for it, but hope I am prevented. That modest blush, the confusion so visible in your face, speak grief and shame. When we have

House.

Enter MILLWOOD, LUCY, and a Footman.
Foot. Ladies, he'll wait upon you imme-

diately.

Mill. 'Tis very well-I thank you.

[Exit Footman.

Enter BARNWELL.
Barn. Confusion! Millwood!

Mill. That angry look tells me, that here I am an unwelcome guest: I feared as much: the unhappy are so every where.

Barn. Will nothing but my-utter ruin content you?

Mill. Unkind and cruel. Lost myself, your
happiness is now my only care.
Barn. How did you gain admission?
Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle

offended heaven, it requires no more: and to visit and deliver a message to you, we were

shall man, who needs himself to be forgiven, be harder to appease? If my pardon, or love, be of moment to your peace, look up secure

of both.

received by the family without suspicion, and with much respect conducted here.

Barn. Why did you come at all? Mill. I never shall trouble you more. I'm come to take my leave for ever. Such is the

ever to return. This hour is all I have left; one short hour is all I have to bestow on love

Barn. This goodness has o'ercome me. [A- malice of my fate! I go hopeless, despairing side] Oh, sir, you know not the nature and extent of my offence; and I should abuse your mistaken bounty to receive it. Though I had rather die than speak my shame, though racks and you, for whom I thought the longest life could not have forced the guilty secret from my breast, your kindness has.

Thorow. Enough, enough; whate'er it be, this concern shows you're convinced, and I am satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt to an ingenuous mind: Some youthful folly which it were prudent not to inquire into.

Barn. It will be known, and you'll recall

your pardon, and abhor me.

Thorow. I never will. Yet be upon your lite: when vice becomes habitual, the very guard in this gay, thoughtless season of your power of leaving it is lost.

Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess

Thorow. Not a syllable more upon this subject: it were not mercy, but cruelty, to Lear what must give you such torment to re

real.

Barn. Villain! villain! villain! basely to wrong so excellent a man. Should I again return to folly?-Detested thought!-But what of Millwood then? Why I renounce herI give her up-The struggle's over, and virtue has prevailed. Reason may convince, but gratitude compels. This unlooked-for generosity has saved me from destruction.

Enter a Footman.

[Going

too short.
Barn. Then we are met to part ever.
Mill. It must be so. Yet think not that time
or absence shall ever put a period to my grief,
or make me love you less. Though I must
leave you, yet condemn me not.

Barn. Condemn you! No, I approve your resolution, and rejoice to hear it; 'tis just, 'tis necessary;-I have well weighed, and found it so.

Lucy. I am afraid the young man has more sense than she thought he had. [Aside. Barn. Before you came, I had determined never to see you more. Mill. Confusion!

[Aside.

Lucy. Ay, we are all out; this is a turn so unexpected, that I shall make nothing of my part; they must e'en play the scene betwixt themselves. [Aside.

Mill. It was some relief to think, though absent, you would love me still; but to find this, as I never could expect, I have not learn'd

to bear.

Barn. I am sorry to hear you blame me in a resolution that so well becomes us both.

Mill. I have reason for what I do, but you have none.

Barn. Can we want a reason for parting, who have so many to wish we had never met! Mill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I deformed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds enjoyment? Nay, look whom yesterda

am

I not she again; yesterday you thought the fairest and the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling with ecstasy, you pressed and moulded thus, while on my eyes you gazed with such deBarn. No more: let me repent my former

Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in light, as if desire increased by being fed? the country desire to see you. Barn. Who should they be? [Aside] Tell follies, if possible, without remembering what them I'll wait upon 'em. [Exit Footman] they were. Methinks I dread to see 'em-Now, every Mill. Why? thing alarms me!-Guilt, what a coward hast thou made me.

Barn. Such is my frailty, that 'tis dangerMill. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich enough; but what are riches when compared

Mill. Where is the danger, since we are to part? Barn. The thought of that already is too to love! painful. Mill. If it be painful to part, then I may of a faithful guardian, settled her in a house, hope, at least, you do not hate me. Barn. No-No-I never said I did

my heart!

Lucy. For awhile he performed the office hired her servants-But you have seen in Oh, what manner she has lived, so I need say no more of that.

Mill. How I shall live hereafter, heaven knows!

Mill. Perhaps you pity me? Barn. I do-I do-Indeed I do. Mill. You'll think upon me! Lucy. All things went on as one could Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all, wish, till some time ago, his wife dying, he Mill. You may judge an embrace at part-fell violently in love with his charge, and ing too great a favour, though it would be would fain have married her. Now the man the last. Barnwell draws back] A look shall is neither old nor ugly, but a good, personable then suffice-farewell-for ever. sort of man; but I'd don't know how it was, [Exeunt Millwood and Lucy. she could never endure him. In short, her Barn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquer ill usage so provoked him, that he brought in -I have conquered-Painful victory!

Re-enter MILLWOOD and Lucy.

an account of his executorship, wherein he
makes her debtor to him-
Mill. A trifle in itself, but more than enough

Mill. One thing I had forgot-I never must to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he return to my own house again. This I thought had stripped of all before. proper to let you know, lest your mind should Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor change, and you should seek in vain to find friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as me there. Forgive me this second intrusion; herself, he compelled her to pass his account, I only came to give you this caution, and that perhaps was needless.

and give bond for the sum he demanded; but still provided handsomely for her, and contiBarn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I nued his courtship, till being informed by his must thank your for it. spies (truly, I suspect some in her own faMill. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy] mily) that you were entertained in her house, Now, I am gone for ever. [Going. and staid with her all night, he came this mornBarn. One thing more-sure there's no ing, raving and storming like a madman; talks danger in knowing where you go? If you no more of marriage (so there's no hope of think otherwiseMill. Alas!

making up matters that way), but vows her [Weeping. ruin, unless she'll allow him the same favour

Lucy. We are right, I find; that's my cue. [Aside] Ah, dear sir, she's going she knows not whither; but go she must.

Barn. Humanity obliges me to wish you well; why will you thus expose yourself to needless troubles?

that he supposes she granted you.

Barn. Must she be ruined, or find a refuge in another's arms?

Mill. He gave me but an hour to resolve in: that's happily spent with you-And now I go

Lucy. Nay, there's no help for it; she must Barn. To be exposed to all the rigours of quit the town immediately, and the kingdom the various seasons; the summer's parching as soon as possible. It It was no small matter, heat, and winter's cold; unhoused, to wander you may be sure, that could make her resolve friendless through the unhospitable world, in to leave you.

misery and want; attended with fear and Mill. No more, my friend; since he for danger, and pursued by malice and revenge. whose dear sake alone I suffer, and am con- Wouldst thou endure all this for me, and can tent to suffer, is kind and pities me; where'er I do nothing, nothing to prevent it? I wander, through wilds and deserts benighted and forlorn, that thought shall give me comfort.

Barn. For my sake! - Oh tell me how, which way I am so cursed to bring such

ruin on thee?

Mill. To know it will but increase your troubles.

Barn. My troubles can't be greater than

they are.

Lucy. Well, well, sir, if she won't satisfy

you, I will.

Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression. Mill. Remember, sir, that I desired you not to hear it.

Barn. Begin, and ease my expectation.

Lucy. 'Tis really a pity there can be no way found out.

Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions now?

Lucy. Now, I advised her, sir, to comply with the gentleman.

Barn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rather perish, nay, see her perish, than have her saved saved by him. I will myself prevent her ruin, though with my own. A moment's patience; I'll return immediately. [Exit

Lucy. Twas well you came, or, by what I can perceive, you had lost him. Mill. Hush! he's here.

Re-enter BARNWELL, with a Bag of Money.

Lucy. Why you must know my lady here Barn. What am I about to do?-Now you, was an only child, and her parents dying who boast your reason all-sufficient, suppose while she was young, left her and her for-yourselves in my condition, and determine for tune (no inconsiderable one I assure you) to me; whether 'tis right to let her suffer for my the care of a gentleman who has a good estate faults, or, by this small addition to my guilt, of his own. prevent the ill effects of what is past. Here, take this, and with it purchase your deliverance: return to your house, and live in peace and safety.

Mill. So, I may hope to see you there again?

Barn. Answer me not, but fly-lest, in the agonies of my remorse, I again take what is not mine to give, and abandon thee to want and misery.

Mill. Say but you'll come.

True. I cannot speak it. See there.

[Gives a Letter. Maria. [Reads] I know my absence will surprise my honoured master and yourself; and the more, when you shall understand, that the reason of my withdrawing is, my having embezzled part of the cash with which I was entrusted. After this, 'tis needless to inform you, that I intend never to return again. Though this might have been

Barn. You are my fate-my heaven, or my known by examining my accounts, yet to hell; only leave me now-dispose of me here- prevent that unnecessary trouble, and to after as you please. [Exeunt Millwood and cut off all fruitless expectations of my reLucy] What have I done? Were my reso-turn, I have left this from the lost lutions founded on reason, and sincerely made?

GEORGE BARNWELL. Why then has heaven suffered me to fall? True. Lost indeed! Yet how he should be I sought not the occasion; and, if my heart guilty of what he here charges himself withal, deceives me not, compassion and generosity raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never were my motives. But why should I attempt had youth a higher sense of virtue. Justly to reason? All is confusion, horror, and re- he thought, and as he thought he practised; morse. I find I am lost, cast down from all never was life more regular than his. An unmy late-erected hope, and plunged again in derstanding uncommon at his years; an open, guilt, yet scarce know how or whygenerous, manliness of temper; his manners

Such undistinguish'd horrors make my brain, easy, unaffected, and engaging. Like hell, the seat of darkness and of pain. Maria. This and much more you might [Exit. have said with truth. He was the delight of every eye, and joy of every heart that knew him.

АСТ III.

SCENE L-A Room in THOROWGOOD'S House. THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN discovered, with Account-books, sitting at a Table.

True. Since such he was, and was my friend, can I support his loss? See, the fairest, happiest maid this wealthy city boasts, kindly condescends to weep for thy unhappy fate, poor, ruined Barnwell!

Maria. Trueman, do you think a soul so

Thorow. Well, I have examined your accounts; they are not only just, as I have always found them, but regularly kept, and delicate as his, so sensible of shame, can e'er fairly entered. I commend your diligence. submit to live a slave to vice?

Method in business is the surest guide. Are True. Never, never: so well I know him, Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? I'm sure this act of his, so contrary to his naIle does not use to be the last on those oc-ture, must have been caused by some una

casions.

voidable necessity.

True. Upon receiving your orders he retired,
I thought in some confusion. If you please, him?
Ill go and hasten him.

Maria. Is there no means yet to preserve True. Oh, that there were! But few men Thorow. I'm now going to the Exchange: recover their reputation lost, a merchant never. let hira know, at my return I expect to find Nor would he, I fear, though I should find him ready. [Exeunt. him, ever be brought to look his injured master

Enter MARIA, with a Book. Sits and reads. Maria. "How forcible is truth! The weakest mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and collected in itself, with indifference beholds the united force of earth and hell opposing. Such

in the face.

Maria. I fear as much, and therefore would
never have my father know it.
True. That's impossible..
Maria. What's the sum?

True. 'Tis considerable. I've marked it here,

souls are raised above the sense of pain, or to show it, with the letter, to your father, at

50

supported orted that they regard it not. The his return.

martyr cheaply purchases his heaven; small Maria. If I should supply the money, could are his sufferings, great is his reward. Not so you so dispose of that and the account, as to the wretch who combats love with duty; conceal this unhappy mismanagement from my

whose mind, weakened and dissolved by the father?

soft passion, feeble and hopeless, opposes his own desires. What is an hour, a day, a year of pain, to a whole life of tortures such as these?

Enter TRUEMAN.

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

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

True. Tis not to be concealed: I've news

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

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

True. Trust to my diligence for that. In the mean time I'll conceal his absence from

to tell of him that will afflict your generous your father, or find such excuses for it, that tatber, yourself, and all who know him.

Maria. Defend us, heaven!

the real cause shall never be suspected.

Maria. In attempting to save from shame one whom we hope may yet return to virtue, when compared to that; I would not be into heaven, and you, the only witnesses of this volved in the guilt of it for all the world! action, I appeal whether I do any thing unbecoming my sex and character.

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

Lucy. Nor I, heaven knows. Therefore let us clear ourselves, by doing all that's in our power to prevent it. I have just thought of a way that to me seems probable. Will you join with me to detect this cursed design? Blunt. With all my heart. He who knows of a murder intended to be committed, and

Maria. If heaven succeeds it, I am well rewarded. A virgin's fame is sullied by suspicion's lightest breath; and, therefore, as this must be a secret from my father and the world, does not discover it, in the eye of the law for Barnwell's sake, for mine, let it be so to and reason, is a murderer. him.

[Exeunt. Lucy. Let us lose no time. I'll acquaint you with the particulars as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE II.-A Walk some distance from a

SCENE II.-A Room in MILLWOOD'S House.
Enter LUCY and BLUNT.

Country-seat.

Enter BARNWELL.

Lucy. Well, what do you think of Millwood's conduct now? Her artifice in making him rob his master at first, and the various Barn. A dismal gloom obscures the face of stratagems by which she has obliged him to the day. Either the sun has slipped behind a continue that course, astonish even me, who cloud, or journeys down the west of heaven know her so well. Being called by his master with more than common speed, to avoid the to make up his accounts, he was forced to sight of what I am doomed to act. Since I quit his house and service, and wisely flies to set forth on this accursed design, where'er I Millwood for relief and entertainment.

Blunt. How did she receive him?

tread, methinks the solid earth trembles beneath my feet. Murder my uncle! my father's

Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered only brother, and since his death, has been to what he meant, was astonished at his impu-me a father; that took me up an infant and dence, and, with an air of modesty peculiar an orphan, reared me with tenderest care, and to herself, swore so heartily that she never still indulged me with most paternal fondness! saw him before, that she put me out of coun-Yet here I stand his destined murderer.-I stiffen with horror at my own impiety-Tis Blunt. That's much, indeed! But how did yet unperformed-What if I quit my bloody Barnwell behave? purpose and fly the place? [Going, then stops]

tenance.

Lucy. He grieved; and, at length, enraged -But whither, oh, whither shall I fly? My at this barbarous treatment, was preparing to Master's once friendly doors are ever shut be gone; and making towards the door, showed against me; and without money, Millwood a sum of money, which he had brought from will never see me more; and she has got such his master's, the last he is ever likely to have firm possession of my heart, and governs there from thence.

with such despotic sway, that life is not to be endured without her. Ay, there's the cause

Blunt. But then, MillwoodLucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, re- of all my sin and sorrow: 'tis more than love; turned to her old arts of lying, swearing, and it is the fever of the soul, and madness of dedissembling; hung on his neck, wept, and sire. In vain does nature, reason, conscience, swore 'twas meant in jest. The amorous youth all oppose it; the impetuous passion bears melted into tears, threw the money into her down all before it, and drives me on to lust, lap, and swore he had rather die than think to theft, and murder. Oh, conscience, feeble her false.

guide to virtue, thou only showest us when we go astray, but wantest power to stop us

Blunt. Strange infatuation! Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. in our course! Ha! in yonder shady walk I Just then, when every passion with lawless see my uncle-He's alone-Now for my disanarchy prevailed, and reason was in the rag-guise. [Plucks out a Vizor]-This is his hour ing tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood, of private meditation. Thus daily he prepares prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise his soul for heaven, while I-But what have

what I tremble but to think on.

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

Blunt. His uncle! whom we have often heard him speak of, as a gentleman of a large estate, and fair character, in the country where he lives.

I to do with heaven?-Ha! no struggles, con

[Puts on the Vizor, draws a Pistol, and exit.

SCENE IV.- A close Walk in a Wood.

Lucy. The same. She was no sooner possessed of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, deUncle. If I were superstitious, I should fear manded this horrid sacrifice. Barnwell's near some danger lurked unseen, or death were relation, whose blood must seal the dreadful nigh. A heavy melancholy clouds my spirits. secret, and prevent the terrors of her guilty My imagination is filled with ghastly forms of dreary graves, and bodies changed by death; Blunt. 'Tis time the world were rid of such when the pale, lengthen'd visage attracts each a monster. But there is something so horrid weeping eye, and fills the musing soul at once in murder, that all other crimes seem nothing, with grief and horror, pity and aversion. I

ACT IV.

SCENE L.-A Room in THOROWGOOD'S House.

Enter MARIA, meeting TRUEMAN.

Maria. What news of Barnwell?
True. None; I have sought him with the

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

will indulge the thought. The wise man prepares himself for death by making it familiar to his mind. When strong reflections hold the mirror near, and the living in the dead behold their future self, how does each inordinate passion and desire cease, or sicken at the view! The mind scarce moves! the blood, greatest diligence, but all in vain. curdling and chilled, creeps slowly through the veins; fixed, still, and motionless we stand, so like the solemn objects of our thoughts, we True. All appeared so just and fair to him, are almost at present what we must be here- it is not possible he ever should. But his after; till curiosity awake the soul, and sets absence will no longer be concealed. Your it on inquiry. father is wise; and though he seems to hearken to the friendly excuses I would make for Enter GEORGE BARNWELL, at a Distance. Barnwell, yet I am afraid he regards 'em only Oh, death! thou strange, mysterious power, as such, without suffering them to influence seen every day, yet never understood but by his judgment.

the incommunicative dead, what art thou? The

extensive mind of man, that with a thought

Enter THOROWGOOD and Lucy.

circles the earth's vast globe, sinks to the centre, Thorow. This woman here has given me a or ascends above the stars; that worlds exotic sad, and bating some circumstances, too probfinds, or thinks it finds, thy thick clouds at-able an account of Barnwell's defection. tempts to pass in vain; lost and bewildered in Lucy. I am sorry, sir, that my frank conthe horrid gloom, defeated, she returns more fession of my former unhappy course of life doubtful than before, of nothing certain but of labour lost.

[During this Speech, Barnwell sometimes presents the Pistol, and draws it back again.

Barn. Oh, Mis impossible!

[Throws down the Pistol. Uncle starts, and attempts to draw his Sword. Uncle. A man so near me! armed and Barn. Nay, then there's no retreat.

masked

[Plucks a Poignard from his Breast,

and stabs him.

should cause you to suspect my truth on this occasion.

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

Maria. Sir, your pardon; I find myself on, a sudden so indisposed that I must retire. Uncle. Oh, I am slain! All gracious heaven, Poor, ruined Barnwell! Wretched, lost Maria? regard the prayer of thy dying servant; bless, [Aside. Exit. with the choicest blessings, my dearest nephew; Thorow. How am I distressed on every forgive my murderer; and take my fleeting side! Pity for that unhappy youth, fear for the soul to endless mercy! life of a much valued friend-and then my [Barnwell throws off his Mask, runs child-the only joy and hope of my declining to him, and kneeling by him, raises life! Her melancholy increases hourly, and gives me painful apprehensions of her lossBarn. Expiring saint! Oh, murdered, mar- Oh, Trueman, this person informs me that tyred uncle! lift up your dying eyes, and view your friend, at the instigation of an impious your nephew in your murderer. Oh, do not woman, is gone to rob and murder his venerlook

him.

so tenderly upon me-Let indignation able uncle. izbten from your eyes, and blast me ere you de-By heaven, he weeps, in pity of my woes.-Tears, tears for blood. The murdered, Lucy. This delay may ruin all.

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

in the agonies of death, weeps for his mur- Thorow. What to do or think I know not. derer-Oh, speak your pious purpose; pro- That he ever wronged me I know is false; nounce your pardon then, and take me with the rest may be so too; there's all my hope. you-lle would, but cannot.-Oh, why with True. Trust not to that; rather suppose all such fond affection do you press my murder- true, than lose a moment's time. Even now ing hand?-[Uncle sighs, and dies] Life, the horrid deed may be doing-dreadful imathat hovered on his lips but till he had sealed gination!-or it may be done, and we be vainmy pardon, in that sigh expired! He's gone ly debating on the means to prevent what is for ever-and oh! I follow- [Swoons away already past.

upon the dead Body] Do I still breathe, and Thorow. This earnestness convinces me that teint with my infectious breath the wholesome he knows more than he has yet discovered. air? Let heaven from its high throne, in jus- What, ho! without there, who waits?

tice or in mercy, now look down on that

dear, murdered saint, and me the murderer,

Enter a Servant.

and if his vengeance spares, let pity strike, Order the groom to saddle the swiftest horse, and end my wretched being. - Murder the and prepare to set out with speed; an affair worst of crimes, and parricide the worst of of life and death demands his diligence. [Exit murders, and this the worst of parricides. Servant] For you, whose behaviour on this Oh may it ever stand alone accurst,

occasion I have no time to commend as it

The last of murders, as it is the worst. [Exit. deserves, I must engage your further assist