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your safety and return: even now, though ignorant of the cause, your sorrow wounds me to the heart.

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.

True. Sure I but dream! Without a cause would Barnwell use me thus? Ungenerous and ungrateful youth, farewell; I shall endeavour to follow your advice. [Going.] Yet stay; perhaps I am too rash, and angry when the cause demands compassion. Some unforeseen calamity may have befallen him, too great to bear.

Barn. What part am I reduced to act? It is vile and base to move his temper thus, the best of friends and men.

True. I am to blame; prithee, forgive me, Barnwell. Try to compose your ruffled mind; and let me know the cause that thus transports you from yourself; my friendly counsel may restore your peace.

Barn. All that is possible for man to do for man, your generous friendship may effect; but here even that is in vain.

True. Something dreadful is labouring in your breast; oh, give it vent, and let me share your grief! it will ease your pain, should it admit no cure, and make it lighter by the part I bear.

Barn. Vain supposition! my woes increase by being observed; should the cause be known, they would exceed all bounds.

True. So well I know thy honest heart, guilt cannot harbour there.

Barn. Oh, torture insupportable! [Aside. True. Then why am I excluded? Have I a thought I would conceal from you?

Barn. If still you urge me on this hated subject, I will never enter more beneath this roof, nor see your face again.

True. It is strange-but I have done; say but you hate me not.

Barn. Hate you! I am not that monster yet. True. Shall our friendship still continue? Barn. It is a blessing I never was worthy of, yet now must stand on terms; and but upon conditions can confirm it.

True. What are they?

Barn. Never hereafter, though you should wonder at my conduct, desire to know more than I am willing to reveal.

True. It is hard; but upon any conditions I must be your friend.

Barn. Then, as much as one lost to himself can be another's, I am yours. [Embracing. True. Be ever so, and may Heaven restore your peace!

Barn. Will yesterday return? We have heard the glorious sun, that till then incessant rolled, once stopped his rapid course, and once went back. The dead have risen, and parched rocks

poured forth a liquid stream to quench a people's thirst. The sea divided, and formed walls of water, while a whole nation passed in safety through its sandy bosom. Hungry lions have refused their prey; and men unhurt have walked amidst consuming flames; but never yet did time, once past, return.

True. Though the continued chain of time has never once been broke, nor ever will, but uninterrupted must keep on its course, till, lost in eternity, it ends where it first began; yet as Heaven can repair whatever evils time can bring upon us, we ought never to despair. But business requires our attendance; business, the youth's best preservative from ill, as idleness his worst of snares. Will you go with me?

Barn. I'll take a little time to reflect on what has past, and follow you. [Exit Trueman.] I might have trusted Trueman, and engaged him to apply to my uncle to repair the wrong I have done my master; but what of Millwood? Must I expose her too? Ungenerous and base! Then Heaven requires it not. But Heaven requires that I forsake her. What! never to see her more? Does Heaven require that? I hope I may see her, and Heaven not be offended. Presumptuous hope! Dearly already have I proved my frailty. Should I once more tempt Heaven, I

may be left to fall, never to rise again. 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 meeting, when neither can prevail, keep me in doubt. How then can I determine?

Enter THOROWGOOD.

Thor. Without a cause assigned, or notice given, to absent yourself last night was a fault, young man, and I came to chide you for it; but hope I am prevented. That modest blush, the confusion so visible in your face, speak grief and shame. When we have offended Heaven, it requires no more; and shall man, who needs himself to be forgiven, be harder to appease? If my pardon or love be of moment to your peace, look up, secure of both.

Barn. This goodness has overcome me. [Aside.] 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 could not have forced the guilty secret from my breast, kindness has.

your

Thor. Enough, enough, whatever it be; this concern shews you are convinced, and I am satisfied. How painful is the sense of guilt to an ingenuous mind? Some youthful folly, which it were prudent not to inquire into. When we

consider the frail condition of humanity, it may
raise our pity, not our wonder, that youth should
go astray; when reason, weak at the best, op-
posed to inclination, scarce formed, and wholly
unassisted by experience, faintly contends, or
willingly becomes the slave of sense. The state
of youth is much to be deplored, and the more
so, because they see it not; being then to danger
most exposed, when they are least prepared for
their defence.
[Aside.
Barn. It will be known, and you will recall
your pardon and abhor me.

Thor. I never will. Yet be upon your guard in this gay thoughtless season of your life; when the sense of pleasure is quick, and passions high, the voluptuous appetites, raging and fierce, demand the strongest curb; take heed of a relapse: when vice becomes habitual, the very power of leaving it is lost.

Barn. Hear me, on my knees, confess Thor. Not a syllable more upon this subject; it were not mercy, but cruelty, to hear what must give such torment to reveal.

Barn. This generosity amazes and distracts me. Thor. This remorse makes thee dearer to me than if thou hadst never offended. Whatever is your fault, of this I am certain, 'twas harder for you to offend, than for me to pardon.

Exit Thorow good. 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 her ;-I give her upThe struggle's over, and virtue has prevailed. Reason may convince, but gratitude compels. This unlooked-for generosity has saved me from destruction. [Going.

Enter a Footman.

Foot. Sir, two ladies from your uncle in the country desire to see you.

Barn. Who should they be? [Aside.] Tell them I'll wait upon them, Methinks I dread to see them.- -Now every thing alarms me.- -Guilt, | what a coward hast thou made me ! [Exit.

SCENE II. Another room in Thorowgood's
House.

Enter MILLWOOD, Lucy, and a Footman. Foot. Ladies, he will wait upon you immediately.

Mill. 'Tis very well.

-I thank you.

Enter BARNWELL.

Barn. Confusion! Millwood!

Mill. Unkind and cruel! Lost myself, your happiness is now my only care.

Barn. How did you gain admission?

Mill. Saying we were desired by your uncle to visit, and deliver a message to you, we were received by the family without suspicion, and with much respect conducted here.

I'm

Barn. Why did you come at all? Mill. I never shall trouble you more. come to take my leave for ever. Such is the malice of my fate: I go hopeless, despairing ever to return. This hour is all I have left: one short hour is all I have to bestow on love and you, for whom I thought the longest life too short.

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

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

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[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, though fortune had been indulgent, that you, more cruel and inconstant, had resolved to cast me offThis, as I never could expect, I have not learned 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 never had met?

Mill. Look on me, Barnwell. Am I deformed or old, that satiety so soon succeeds enjoyment? Nay, look again; am I not she whom yesterday you thought the fairest and the kindest of her sex; whose hand, trembling with extasy, you pressed and moulded thus, while on my eyes you gazed with such delight, as if desire increased by being fed?

Burn. No more; let me repent my former fol[Exit Foot. lies, if possible, without remembering what they

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?
VOL. I.

were.

Mill. Why?

Barn. Such is my frailty, that it is dangerous. Mill. Where is the danger, since we are to part? Barn. The thought of that already is too painful.

Mill. If it be painful to part, then I may hope, at least, you do not hate me? 3 H

Barn. No-no- -I never said I did

Oh, my heart!

Mill. Perhaps you pity me?

Barn. I do- -I doIndeed I do.
Mill. You'll think upon me?

Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all.
Mill. You may judge an embrace at parting
too great a favour-though it would be the last.
[He draws back.] A look shall then suffice-
Farewell-for ever. [Exeunt Millwood and Lucy.
Barn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquer,
I have conquered- -Painful victory!

Re-enter MILLWOOD and LUCY.

Mill. One thing I had forgot ;- -I never must return to my own house again. This I thought proper to let you know, lest your mind should change, and you should seek in vain to find me there. Forgive me this second intrusion; I only came to give you this caution, and that, perhaps, was needless.

Burn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I must thank you for it.

Mill. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy.] Now, I am gone for ever. [Going. Barn. One thing more-Sure there is no danger in my knowing where you go? If you think otherwise

Mill. Alas!

[Weeping. Lucy. We are right, I find; that's my cuc. [Aside.] Ah, dear sir! she is 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?

Lucy. Nay, there is no help for it: she must quit the town immediately, and the kingdom as soon as possible. It was no small matter, you may be sure, that could make her resolve to leave you. Mill. No more, my friend; since he, for whose dear sake alone I suffer, and am content to suffer, is kind and pities me; wherever 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 am I so cursed to bring such ruin on thee?
Mill. No matter; I am contented with my lot.
Barn. Leave me not in this uncertainty.
Mill. I have said too much.

Barn. How, how am I the cause of your doing?

are.

was young, left her and her fortune (no inconsiderable one, I assure you) to the care of a gentleman who has a good estate of his own.

Mill. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich enough; but what are riches when compared to love?

Lucy. For a while he performed the office of a faithful guardian, settled her in a house, hired her servants. -But you have seen in what manner she lived, so I need say no more of that.

Mill. How I shall live hereafter, Heaven knows!

Lucy. All things went on as one could wish; till some ago, his wife dying, he fell violently in love with his charge, and would fain have married her. Now the man is neither old nor ugly, but a good personable sort of a man, but I do not know how it was, she could never endure him. In short, her ill usage so provoked him, that he brought in an account of his executorship, wherein he makes her debtor to him.

Mill. A trifle in itself, but more than enough to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he had stripped of all before.

Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as herself, he compelled her to pass his account, and give bond for the sum he demanded; but still provided handsomely for her, and continued his courtship, till, being informed by his spies (truly I suspect some in her own family), that you were entertained at her house, and staid with her all night, he came this morning raving and storming like a madman, talks no more of marriage (so there is no hope of making up matters that way), but vows her ruin, unless she shall allow him the same favour that he supposes she granted you.

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

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

Barn. To be exposed to all the rigours of the various seasons; the summer's parching heat, and winter's cold; unhoused, to wander, friendless, through the inhospitable world, in misery and want; attended with fear and danger, and pursued by malice and revenge. Wouldst thou endure all this for me, and can I do nothing, nothing, to prevent it?

Lucy. It is really a pity there can be no way un-found out.

Mill. To know it will but increase your troubles.
Barn. My troubles cannot be greater than they

Lucy. Well, sir, if she will not 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 racking expectation. Lucy. Why, you must know, my lady here was an only child, and her parents dying while she

Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions now? Like early vapours, or the morning dew, chased by the sun's warm beams, they are vanished and lost, as though they had never been.

Lucy. Now I advised her, sir, to comply with the gentleman: that would not only put an end to her troubles, but make her fortune at once.

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

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

Mill. That, I must confess, was a danger I did not foresee; I was only afraid he should have come without money. You know, a house of entertainment, like mine, is not kept without expence.

Lucy. That is very true; but then you should be reasonable in your demands; 'tis pity to discourage a young man.

Mill. Leave that to me.

Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money.

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

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Mill. Say but you will come!

Barn. You are my fate, my heaven or my hell; only leave me now, dispose of me hereafter as you please. [Exeunt Millwood and Lucy.

What have I done? Were my resolutions founded on reason, and sincerely made? Why, then, has Heaven suffered me to fall? I sought not the occasion; and, if my heart deceives me not, compassion and generosity were my motives. Is virtue inconsistent with itself, or are vice and virtuc only empty names; or do they depend on accidents, beyond our power to produce, or to prevent; wherein we have no part, and yet must Lucy. These young sinners think every thing be determined by the event? But why should in the way of wickedness so strange!- -But II attempt to reason? All is confusion, horror, could tell him, that this is nothing but what is and remorse! I find I ain lost, cast down from very common; for one vice as naturally begets all my late-erected hope, and plunged again in another, as a father a son. But he will find out guilt, yet scarce know how or why! that himself, if he lives long enough. Such undistinguished horrors make my brain, Like hell, the scat of darkness and of pain. [Exit.

[Aside. Barn. Here, take this, and with it purchase

ACT III.

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

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

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

ore.

drugs: the late-found western world's rich earth glows with unnumbered veins of gold and silver On every climate, and on every country, Heaven has bestowed some good peculiar to itself. It is the industrious merchant's business to collect the various blessings of each soil and climate; and, with the product of the whole, to enrich his native country. Well, I have examined your accounts; they are not only just, as I have always found them, but regularly kept, and fairly entered. I commend your diligence. Method in business is the surest guide; he, who neglects it, frequently stumbles, and always wanders perplexed, uncertain, and in danger.—Are Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? He does not use to be the last on these occasions.

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

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

Enter MARIA with a book. Sits and reads.

Mar. How forcible is truth! The weakest mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and collected in itself, with indifference beholds the united force of earth and hell opposing. Such

souls are raised above the sense of pain, or so supported, that they regard it not. The martyr cheaply purchases his heaven; small are his sufferings, great is his reward. Not so the wretch who combats love with duty; whose mind, weakened and dissolved by the soft passion, feeble and hopeless, opposes his own 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!

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

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

Mar. Defend us, Heaven!

True. I cannot speak it. See there.

[Gives a letter. Mar. [Reads.] I know my absence will surprise my honoured master and yourself; and the more, when you shall understand, that the reason of my withdrawing, is my having embezzled part of the cash with which I was entrusted. After this, it is needless to inform you, that I intend never to return again. Though this might have been known, by examining my accounts; yet, to prevent that unnecessary trouble, and to cut off all fruitless expectations of my return, I have left this from the lost

GEORGE BARNWELL. True. Lost indeed! Yet how he should be guilty of what he there charges himself withal, raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never had youth a higher sense of virtue. Justly he thought, and as he thought he practised; never was life more regular than his.-An understanding uncommon at his years, an open, generous manliness of temper, his manners easy, unaffected, and engaging.

Mar. This, and much more, you might have said with truth. He was the delight of every eye, and joy of every heart that knew him.

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

Mar. Trueman, do you think a soul, so delicate as his, so sensible of shame, can ever submit to live a slave to vice?

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

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

Mar. I fear as much, and therefore would ne-
ver have my father know it.
True. That is impossible.
Mar. What is the sum?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mar. If Heaven succeeds it, I am well rewarded. A virgin's fame is sullied by suspicion's lightest breath; and, therefore, as this must be a secret from my father, and the world, for Barnwell's sake, for mine, let it be so to him. [Exeunt.

SCENE II.—À Room in Millwood's House.

Enter Lucy and BLUNT.

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

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

Lucy. No, it is his love. To do him justice, notwithstanding his youth, he does not want understanding. But you men are much easier imposed on in these affairs, than your vanity will allow you to believe. Let me see the wisest of you all as much in love with me as Barnwell is with Millwood, and I will engage to make as great a fool of him.

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

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

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