[]
THE PRODIGAL. A DRAMATIC PIECE. AS PERFORMED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, IN THE HAY-MARKET, DECEMBER▪ [...] [...]
"To wake the ſoul by tender ſtrokes of art,
"To raiſe the genius, and to mend the heart,
"To make mankind in conſcious virtue bold,
"Live o'er each ſcene, and be what they behold:
"For this the Tragic Muſe firſt trod the ſtage,
"Commanding tears to ſtream thro' every age."
Pope's Prologue to Addiſon's CATO.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR T. ARROWSMITH, MIDDLE-ROW, HOLBORN; AND SOLD BY B. CROSBY, STATIONERS COURT.
1794.
[PRICE ONE SHILLING.]
ADVERTISEMENT.
[][]THE dinner-hour of perſons of faſhion having almoſt joſtled the ſupper-hour of our an⯑ceſtors out of its place, the firſt act of a play is either very thinly attended, or conſiderably inter⯑rupted by the clattering of box-doors and ſeats, while the houſe is filling; for which reaſon it has been thought neceſſary, of late years, at the Hay-Market Theatre, to perform a ſhort piece previous to that which is meant as the principal attraction: thoſe already upon the acting liſt having been ſome time in uſe, Mr. Colman (then junior) deſi⯑red me to point out ſuch as might occur, ſuitable to the purpoſe. I mentioned The Fatal Extrava⯑gance, written by Joſeph Mitchell; (Vide BIOGRA⯑PHIA DRAMATICA, 1782, V. II. P. 119.) which, on looking over it, he was pleaſed to approve of; ex⯑cepting that he thought the cataſtrophe too tragick for a petite-piece. I, therefore, made ſuch altera⯑tions in it as he conceived to be wanting; in doing which, I availed myſelf of his very judicious ad⯑vice, and adopted ſeveral energetick expreſſions, [4]dropt, during the rehearſals, from his mouth [...] pen.
The concluding lines, ‘"Hence may the Gameſter learn, ere yet too late," &c.’ are entirely Mr. Colman's.
I wiſh I could particularize every word ſuggeſt⯑ed by him; for tho' I have not, as Ben. Jonſon, to our loſs, too-ſcrupulouſly did (as it is ſuppoſed) by Shakſpeare, "rather choſen to put weaker (and no doubt leſſe pleaſing) of mine own," yet would I not "defraud ſo happy a Genius of his right, by my lothed uſurpation." See Jonſon's Addreſs "To the Readers." prefixed to the 4to edit. of his "Sejanus." 1605.
The piece, as altered and called The Prodigal, has been excellently performed twelve times at Mr. Colman's Theatre, with diſtinguiſhed appro⯑bation; ſome of the paſſages, now printed, were omitted in the reprefentation: but, what would have been thought tedious and heavy on the ſtage, it is hoped will not be found ſo in the cloſet.
October, 1. 1794.
F. G. WALDRON.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
[6]- BELLMOUR, Mr. Barrymore.
- COURTNEY, Mr. Aickin.
- BARGRAVE, Mr. Benſon.
- LOUISA, Mrs. Powell.
SCENE, Bellmour's Houſe.
TIME, that of the Repreſentation.
THE PRODIGAL. A DRAMATIC PIECE.
[]ACT I. SCENE. A Saloon.
Enter LOUISA and COURTNEY.
LOUISA.
'TWAS kind! this ſpeed of your return.—But, tell me,
What ſucceſs had you? was my father mov'd?
Methinks I read your news in your ſad viſage,
And my heart trembles with prophetic fears.
COURTNEY.
'Twas as I judg'd 't would be—His own wants preſs him;
He ſinks beneath your huſband's waſteful life;
Thoſe boundleſs dicings, and voluptuous riots,
Which have at once diſſolv'd a wealth ſo vaſt,
That Pity ſcarce vouchſafes to heed his ſufferings.
LOUISA.
[2]But his late conduct proves my Bellmour chang'd;
Misfortunes have inſtructed him to think,
And thought has captiv'd every madding paſſion.
COURTNEY.
Yet early vice, by cuſtom long indulg'd,
Leaves ſuch impreſſion of habitual ill,
As finds no cure, but from ſevere remorſe,
And Time's ſlow working.
LOUISA.
Nay, name not Bellmour's vice;—
He has no vice;—his every power is loſt,
Even had he taſte for follies:—poor and deſpis'd,
The ſlaves, for whoſe curs'd ſakes he ſtands re⯑proach'd,
Now ſhun his converſe. Villains, who betray'd,
Start when they meet him. Poverty, like his,
Spreads a contagion round it, and mankind
Fly frighted from him. What will become of us!
Did you lay open our incumbent ruin?
Urg'd you my father ſtrongly? Want's cold hand
Creeps o'er us, and 'tis now no time for counſel.
COURTNEY.
I told him all, and mov'd his utmoſt pity.
Still, as he ſet to view your huſband's failings,
I urg'd his virtues, and bore down the balance;
I prais'd his wit, his courage, his humanity,
His fine frank ſpirit, and his generous nature:
He anſwer'd, and I firmly think with truth,
What he has done, already, weighs him down;
His ſtruggling will to ſave you has undone him,
And Bellmour's ſelf would there beg aid in vain.
LOUISA.
[3]O! he was never born to be a beggar!
Heav'n is too kind to goodneſs, to forſake him!
He, whom ſoft Pity melts at others' miſery,
Deſerves, himſelf, to live exempt from woe.
Bellmour could ne'er behold a ſtranger wretched,
But he partook his pain, 'till he could eaſe it.
How, then, will he ſupport the weeping anguiſh
Of three poor children, all undone by him!
COURTNEY.
His good, and ill, ſo chequer out his nature,
That, which excels is doubtful. Nobly will'd,
His pitying heart flows out in generous purpoſes;
But, wanting power to ſtem the tide of pleaſure,
Irreſolute he drives, and floats to ruin.
Men muſt be rigid, and ſevere, in virtue!
Serious and noble aims diſtinguiſh reaſon!
To live for luxury is not to live.
The man of pleaſure dreams away his days,
And dies, to be forgotten. Bellmour's ſoul,
Had contemplation bent it to a bias,
Had given a point to Fame's proud pinnacle,
And purpled o'er his name with deathleſs glory!
Now, it lies loſt in duſt!—contemn'd, deſpis'd!
LOUISA.
Oh! I ſhall tremble to behold his face!—
His ruin'd family hangs on his heart;
His helpleſs children's future fate diſtracts him;
For, the once-lively Bellmour ſmiles no more!
Silent he walks, or ſtands, with folded arms;
And ſtill looks down, as if his ſoul were earth.
If e'er, by chance, his lifted eyes meet mine,
The ſtarting tears glare dreadfully upon me,
And, quivering, ſtruggle to flow looſe in ſorrow.
Then ſighs, ſuppreſs'd by force, ſtrive hard for vent.
[4]And heave, and ſwell, like earthquakes in his boſom.
Groaning, at length, he breaks in whirlwind from me;
Torn by ten thouſand pangs, raves, reddens, ſtarts,
And frights me with a dreadful burſt of paſſions!
COURTNEY.
Poor, ſuffering innocent! I would 'twere mine
To ſcreen you from the ſtorm that's gath'ring round;
But I, unbleſs'd with power, can only wiſh,
And hope ſome chance will ſave you from de⯑ſtruction.
LOUISA.
O, uncle! what remains for Hope to ſnatch at?
Of all the wide eſtate, that late was ours,
But this poor houſe is left us;—this, too, totters.
Soon, Ruin, with his palſied hand, will ſeize
This ancient pile, and ſhake it into duſt!
Not thrice the worth of all that now is ours
Will ſave poor Woodly from that fatal bond,
He ſign'd to ſave my Bellmour.—All our hope
Was in your friendly journey to my father;
Woodly muſt ſink, and Bellmour cannot bear it.
Bellmour will never live to ſink a friend!—
Look yonder, where, in penſive grief, he walks
Unhoping, and diſconſolate!
COURTNEY.
Poor Bellmour!
How chang'd, from that wild, gay, joyful reveller,
Which all his friends have known him! ſtill ex⯑treme.
[5] Enter BELLMOUR, melancholy.
LOUISA.
My life!—my Bellmour!—wound not thus my ſoul;
I have more woes to bear, that are my own,
Than my ſtrength matches; add not, thou, thy ſorrow:
That would o'erwhelm me quite.
BELLMOUR.
I pray, forgive me!
Priſon'd in thought, I could not look about me;
And my ſoul miſs'd thy comfort:—I was con⯑fidering—
LOUISA.
What ſad reflection held you?
BELLMOUR.
Which of my boys,
Some few years hence, when I'm diſſolv'd in death,
Will act the beggar beſt!—run, bare-foot, faſteſt!
And, with moſt dexterous ſhrug, play tricks for charity!
LOUISA.
O! for heav'n's ſake, forbear, by ſtarts like this,
To image horrors, Nature ſhrinks at thought of.
BELLMOUR.
Why, my Louiſa! 'tis a wretch's duty
To learn to bear his miſery;—to know it,
To uſe ourſelves to ſcorn it, is the way
To make it eaſy to us.—Yet, I'm to blame!
Thou had'ſt no ſhare in any guilt of mine;
I ought alone to ſuffer.—'Twas too cruel,
'Twas ev'n unmanly, to afflict thy innocence!
COURTNEY.
[6]Oh, Sir! you ſooth the grief you ſhou'd reſiſt!
Mean ſpirits, only, buckle under woe;
It is the great man's pride to combat fortune,
And riſe againſt oppreſſion.
BELLMOUR.
Sir, 'tis true;—
And I remember you have oft advis'd it,
While I had power to try my virtue's proof.
A man may die unhelp'd, but muſt not hope
To conquer without arms.—Talking of help,
Will your good Brother aid me?—Speaking ſilence!
How could I hope it from him?
COURTNEY.
Yet, deſpair not.
A time may come when ev'n your woes ſhall prove,
To ſuffer well's the nobleſt way to conqueſt.
On a ſmooth Sea the Sailor ſhews no ſkill,
But he diſplays it all in Hurricanes.
BELLMOUR.
He would not, ſure, neglect to ſave his daughter,
Had he the power ſtill left him! yet, friends, ſome⯑times,
Are more than fathers!—I had a friend in Woodly!
Once he was happy;—what he ſhall be hereafter,
He owes to thriftleſs Bellmour. Periſh the name!
To what a ſtinging death is he reſerv'd,
Who leaves a good man wretched, whom he made ſo!
Sir, it would eaſe me of a galling pain,
Would you diſpel this unavailing hope
I cheriſh'd late, relying on my father,
[7]From Woodly's breaſt;—'Twere ſin to nouriſh it,
Since 'tis unſtable:—he muſt know it ſoon.
Let it be told by any tongue but Bellmour's.
COURTNEY.
I'll viſit him this inſtant.—Do you, meanwhile,
To Louiſa.
Calmly ſeek comfort from a firm belief
That heav'n befriends your virtues, and will ſave you.
Exit.
BELLMOUR.
Louiſa!
With violent emotion.
LOUISA.
Alas! what mean you to diſtract me thus,
With your wild ſtartings?
BELLMOUR.
Nay, but mark me well,—
Want's the damnation of a living ſinner!
What have I liv'd for, if I die a beggar?
How excellent art thou not to have ſcorn'd me!
Good heav'n! that reaſon ſhould give madneſs way,
'Till man finds muſick in a rattling dice-box!
And has contracted thrice three thouſand Acres,
To the curs'd compaſs of a narrow table!
With what a thoughtleſs rapture have I ſhook 'em!
Hung o'er the throw! and hurl'd out my poſterity
Slaves, thieves, or beggars!—Tear me limb from limb,
Some pitying torturer! To die at once
Were comfort, ev'n in agony!—but I ſhall be
Whole ages, after death, in dying!—Villains,
Dull, pityleſs, inſulting, purſe-proud villains,
Will point at ſome poor, ragged child of mine,
And ſay, " There's pride and name, there's Bell⯑mour's honour! "
[8]" There's the bleſt remnant of a boaſted family! "
Curſe the keen thought! it pours all hell upon me!
LOUISA.
Still wilt thou, thus, ſnatch at Deſpair's wild ſhadows?
I've heard the manly ſoul can ſmile at anguiſh:
Woman's weak mind may bend beneath adverſity;
But, Bellmour's brow, methinks, ſhould wear a Majeſty,
And make affliction awful.
BELLMOUR.
Away with Counſel.
I cannot hear thee! thy moving air, thy wiſdom,
That lovely ſoftneſs, which bewitches round thee!
Each charm, which has a thouſand times ap⯑peas'd me,
Now makes me mad! like oil, pour'd out on flame,
I tower in blaze, and burn with tenfold fierceneſs!
Thy every word is death! each look thou giv'ſt me
Shoots poiſon'd arrows thro' my bleeding con⯑ſcience!
Think'ſt thou I am ſo mean, ſo loſt a wretch,
That my own miſery ſtings me? cruel woman!
What earthly ill can Bellmour ſtoop to fear,
Which hurts but Bellmour? 'tis true, indeed, thy fate
I have not learn'd to bear!—there, Grief unmans me;
Thine, and thy helpleſs Infants' woes, riſe to me;—
Oh! I have wrong'd thee!
LOUISA.
'Tis wronging me to ſay it.
[9] Re-enter COURTNEY.
BELLMOUR.
Return'd ſo ſoon!
LOUISA.
Why look you pale, good Uncle?
COURTNEY.
To bring unwelcome tidings to the wretched,
Gives the ſad teller half the hearer's woe.
BELLMOUR.
Friendly preparative! what follows next
Can be but Woodly's ruin!
COURTNEY.
He's undone!—
LOUISA.
Unhappy Bellmour!
COURTNEY.
Near your houſe I met him,
Hemm'd by a ſwarthy guard of licens'd villains;
The Law's grim blood-hounds, with rapacious talons:
Who dragg'd him on, in mercileſs ſerenity,
To ſhut him from his hopes, in joyleſs priſon!
BELLMOUR.
Oh!
COURTNEY.
At ſhort diſtance, near the Sycamore,
That marks the turning to that now-fall'n houſe
[10]Of this poor Gentleman, I ſaw his Wife,
Wild, with a ſtorm of grief! her Babes amaz'd!
Struggling, with weeping Servants, to break free.
Fain wou'd ſhe follow him, to ſhare his priſon;
With ſtraining eyes, ſhe kept him long in view;
And, when a guſhing flood obſcur'd her ſight,
Still more to lengthen out a laſt, ſad look,
She wip'd away the tears, and gaz'd again!
LOUISA.
Dreadful deſcription!—cloſe it here, good Uncle!
It cuts too deep, and wounds my Bellmour's ſoul.
COURTNEY.
Yet more remains to tell; his ſpacious houſe
Is fill'd with Ruffians, his rich goods torn down,
His frantic Wife, and Children, roam unſhelter'd,
Without a home to ſuccour them!
LOUISA.
O, guide them hither!
Let me, with open arms, fly to receive them;—
And ſtrive, if poſſible, to give them comfort.
BELLMOUR.
Louiſa!—as thou would'ſt preſerve my life,
Bring not their grief too near me;—
To ſee it would diſtract me!—ſaid he nothing?
COURTNEY.
Marking me, as I turn'd my face aſide,
He call'd, and counſell'd you to ſave yourſelf
By ſudden flight; ſince other Ruſſians, brought
By Bargrave, your malicious creditor,
Will preſently be here, on the ſame purpoſe.
As for my fate, ſaid he, bid him not mourn it:
To fall for Bellmour, would have given me joy,
Had Bellmour's ſelf not fall'n.
BELLMOUR.
[11]He falls indeed!
COURTNEY.
Now, as I enter'd, Bargrave, juſt arriv'd
With his infernal crew, beſets your gates.
LOUISA.
Now, Bellmour, thou art loſt!—immediate ruin
Will ſwallow thee, and me, and our dear children!
All! all muſt ſink together!—teach us, good Uncle!
Which way to fly; what meaſures to purſue.
COURTNEY.
The doors, faſt barr'd, are guarded by your Ser⯑vants;
And you may thro' the grove eſcape unſeen.
BELLMOUR.
No! let him enter! This Bargrave taught me vice,
And counſell'd each exceſs that has undone me!
He wrongs the Devil, who makes himſelf the puniſher
Of ills which he excited! Juſtice acts wiſely!
Oh, ſhe's not blind!—ſhe chuſes a fit moment,
And throws him on my vengeance! Let him enter;
Perdition ſeize me, if he 'ſcape my hand!
LOUISA.
As thou lov'ſt me, Bellmour! be not raſh.
Should'ſt thou add murder—
COURTNEY.
Perſuade him rather;
Sooth him to pity. Would he free your friend,
[12]And grant ſome weeks of liberty, for trial
What ſuccour may be found; you've many friends—
BELLMOUR.
No, Courtney! friendſhip riſes but with fortune;
And ſets when men go downward. Yet, I thank you;
Rage had obſcur'd my reaſon. Say to Bar⯑grave,
I have an offer for his private ear.
I will inſtruct my ſwelling indignation,
To cool and ſettle, like a Courtier's paſſions.
What cannot intereſt teach us!
COURTNEY.
Tho' I loath,
As the dark adder, this deteſted wretch,
I'll try to ſpeak him fair.
Exit.
BELLMOUR.
Leave me, Louiſa!
I would not have thee wound thy innocent eyes
With fight of ſuch a Monſter.—Nor brook I well
That thou, who haſt been taught to love ſincerity,
Should'ſt hear me flatter infamy!
LOUISA.
Do but think
'Tis for their ſakes, whom moſt you wiſh to ſuc⯑cour,
And you will find it eaſy. Farewell! he comes.
My Bellmour! as thou lov'ſt me, oh, be careful!
Exit.
[13] Enter BARGRAVE.
BARGRAVE.
So, Sir! I find you make your houſe your Gar⯑riſon!
Bold, ſour-faced centinels admit, with caution,
Whom you vouchſafe your paſs to.—'Tis great indeed!
Girt, Sovereign-like, within your Palace walls,
The Laws muſt beg admiſſion! But, the pride,
With which your ſtate o'erlook'd me, will inſtruct me,
'Till I find means to reach you.—
BELLMOUR.
I ſent not for you
Thus to revive old hatred. 'Twas my meaning,
To ſet before your eyes the ſpreading miſery,
From which a week's ſhort reſpite may, perhaps,
Free Woodly, and myſelf, nor do you wrong.
BARGRAVE.
Oh, Sir!—no doubt; 'tis likely that ſeven days
Will pay a Bond, which twice ſeven months, and more,
Have drawn no intereſt for!—Woodly may claim
Some little pity.—He's a ſuffering tool,
Who faſts to feed your riots. But, for you,
No plea bears influence. What a maſs of wealth
Loaded your youth! the toil of careful Anceſtors!
And how it is conſum'd, let thouſands tell,
Whoſe lifted eyes and hands proclaim their won⯑der:
I dare not whiſper it.—Men would think me mad;
[14]And laugh to hear, that the once-liberal Bellmour
Is grown a niggard, now; and like a Miſer,
Whines for a day of Grace,—and cries, 'twill ruin him
To pay his Creditors.
BELLMOUR.
Inſulting wretch!
It grates my inmoſt ſoul to ſuffer this,
But my friend's fate depends on't.
[Aſide.]
You ſeem'd to ſpeakAs if you pitied Woodly.—Give him liberty;
And let me fill the place to which you have ſent him:
I aſk no more.—For my own miſeries,
Perhaps, they merit not,—I'm ſure they ſcorn
What pity thou can'ſt give them.
BARGRAVE.
Pity to thee!
Who, not content to ruin thus thyſelf,
Haſt beggar'd all, whom blood, or fooliſh friend⯑ſhip,
Attracted to thy vortex of deſtruction!
So ends our talk;—I'll hear no more, Sir!
BELLMOUR.
Nay, then,
Off, mean Hypocriſy! I'll make thee hear me,
In words which match thy malice.—Think, low Traitor!
From whom I learn'd that guilt, with which, but now,
Thy tongue reproach'd me! who, but the villain, Bargrave?
BARGRAVE.
[15]Ha! villain! ſaid you?—
Offering to draw.
BELLMOUR.
Yes, the villain, Bargrave.—
Touch not thy ſword!—Should'ſt thou unſheath it here,
Thy guardian Devil, too weak to ſave his Miniſter,
Should riſe in vain between us!
BARGRAVE,
I'll hear thee out.—
BELLMOUR.
Who, but thyſelf, ſpread all thoſe ſnares about me,
Which firſt entangled, then o'erthrew my virtue?
Who ſtain'd the native whiteneſs of my ſoul,
And ſpotted it with follies?—Think how the Bond,
Moſt fraudulently, and by ſhameful arts,
Was from my clouded reaſon won! when fumes
Of maddening wine had warm'd my yielding fancy,
Fit for a knave's impreſſion!—Haſt thou hu⯑manity?
And doſt not feel a ruin thou haſt caus'd?
Haſt thou reflection?—and can'ſt thou ſleep un⯑ſtung?
Or, have the ſiends, that haunt thy gloomy boſom,
Encaſed thy heart with ſteel? ſear'd up thy con⯑ſcience?
And left all Devil within thee?—
BARGRAVE.
Now, take breath;
And hear me tell the effect of this fine preaching.
[16]I find myſelf, with all theſe black endowments,
Your maſter, and your ſcourge!—but that I ſcorn thee,
I could be angry.—Mark this ſilent witneſs.
Look on this Bond, and curſe the woeful hour
That gave thy friend and thee to my diſpoſal;
While I ſeek vengeance, not from words but action.
Attempts to go out.
BELLMOUR.
By action did'ſt thou ſay? I thank thee, Bargrave!
Thou haſt inſtructed me.—That fatal Bond
Shall never riſe in Judgment againſt Woodly.
[Drawing his ſword, and putting himſelf before the door; — Bargrave haſtily putting up the bond to defend himſelf, drops it unperceived.]
Juſt Heaven, that hates oppreſſion, points a way
To eaſe my wretchedneſs of half it's load,
By cutting thro' that chain that binds my friend.
Now, if thou dar'ſt defend thy villainies,
Unſheathe thy ſword, and to this guarded door
Force thy wiſh'd paſſage thro' the breaſt of Bell⯑mour.
They fight and Bargrave falls.
Enter COURTNEY and LOUISA.
COURTNEY.
What have you done? I fear'd this raſh effect
Of rage but half ſuppreſs'd.
LOUISA.
Was this my Bellmour? ſpeak! was this the way
To eaſe our wretchedneſs?—Oh! this black chance
Sinks us ſtill deeper, cuts us off from comfort,
And we can never, now, be happy more!
BELLMOUR.
[17]Courtney!—'twere vain to wiſh this act undone.
Takes up the bond.
Secret and ſudden, like his guardian angel,
Let me entreat thee to convey this parchment
Into my Woodly's hand.—Say how it happen'd:
Tell him, whatever Fate may do with me,
I'm bleſs'd to give him freedom.
COURTN [...]Y.
Collect yourſelf!—
Guard the doors well.—There's danger near:
I will not leave you long.—
Exit.
LOUISA.
Hence, Bellmour, fly!
One hour's delay prevents eſcape for ever.
B [...]LLMOUR.
What would'ſt thou have me do?
LOUISA.
Let me diſguiſe thee.—
Then, thro' the Grove haſte; and, in ſome poor Cottage,
Intreat a ſhort concealment. There I'll find thee,
And we'll conſult relief from all our woes.
B [...]LLMOUR.
Fix'd as my fate I ſtand, unmov'd, t' expect it.
Seek thy own ſafety; I'll not ſtir, by Heaven!
LOUISA.
Think how my peace of mind, my hope, my miſery,
Depend on thine.—Thus, on my knees, I urge it.
Thou, being free, may'ſt find a thouſand ways
To ſuccour us; but, if thou fall'ſt, a Family,—
A loſt! a friendleſs Family! falls with thee.
[18]Oh! if I ever were belov'd by Bellmour,
If all my prayers, my vows, my tears, can move him,
Let him but grant me this;—let him but leave me:
Rain then a world of woes upon my head!
Let want, reproach, contempt, and all Life's agonies,
In ceaſeleſs bitterneſs of ſoul, afflict me;
While thou art ſafe, if I but heave one ſigh,
One breath of diſcontent eſcape my lips,
Curſe me thyſelf, and make me loſt indeed!
BELLMOUR.
Excellent woman!—riſe.—To ſee thee thus
Is torture beyond bearing!
LOUISA.
I'll not leave thee!—
Here, at thy feet thus, humbled as that duſt,
Which I ſhall ſhortly be when I have loſt thee,
Here will I grow for ever, 'till thou grant'ſt
This only prayer I make thee.
BELLMOUR.
Thou bid'ſt me fly:
What would'ſt thou I ſhould fly from?
LOUISA.
Danger and miſery.
BELLMOUR.
With whom then muſt I leave that miſery?
Muſt not thyſelf, and thoſe three friendleſs wretches,
Whoſe being I was cauſe of, and who expect
Aid and protection from a Parent's hand;
While I eſcape, muſt you not all be left?
[19]Hell glows in that hot thought! be left, expos'd
To all the miſeries, which thou would'ſt have me
Fly, like a Coward from, and leave for inno⯑cents,
Who owe 'em to my baſeneſs! no, Louiſa!
LOUISA.
[Riſing.]
Loſt, loſt, for ever!
BELLMOUR.
No, there's a Judge on high,
Who ſees thy goodneſs, and will ſure preſerve thee;
Come what Fate liſts to me!—But, lov'd Louiſa!
Give now my ſorrows way; a ſolitary thought
Will teach me to reſolve for life, or wiſh'd-for death!
Exit.
LOUISA.
Angels aſſiſt! inſpire thy ſilent reaſonings!
And from this labyrinth of woes conduct thee!
Dreadful our proſpect!—yet, all may be well!
Heav'n cannot err!—oft' guides us in the dark;—
And, when we leaſt expect, affords relief!
Exit.
End of Act the Firſt.
ACT II. SCENE.
[20]A Gallery.
Enter BELLMOUR (penſive.)
BELLMOUR.
WHY ſhould I pauſe? nothing can be a crime
Which puts a ſtop to evil. A thouſand men
May have been poor as I,—and yet liv'd happy!
Miſeries we make ourſelves, are borne with eaſe;
But he who beggars his poſterity,
Begets a race to curſe him!—every ſcorn,
Which wrings the ſoul of any future Bellmour,
Whom want ſhall pinch the bones of, ages hence,
Will mark, with ſhame, my unforgotten grave,
And reach my guilty ſoul, where e'er it wanders!
If to give miſery to thoſe, to whom
We once gave life, is an inhuman crime,
How can it be a ſin to take life back,
And put an end to undeſerved woe?
Oh!—did I feel no miſery but my own,
How eaſy were it for this Sword to free me
From all that anguiſh, which embitters life?
But, when the Grave has given my ſorrows reſt,
Where ſhall my Wife and tender Babes find com⯑fort?
Not all the virtues of Louiſa's mind,
Nor e'en my pretty Prattlers' innocence,
Will ſhield them from unpitying Want's bleak ſtorm!
[21]Better, a thouſand times, to lead them with me
Unto the peaceful manſion of cold dea!
It ſhall be done!—but how? that aſks ſome thought.—
From thoſe dear, deſtin'd breaſts, the pointed ſteel
Muſt draw no blood, to ſtain my bluſhing hand;
Leſt my ſoul ſtart, and that ſeem cruelty,
Which I wou'd fain think pity.
* Loud knocking without.
—Hark! Time preſſes.What if I uſe th' unwounding aid of Poiſon?
I have at hand a ſovereign remedy
For all diſeaſes, want, and woe, can plague with;
'Twill blunt the edge of death, and, in ſweet ſlumber,
Swim, ſoft and ſhadowy, o'er the miſty eye-ball.
Enter LOUISA.
LOUISA.
Will you forgive me, if officious love,
That anxious pain I feel till you are ſafe,
Obtrude my zeal, perhaps a few ſhort moments,
Before you would have wiſh'd to be diſturb'd?
Yon Villains grow impatient for admiſſion,
And ſcarce your Servants guard the gates againſt them;
Storms of bold oaths, and horrid imprecations,
Mix'd with loud thunderings, and the threats of Law,
Make my heart tremble, and have forc'd me hither:
Forc'd me to urge you, by all ties of love,
Of intereſt, honour, hope, and future bliſs,
To fly this dangerous roof, and ſave us all.
BELLMOUR.
I thank thy gentle care.—It is reſolv'd.
Aſide.
I have bethought me of the means to evade
[22]The malice of my fortune.—'Twill be a journey,
A little longer than thy love could wiſh it;
Yet, not ſo far but we ſhall meet again.
LOUISA.
Oh! be the diſtance wide as Pole from Pole,
Let me but follow thee, and I am bleſt.
BELLMOUR.
It ſhall be ſo, Louiſa.
LOUISA.
A thouſand Angels
Spread their wings o'er thee, and protect thy ſteps.
Now thou art kind!—But, the dear little ones,
Shall they go too?
BELLMOUR.
All! all ſhall go!
LOUSIA.
Haſte, then;
Let us begone: my bounding heart leaps joyful,
And I ſhall ſmile again.—But, ah me, Bellmour!
They are ſo young! ſo tender! is it poſſible
That they ſhould travel with us?
BELLMOUR.
Moving innocence!
My ſtrong heart bleeds within me at her accents.
Aſide.
A few ſhort ſteps will lodge us in a place
To her.
Of reſt and ſafety.—We ſhall have leiſure there
To weigh our future hopes, and ſeek fit means
To our wiſh'd end.—Courtney will ſoon return;
Said he not ſo?
LOUISA.
He did, and we'll inform him
[23]Of our new purpoſe, and begin our flight.
I'll make proviſion, ſuch as beſt befits
Our haſte, and our diſtreſſes.—
Going.
BELLMOUR.
Stay, Louiſa!
Thoſe precious cordials, I ſo lately purchas'd,
Gave I to thee, or no?
LOUISA.
You ſpoke of ſuch,
But ſtill forgot to give them to me; now
They're not worth memory.
BELLMOUR.
Nay, now moſt uſeful!
Their virtue is reported ſovereign,
Againſt the body's toil, or mind's diſturbance.
LOUISA.
I would my Uncle were return'd to counſel us!
What can ſo long detain him? ſure he's ſafe!
BELLMOUR.
Seek him, my love! whilſt I the cordials find.
Now, King of Terrors! to prepare thy ban⯑quet!
(aſide.)
Exit.
LOUISA.
Oh, what a world of ruin has one vice,
Deteſted gaming! brought upon us all!
Bellmour, ſo honeſt, tender, mild, by nature;
Has that propenſity made almoſt wicked!
Stripp'd of the means to ſatisfy juſt claims,
His harrow'd heart ſtarts not at homicide;
And may deſtroy himſelf, his babes, and me!
All-gracious Heav'n! how will theſe mis'ries end?
I dare not hope! but thou art all-ſufficient!
[24]If more of evil yet o'er-hang this roof,
O, for my children's ſake, juſt God! avert it!
Exit.
Re-enter BELLMOUR.
BELLMOUR.
My baleful hand has mix'd the deadly draught!
To give it as a cordial—Give it! whom?
Start from thy burning orb, thou conſcious Sun,
And chill thyſelf to ice at my black purpoſe.
Am I a Parent? a Protector! Lover!
Or has this Devil, that heaves about my heart,
Transform'd me to a fiend?—he has! he has!
Chain him, ſome angel, millions of fathoms, down;
Heap him with mountains, leſt he riſe again,
And in a huſband's, and a father's breaſt,
Brew horrid murders!—I am myſelf once more.—
Now let cool Reaſon's undiſtracted ſearch
Anſwer my bleeding ſoul, which dreadful ill
May beſt be borne by Nature? To leave our friends
To grinding ſorrow, poverty, and ſcorn,
With ſenſe of his not feeling any pain,
Who gave them all;—or, to quit life together,
And, wanting power to bleſs, make it ſome merit,
Not to leave curſes to ſurviving innocence!
I'm mad again! Reaſon herſelf betrays me,
And whiſpers, that this laſt is tendereſt,
And murder grows a mercy.—
Re-enter LOUISA.
LOUISA.
Found you the cordial?
Your little wanderers are ready dreſs'd
To act the pilgrim with us; perhaps 'twill aid
Their fainting ſpirits, yet untried in hardſhips:
Haſte, love! and let's be gone.
BELLMOUR.
[25]Oh! if one moment,
One ſhort thought longer, ſhe oppreſs me thus,
With melting, innocent talk, I ſhall grow ſoft,
Yield her to want, and live to be a beggar.
LOUISA.
Still you are doubtful—
BELLMOUR.
No, I'm fix'd—Oh! Nature!
Aſide.
I left my cloſet open;—on a table,
In that gold cup, which was thy father's preſent,
On the laſt birth-day of our eldeſt boy,
Thoul't find the cordial.—I have tried 'em all,
And what ſeem'd fitteſt for the boys and thee,
Waits, in that cup, thy taſting.
LOUISA.
Courtney ſtays long.—
All things are ready, and I wiſh him here.
Now for this boaſted cordial.—
Exit.
BELLMOUR.
Be firm, my heart!
Stop thy big beat! thaw! thaw this curdling blood,
That thro' my icy veins creeps cold as death,
And freezes in its paſſage!—Where is Louiſa?
But a few moments, and ſhe is no more!
Now! now the unſuſpecting innocent
Lifts that laſt cup;—Now! now ſhe taſtes a draught,
That ſnatches her for ever from my ſight,
And robs me of all comfort! Never more
Shall her ſweet voice enchant me! Never more
Shall her ſoft eyes look fondly into mine,
And ſhine with ſwimming languor!
Open, engulph me, and conceal my ſhame,
[26]Befriending Earth!—or, from thy yawning depth
Stream up a petrifying blaſt, to blot out memory,
Congeal my blood, and fix me here a ſtatue!
LOUISA
(without.)
My life! my Bellmour!
BELLMOUR.
Ha! 'tis her voice that calls me.
It ſounded not reproachful.
LOUISA
(without.)
Look, my Bellmour!
Theſe little ſtrugglers will not quit the cordial,
But ſip it to the bottom.
BELLMOUR.
Torturing horror!
Enter LOUISA, with an empty cup.
LOUISA.
Why did'ſt not come, my Bellmour! and partake,
When twice I call'd you? 'Twould have been a ſcene
Of pleaſure, to obſerve with how much eagerneſs
The little wranglers quarrell'd for the cup;
Which, having drunk of firſt, I brought to them,
I bid them taſte it only; and told the prattlers
It was their father's preſent: but that word
Tranſported them to lift their pretty hands,
In love and duty; and to drain each drop.
BELLMOUR.
Furies tear me!—
LOUISA.
[27]Have I done aught amiſs?
Did you not give permiſſion they ſhould taſte it,
Ere they began the journey?
BELLMOUR.
Alas! Louiſa!
A long, long journey is, indeed, begun;
But endleſs as eternity!—Thyſelf,
And thoſe dear infants, are—poiſon'd by that cor⯑dial!
LOUISA.
Poiſon'd, by thee! Thou ſay'ſt it but to try me!
If 'twere thy wiſh that I ſhould die, thy love,
At leaſt thy pity, would have giv'n ſome warning.
Death is a dreadful journey, and requires
Much length of preparation.
BELLMOUR.
By thoſe charms,
Which I no more muſt gaze on, and be bleſs'd,
Thou can'ſt not live an hour!—a laſt, long ſleep
Will ſteal, in cold advances, o'er thy beauties;
And thoſe two beamy ſuns, whoſe rays dart thro' me,
Shall ſet in endleſs night!—Ev'n while we talk,
Th' eternal ſhade will riſe at once between us,
And ſever us for ever!
LOUISA.
Dreadful contraction
Of that ſhort ſpan, which, at its longeſt ſtretch,
Was much too narrow to allow me ſcope,
To ſpeak, or look, or think my love for thee!
What ſhall I ſay? a thouſand tender thoughts
Struggle, at once, for vent.—I cannot ſpeak—
Death is too haſty!—I have yet undone,
[28]Unſpoke, unthought, a thouſand weighty things!
O, heaven! my little ones!—let me fly to them!
Have I ſo ſhort a time to gaze upon them,
Yet ne'er muſt ſee them more! I cannot leave thee!
What ſhall I do?—O, bring my children hither;
Fly with them to my arms!—Dear, dying inno⯑cents!
O, Bellmour! Bellmour! why has this been done?
BLLMOUR.
That we might baffle woe, here die together,
And leave no beggars of our race behind us!
See! my Louiſa! I have a ſaithful guide,
Draws a dagger.
That will not let me loſe thee.
Attempts to ſtab himſelf.
Enter COURTNEY.
COURTNEY.
Hold thy raſh hand!
Wreſting the dagger from him.
Nor to thy other crimes add Suicide!
He, thou thought'ſt ſlain by thy revengeful arm,
Accurſed Bargrave! is borne hence alive,
But ſlightly wounded; tho' awhile he ſeem'd,
Through craft or cowardice, bereft of life.
BELLMOUR.
Has that dire villain 'ſcap'd! and ſhall my wife,
And tender innocents, O, God! be made
A ſacrifice for all my load of guilt!
COURTNEY.
Nor are your wife and childen ſacrificed.
The hand of Heaven (howe'er, from mortal eyes
Obſcur'd in clouds, it ſeems ſevere) is merciful!
Not thy three children, and thy wife, are fallen;
Nor ſhalt ev'n thou, whoſe meditated crimes
Deſerve a ſignal vengeance, now be puniſh'd!
LOUISA.
[29]What mean you, Sir?
BELLMOUR.
Thou little know'ſt, alas! the certain means
I us'd for their deſtruction!
COURTNEY.
Then, trembling, mark the mazy paths of Provi⯑dence!
Fearing, from late events, ſome dire miſhap,
I trac'd your footſteps, as you ſadly rang'd
The lonely Gallery; ſpied a late-fill'd Cup
Of deadly poiſon, (known by the veſſel left,
Which had contain'd it) mingled with a rich draught,
For preſent uſe: I took it, ſecret, thence;
Refill'd the Cup with Cordials that remain'd,
Without the baneful mixture; ſtood conceal'd
To view what then might hap: Louiſa came,
And ſnatch'd it thence; I follow'd her, unmark'd,
O'erjoy'd to have been the means to intercept
Her and her children's death.
LOUISA.
Merciful Heaven!
[Louiſa and Bellmour kneel, in adoration of, and gratitude to Heaven; then em⯑brace their Uncle, and each other.]
BELLMOUR.
Angels ſurround thee, with unceaſing vigilance;
To Courtney.
And, for this friendſhip, ward off every evil!
Oh! I have err'd! but, henceforth, I am chang'd!
COURTNEY.
[30]Now hear the reſt; and Heav'n pronounce thee worthy of't!
By a young Kinſman, landed from a Ship,
That left her Conſort ſcarce a day behind,
Woodly has heard, tho' mournful, happy news.
Your abſent Brother, many years thought dead,
Returning, rich, from the remoteſt Eaſt,
Died but in ſight of land; and has bequeath'd
His whole heap'd wealth to thee.
BELLMOUR.
All-gracious Providence!
Moſt humbly I adore thee; and will truſt,
Implicitly, to thy unerring wiſdom!
Thou beſt can'ſt clear thy myſtic diſpenſations,
And make confuſion end in beauteous order!
Hence may the Gameſter learn, ere yet too late,
To ſhun that Vice which endleſs Ills await;
Wild as the Sea his maddening paſſions flow—
Himſelf, Wife, Children, beggar'd at a throw!
Oh, ſhould a Father, or a Huſband come,
Whom Dice have lured from happineſs and home,
To liſten to our Tale; our hope is, here,
To check one Gameſter in his mad Career.
THE END.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 4124 The prodigal A dramatic piece As performed at the Theatre Royal in the Hay Market December 2 1793. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5E77-6