[]THE London Merchant: OR, THE HISTORY OF GEORGE BARNWELL.

SCENE I.

SIR, the Packet from Genoa is ar⯑riv'd.

Heav'n be praiſed, the Storm that threaten'd our Royal Miſtreſs, pure Religion, Liberty, and Laws, is for a Time diverted; the haughty and revengeful Spaniard, diſappointed of the Loan on which he depended from Genoa, muſt now attend the ſlow return of Wealth from his new World, to ſupply his empty Coffers, e'er he can execute his pur⯑pos'd Invaſion of our happy Iſland; by which means Time is gain'd to make ſuch Preparations on our Part, as may, Heav'n concurring, prevent his Ma⯑lice, or turn the meditated Miſchief on himſelf.

He muſt be inſenſible indeed, who is not af⯑fected when the Safety of his Country is concern'd.—Sir, may I know by what means—if I am too bold—

Your Curioſity is laudable; and I gratify it with the greater Pleaſure, becauſe from thence you may learn, how honeſt Merchants, as ſuch, may ſometimes contribute to the Safety of their Country, as they do at all times to its Happineſs; that if hereafter you ſhould be tempted to any Action that has the Appearance of Vice or Mean⯑neſs in it, upon reflecting on the Dignity of our Profeſſion, you may with honeſt Scorn reject what⯑ever is unworthy of it.

Shou'd Barnwell, or I, who have the Benefit of your Example, by our ill Conduct bring any Im⯑putation on that honourable Name, we muſt be left without excuſe.

You complement, young Man.—

Nay, I'm not offended. As the Name of Mer⯑chant never degrades the Gentleman, ſo by no means does it exclude him; only take heed not to purchaſe the Character of Complai [...]ant at the Ex⯑pence of your Sincerity.—But to anſwer your Queſtion,—The Bank of Genoa had agreed, at ex⯑ceſſive Intereſt and on good Security, to advance the King of Spain a Sum of Money ſufficient to equip his vaſt Armado,—of which our peerleſs Elizabeth (more than in Name the Mother of her People) being well informed, ſent Walſingham, her wiſe and faithful Secretary, to conſult the Mer⯑chants of this loyal City, who all agreed to direct their ſeveral Agents to influence, if poſſible, the Genoeſe to break their Contract with the Spaniſh Court. 'Tis done, the State and Bank of Genoa, having maturely weigh'd and rightly judged of their true Intereſt, prefer the Friendſhip of the Mer⯑chants of London, to that of a Monarch, who proudly ſtiles himſelf King of both Indies.

Happy Succeſs of prudent Councils. What an Expence of Blood and Treaſure is here ſaved?—Excellent Queen! O how unlike to former [3] Princes, who made the Danger of foreign Enemies a Pretence to oppreſs their Subjects, by Taxes great and grievous to be born.

Not ſo our gracious Queen, whoſe richeſt Exchequer is her Peoples Love, as their Happineſs her greateſt Glory.

On theſe Terms to defend us, is to make our Protection a Benefit worthy her who confers it, and well worth our Acceptance.

Sir, have you any Commands for me at this Time?

Only to look carefully over the Files to ſee whether there are any Trades-mens Bills unpaid; and if there are, to ſend and diſcharge 'em. We muſt not let Artificers loſe their Time, ſo uſeful to the Publick and their Families, in unneceſſary At⯑tendance.

SCENE II.

Well, Maria, have you given Orders for the En⯑tertainment? I would have it in ſome meaſure worthy the Gueſts. Let there be plenty, and of the beſt; that the Courtiers, tho' they ſhould deny us Citizens Politeneſs, may at leaſt commend our Hoſpitality.

Sir, I have endeavoured not to wrong your well-known Generoſity by an ill-tim'd Parſimony.

Nay, 'twas a needleſs Caution, I have no cauſe to doubt your Prudence.

Sir! I find my ſelf unfit for Converſation at preſent, I ſhould but increaſe the Number of the Company, without adding to their Satisfaction.

Nay, my Child, this Melancholy muſt not be indulged.

Company will but increaſe it. I wiſh you would diſpenſe with my Abſence; Solitude beſt ſuits my preſent Temper.

You are not inſenſible that it is chiefly on your Account theſe noble Lords do me the Honour ſo frequently to grace my Board; ſhou'd you be ab⯑ſent, the Diſappointment may make them repent their Condeſcenſion, and think their Labour loſt.

He that ſhall think his Time or Honour loſt in viſiting you, can ſet no real Value on your Daughter's Company, whoſe only Merit is that ſhe is yours. The Man of Quality, who chuſes to converſe with a Gentleman and Merchant of your Worth and Character, may confer Honour by ſo doing, but he loſes none.

Come, come, Maria, I need not tell you that a young Gentleman may prefer your Conver⯑ſation to mine, yet intend me no Diſreſpect at all; for tho' he may loſe no Honour in my Company, 'tis very natural for him to expect more Pleaſure in yours. I remember the Time, when the Company of the greateſt and wiſeſt Man in the Kingdom would have been inſipid and tireſome to me, if it had deprived me of an Opportunity of enjoying your Mother's.

Your's no doubt was as agreeable to her; for generous Minds know no Pleaſure in Society but where 'tis mutual.

Thou know'ſt I have no Heir, no Child but thee; the Fruits of many Years ſucceſsful Induſtry muſt all be thine, now it would give me Pleaſure great as my Love, to ſee on whom you would beſtow it. I am daily ſolicited by Men of the greateſt Rank and Merit for leave to addreſs you, but I have hitherto declin'd it, in hopes that by Obſervation I ſhou'd 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 direct it.

What can I ſay? How ſhall I anſwer, as I ought, this Tenderneſs, ſo uncommon, even in the beſt of Parents: But you are without Example; [5] yet had you been leſs indulgent, I had been moſt wretched. That I look on the Croud of Courtiers, that viſit here, with equal Eſteem, but equal Indif⯑ference, you have obſerved, and I muſt needs con⯑feſs; yet had you aſſerted your Authority, and in⯑ſiſted on a Parent's Right to be obey'd, I had ſub⯑mitted, and to my Duty ſacrificed my Peace.

From your perfect Obedience in every other Inſtance, I fear'd as much; and therefore wou'd leave you without a Byaſs in an Affair wherein your Happineſs is ſo immediately concern'd.

Whether from a Want of that juſt Ambition that wou'd become your Daughter, or from ſome other Cauſe I know not; but, I find high Birth and Titles don't recommend the Man, who owns them, to my Affections.

I wou'd not that they ſhou'd, unleſs his Merit recommends him more. A noble Birth and Fortune, tho' they make not a bad Man good, yet they are a real Advantage to a worthy one, and place his Virtues in the faireſt Light.

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, ſo Love ſhall never make me act contrary to my Duty. Sir, have I your Per⯑miſſion to retire.

I'll ſee you to your Chamber.

SCENE III.

How do I look to Day, Lucy?

O, killingly, Madam!—A little more Red, and you'll be irreſiſtible!—But why this more than ordinary Care of your Dreſs and Complexion? What new Conqueſt are you aiming at?

A Conqueſt, wou'd be new indeed!

Not to you, who make 'em every Day,—but to me.—Well! 'tis what I'm never to expect,—unfortunate as I am:—But your Wit and Beauty—

Firſt made me a Wretch, and ſtill continue me ſo.—Men, however generous or ſincere to one another, are all ſelfiſh Hypocrites in their Affairs with us. We are no otherwiſe eſteemed or regarded by them, but as we contribute to their Satisfaction.

You are certainly, Madam, on the wrong Side in this Argument: Is not the Expence all theirs? And I am ſure it is our own Fault if we hav'n't our Share of the Pleaſure.

We are but Slaves to Men.

Nay, 'tis they that are Slaves moſt cer⯑tainly; for we lay them under Contribution.

Slaves have no Property; no, not even in themſelves.—All is the Victors.

You are ſtrangely arbitrary in your Prin⯑ciples, Madam.

I would have my Conqueſts compleat, like thoſe of the Spaniards in the New World; who firſt plunder'd the Natives of all the Wealth they had, and then condemn'd the Wretches to the Mines for Life, to work for more.

Well, I ſhall never approve of your Scheme of Government: I ſhould think it much more poli⯑tick, as well as juſt, to find my Subjects an eaſier Imployment.

It's a general Maxim among the knowing Part of Mankind, that a Woman without Virtue, like a Man without Honour or Honeſty, is capable of any Action, tho' never ſo vile: And yet what Pains will they not take, what Arts not uſe, to ſeduce us from our Innocence, and make us contemptible and wicked, even in their own Opinions? Then is it not juſt, the Villains, to their Coſt, ſhould find us ſo.—But Guilt makes them ſuſpicious, and keeps them on their Guard; therefore we can take Advan⯑tage [7] only of the young and innocent Part of the Sex, who having never injured Women, apprehend no Injury from them.

Ay, they muſt be young indeed.

Such a one, I think, I have found.—As I've paſſed thro' the City, I have often obſerv'd him receiving and paying conſiderable Sums of Money; from thence I conclude he is employ'd in Affairs of Conſequence.

Is he handſome?

Ay, ay, the Stripling is well made.

About—

Eighteen—

Innocent, Handſome, and about Eighteen.—You'll be vaſtly happy.—Why, if you manage well, you may keep him to your ſelf theſe two or three Years.

If I manage well, I ſhall have done with him much ſooner, having long had a Deſign on him; and meeting him Yeſterday, I made a full Stop, and gazing wiſhfully on his Face, ask'd him his Name: He bluſh'd, and bowing very low, anſwer'd, George Barnwell. I beg'd his Pardon for the Freedom I had taken, and told him, that he was the Perſon I had long wiſh'd to ſee, and to whom I had an Affair of Importance to communicate, at a proper Time and Place. He named a Tavern; I talk'd of Ho⯑nour and Reputation, and invited him to my Houſe: He ſwallow'd the Bait, promis'd to come, and this is the Time I expect him,

Some Body knocks,—d'ye hear; I am at Home to no Body to Day, but him.—

SCENE IV.

Leſs Affairs muſt give Way to thoſe of more Conſequence; and I am ſtrangely miſtaken if [8] this does not prove of great Importance to me and him too, before I have done with him.—Now, after what Manner ſhall I receive him? Let me conſider—what manner of Perſon am I to receive?—He is young, innocent, and baſhful; therefore I muſt take Care not to ſhock him at firſt.—But then, if I have any Skill in Phiſiognomy, he is amo⯑rous, and, with a little Aſſiſtance, will ſoon get the better of his Modeſty,—I'll truſt to Nature, who does Wonders in theſe Matters.—If to ſeem what one is not, in order to be the better liked for what one really is; if to ſpeak one thing, and mean the direct contrary, be Art in a Woman, I know nothing of Nature.

SCENE V.

Sir! the Surprize and Joy!—

Madam.—

This is ſuch a Favour,—

Pardon me, Madam,—

So unhop'd for,—

To ſee you here.—Excuſe the Con⯑fuſion.—

I fear I am too bold.—

Alas, Sir! All my Apprehenſions proceed from my Fears of your thinking me ſo.—Pleaſe, Sir, to ſit.—I am as much at a Loſs how to receive this Honour as I ought, as I am ſurpriz'd at your Goodneſs in confering it.

I thought you had expected me—I pro⯑mis'd to come.

That is the more ſurprizing; few Men are ſuch religious Obſervers of their Word.

All, who are honeſt, are.

To one another:—But we ſilly Women are ſeldom thought of Conſequence enough to gain a Place in your Remembrance.

Her Diſorder is ſo great, ſhe don't per⯑ceive ſhe has laid her Hand on mine.—Heaven! how ſhe trembles!—What can this mean!

The Intereſt I have in all that relates to you, (the Reaſon of which you ſhall know hereafter) excites my Curioſity; and, were I ſure you would pardon my Preſumption, I ſhould deſire to know your real Sentiments on a very particular Affair.

Madam, you may command my poor Thoughts on any Subject;—I have none that I would conceal.

You'll think me bold.

No, indeed.

What then are your Thoughts of Love?

If you mean the Love of Women, I have not thought of it all.—My Youth and Circum⯑ſtances make ſuch Thoughts improper in me yet: But if you mean the general Love we owe to Man⯑kind, I think no one has more of it in his Temper than my ſelf.—I don't know that Perſon in the World whoſe Happineſs I don't wiſh, and wou'd n't promote, were it in my Power.—In an eſpecial manner I love my Uncle, and my Maſter, but, above all, my Friend.

You have a Friend then, whom you love?

As he does me, ſincerely.

He is, no doubt, often bleſs'd with your Company and Converſation.—

We live in one Houſe together, and both ſerve the ſame worthy Merchant.

Happy, happy Youth!—who e'er thou art, I envy thee, and ſo muſt all, who ſee and know this Youth.—What have I loſt, by being form'd a Woman!—I hate my Sex, my ſelf.—Had I been a Man, I might, perhaps, have been as happy [10] in your Friendſhip, as he who now enjoys it:—But as it is,—Oh!—

I never obſerv'd Women before, or this is ſure the moſt beautiful of her Sex,

You ſeem diſorder'd, Madam! May I know the Cauſe?

Do not ask me,—I can never ſpeak it, whatever is the Cauſe;—I wiſh for Things im⯑poſſible:—I wou'd be a Servant, bound to the ſame Maſter as you are, to live in one Houſe with you.

How ſtrange, and yet how kind, her Words and Actions are?—And the Effect they have on me is as ſtrange.—I feel Deſires I never knew before;—I muſt be gone, while I have Power to go,

Madam, I humbly take my Leave.—

You will not ſure leave me ſo ſoon!

Indeed I muſt.

You cannot be ſo cruel!—I have pre⯑par'd a poor Supper, at which I promis'd my ſelf your Company.

I am ſorry I muſt refuſe the Honour that you deſign'd me;—But my Duty to my Maſter calls me hence.—I never yet neglected his Service: He is ſo gentle, and ſo good a Maſter, that ſhould I wrong him, tho' he might forgive me, I never ſhould forgive my ſelf.

Am I refus'd, by the firſt Man, the ſecond Favour I ever ſtoop'd to ask?—Go then thou proud hard-hearted Youth.—But know, you are the only Man that cou'd be found, who would let me ſue twice for greater Favours.

What ſhall I do!—How ſhall I go or ſtay!

Yet do not, do not, leave me.—I wiſh my Sex's Pride wou'd meet your Scorn:—But when I look upon you,—When I behold thoſe Eyes,—Oh! ſpare my Tongue, and let my Bluſhes ſpeak.—This Flood of Tears to that will force their way, [11] and declare—what Woman's Modeſty ſhould hide.

Oh, Heavens! ſhe loves me, worthleſs as I am; her Looks, her Words, her flowing Tears confeſs it:—And can I leave her then?—Oh, never,—never.—Madam, dry up thoſe Tears.—You ſhall command me always;—I will ſtay here for ever, if you'd have me.

So! ſhe has wheedled him out of his Virtue of Obedience already, and will ſtrip him of all the reſt, one after another, 'till ſhe has left him as few as her Ladyſhip, or my ſelf.

Now you are kind, indeed; but I mean not to detain you always: I would have you ſhake off all ſlaviſh Obedience to your Maſter;—but you may ſerve him ſtill.

Serve him ſtill!—Aye, or he'll have no Opportunity of fingering his Caſh, and then he'll not ſerve your End, I'll be ſworn.

SCENE VI.

Madam, Supper's on the Table.

Come, Sir, You'll excuſe all Defects.—My Thoughts were too much employ'd on my Gueſt to obſerve the Entertainment.

SCENE VII.

What is all this Preparation, this elegant Supper, Variety of Wines, and Muſick, for the Entertainment of that young Fellow!

So it ſeems.

What is our Miſtreſs turn'd Fool at laſt! She's in Love with him, I ſuppoſe.

I ſuppoſe not,—but ſhe deſigns to make him in Love with her, if ſhe can.

What will ſhe get by that? He ſeems un⯑der Age, and can't be ſuppos'd to have much Money.

But his Maſter has; and that's the ſame thing, as ſhe'll manage it.

I don't like this fooling with a handſome young Fellow; while ſhe's endeavouring to enſnare him, ſhe may be caught her ſelf.

Nay, were ſhe like me, that would cer⯑tainly be the Conſequence;—for, I confeſs, there is ſomething in Youth and Innocence that moves me mightily.

Yes, ſo does the Smoothneſs and Plump⯑neſs of a Patridge move a mighty Deſire in the Hawk to be the Deſtruction of it.

Why, Birds are their Prey, as Men are ours; though, as you obſerv'd, we are ſometimes caught our ſelves:—But that I dare ſay will never be the Caſe with our Miſtreſs.

I wiſh it may prove ſo; for you know we all depend upon her: Should ſhe trifle away her Time with a young Fellow, that there's nothing to be got by, we muſt all ſtarve.

There's no Danger of that, for I am ſure ſhe has no View in this Affair, but Intereſt.

Well, and what Hopes are there of Suc⯑ceſs in that?

The moſt promiſing that can be.—'Tis true, the Youth has his Scruples; but ſhe'll ſoon teach him to anſwer them, by ſtifling his Conſcience.—O, the Lad is in a hopeful Way, depend upon't.

SCENE VIII.

What can I anſwer!—All that I know is, that you are fair, and I am miſerable.

We are both ſo, and yet the Fault is in our ſelves.

To eaſe our preſent Anguiſh, by plunging into Guilt, is to buy a Moment's Pleaſure with an Age of Pain.

I ſhould have thought the Joys of Love as laſting as they are great: If ours prove otherwiſe, 'tis your Inconſtancy muſt make them ſo.

The Law of Heaven will not be revers'd; and that requires us to govern our Paſſions.

To give us Senſe of Beauty and Deſires, and yet forbid us to taſte and be happy, is Cruelty to Nature.—Have we Paſſions only to torment us!

To hear you talk,—tho' in the Cauſe of Vice,—to gaze, upon your Beauty,—preſs your Hand,—and ſee your Snow-white Boſom heave and fall,—enflames my Wiſhes;—my Pulſe beats high,—my Senſes all are in a Hurry, and I am on the Rack of wild Deſire;—yet for a Moment's guilty Pleaſure, ſhall I loſe my Innocence, my Peace of Mind, and Hopes of ſolid Happineſs?

Chimeras all,—

I wou'd not,—yet I muſt on.—

SCENE I.

HOW ſtrange are all Things round me? Like ſome Thief, who treads forbidden Ground, fearful I enter each Apartment of this well known Houſe. To guilty Love, as if that was too little, already have I added Breach of Truſt.—A Thief!—Can I know my ſelf that wretched Thing, and look my honeſt Friend and injured Ma⯑ſter in the Face?—Tho' Hypocriſy may a while conceal my Guilt, at length it will be known, and publick Shame and Ruin muſt enſue. In the mean time, what muſt be my Life? ever to ſpeak a Lan⯑guage foreign to my Heart; hourly to add to the Number of my Crimes in order to conceal 'em.—Sure ſuch was the Condition of the grand Apoſtate, when firſt he loſt his Purity; like me diſconſolate he wander'd, and while yet in Heaven, bore all his future Hell about him.

SCENE II.

Barnwell! O how I rejoice to ſee you ſafe! ſo will our Maſter and his gentle Daughter, who du⯑ring your Abſence often inquir'd after you.

Wou'd he were gone, his officious Love will pry into the Secrets of my Soul.

Unleſs you knew the Pain the whole Family has felt on your Account, you can't conceive how much you are belov'd; 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 alter'd ſince you ſaw me laſt? Or rather what have you done? and why are you thus changed? for I am ſtill the ſame.

What have I done indeed?

Not ſpeak nor look upon me.

By my Face he will diſcover all I wou'd con⯑ceal; methinks already I begin to hate him.

I cannot bear this Uſage from a Friend, one whom till now I ever found ſo loving, whom yet I love, tho' this Unkindneſs ſtrikes at the Root of Friendſhip, and might deſtroy it in any Breaſt but mine.

I am not well,

Sleep has been a Stranger to theſe Eyes ſince you beheld them laſt.

Heavy they look indeed, and ſwoln with Tears;—now they o'erflow;—rightly did my ſympathizing Heart forebode laſt Night when thou waſt abſent, ſomething fatal to our Peace.

Your Friendſhip ingages you too far. My Troubles, whate'er they are, are mine alone, you have no Intereſt in them, nor ought your Concern for me give you a Moment's Pain.

You ſpeak as if you knew of Friendſhip no⯑thing but the Name. Before I ſaw your Grief I felt it. Since we parted laſt I have ſlept no more than you, but penſive in my Chamber ſat alone, and ſpent the tedious Night in Wiſhes for your Safe⯑ty and Return; e'en now, tho' ignorant of the Cauſe, your Sorrow wounds me to the Heart.

'Twill nor be always thus, Friendſhip and all Engagements ceaſe, as Circumſtances and Occa⯑ſions vary; and ſince you once may hate me, per⯑haps it might be better for us both that now you lov'd me leſs.

Sure I but dream! without a Cauſe would Barnwell uſe me thus, ungenerous and ungrateful Youth farewell,—I ſhall endeavour to follow your Advice,—

Yet ſtay, perhaps I am too raſh, and angry when the Cauſe demands Compaſſion. Some unforeſeen Calamity may have befaln him too great to bear.

What Part am I reduc'd to act;—'tis vile and baſe to move his Temper thus, the beſt of Friends and Men.

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 your Self; my friendly Counſel may reſtore your Peace.

All that is poſſible for Man to do for Man, your generous Friendſhip may effect; but here even that's in Vain.

Something dreadful is labouring in your Breaſt, O give it vent and let me ſhare your Grief, 'twill eaſe your Pain ſhou'd it admit no cure; and make it lighter by the Part I bear.

Vain Suppoſition! my Woes increaſe by being obſerv'd, ſhou'd the Cauſe be known they wou'd exceed all Bounds.

So well I know thy honeſt Heart, Guilt can⯑not harbour there.

O Torture inſupportable!

Then why am I excluded, have I a Thought I would conceal from you.

If ſtill you urge me on this hated Subject, I'll never enter more beneath this Roof, nor ſee your Face again.

'Tis ſtrange,—but I have done, ſay but you hate me not.

Hate you!—I am not that Monſter yet.

Shall our Friendſhip ſtill continue.

It's a Bleſſing I never was worthy of, yet now muſt ſtand on Terms; and but upon Conditions can confirm it.

What are they?

Never hereafter, tho' you ſhou'd wonder at my Conduct, deſire to know more than I am willing to reveal.

'Tis hard, but upon any Conditions I muſt be your Friend.

Then, as much as one loſt to himſelf can be another's, I am yours.

Be ever ſo, and may Heav'n reſtore your Peace.

Will Yeſterday return.—We have heard the glorious Sun, that till then inceſſant roll'd, once ſtopp'd his rapid Courſe, and once went back: The Dead have riſen; and parched Rocks pour'd forth a liquid Stream to quench a Peoples Thirſt: The Sea divided, and form'd Walls of Water, while a whole Nation paſs'd in ſafety thro' its ſandy Boſom: Hungry Lions have refus'd their Prey: And Men unhurt have walk'd amidſt conſuming Flames; but never yet did Time once paſt, re⯑turn.

Tho' 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 there where it firſt begun; yet as Heav'n can re⯑pair whatever Evils Time can bring upon us, he who truſts Heaven 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?

I'll take a little Time to reflect on what has paſt, and follow you.

SCENE III.

I might have truſted Trueman to have applied to my Uncle to have repaired the Wrong I have done [18] my Maſter; but what of Millwood? muſt I expoſe her too? ungenerous and baſe! then Heav'n requires it not.—But Heaven requires that I forſake her. What! never ſee her more! Does Heaven require that,—I hope I may ſee her, and Heav'n not be offended. Preſumptuous Hope,—dearly already have I prov'd my Frailty; ſhould I once more tempt Heav'n, 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 indure. The love of Life and fear of Shame, op⯑pos'd 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 determines.

SCENE IV.

Without a Cauſe aſſign'd, or Notice given, to abſent your ſelf 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.

This Goodneſs has o'er come me.

O Sir! you know not the Nature and Extent of my Offence; and I ſhou'd abuſe your miſtaken Bounty to receive 'em. Tho' I had rather die than ſpeak my Shame; tho' Racks could not have forced the guilty Secret from my Breaſt, your Kindneſs has.

Enough, enough, whate'er it be, this Con⯑cern ſhews you're convinc'd, and I am ſatisfied. [19] How painful is the Senſe of Guilt to an ingenuous Mind;—ſome youthful Folly, which it were pru⯑dent not to enquire 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 when oppos'd to Inclina⯑tion, ſcarce form'd, and wholly unaſſiſted by Expe⯑rience, 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; they being then to danger moſt expos'd, when they are leaſt prepar'd for their Defence.

It will be known, and you recall your Pardon and abhor me.

I never will; ſo Heav'n confirm to me the Pardon of my Offences. Yet be upon your Guard in this gay thoughtleſs Seaſon of your Life; now, when the Senſe of Pleaſure's quick, and Paſſion 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.

Hear me then on my Knees confeſs.

I will not hear a Syllable more upon this Sub⯑ject; it were not Mercy, but Cruelty, to hear what muſt give you ſuch Torment to reveal.

This Generoſity amazes and diſtracts me.

This Remorſe makes thee dearer to me than if thou hadſt never offended; whatever is your Fault, of this I'm certain, 'twas harder for you to offend than me to pardon.

SCENE V.

Villain, Villain, Villain! baſely to wrong ſo excellent a Man: Shou'd I again return to Folly—deteſted Thought;—but what of [20] Millwood then?—Why, I renounce her;—I give her up;—the Struggle's over, and Virtue has prevail'd. Reaſon may convince, but Gratitude compels. This unlook'd for Generoſity has ſav'd me from Deſtruction.

SCENE VI.

Sir, two Ladies, from your Uncle in the Country, deſire to ſee you.

Who ſhou'd they be?

Tell them I'll wait upon 'em.

SCENE VII.

Methinks I dread to ſee 'em.—Guilt, what a Coward haſt thou made me?—Now every Thing alarms me.

SCENE VIII.

Ladies, he'll wait upon you immediately.

'Tis very well.—I thank you.

SCENE IX.

Confuſion! Millwood.

That angry Look tells me that here I'm an unwelcome Gueſt; I fear'd as much,—the Un⯑happy are ſo every where.

Will nothing but my utter Ruin content you?

Unkind and cruel! loſt my ſelf, your Hap⯑pineſs is now my only Care.

How did you gain Admiſſion?

Saying we were deſir'd by your Uncle to viſit and deliver a Meſſage to you, we were re⯑ceiv'd by the Family without ſuſpicion, and with much reſpect directed here.

Why did you come at all?

I never ſhall trouble you more, I'm 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 me. One ſhort Hour is all I have to beſtow on Love and you, for whom I thought the longeſt Life too ſhort.

Then we are met to part for ever?

It muſt be ſo;—yet think not that Time or Abſence ever ſhall put a Period to my Grief, or make me love you leſs; tho' I muſt leave you, yet condemn me not.

Condemn you? No, I approve your Re⯑ſolution, and rejoice to hear it; 'tis juſt,—'tis neceſſary,—I have well weigh'd, and found it ſo.

I'm afraid the young Man has more Senſe than ſhe thought he had.

Before you came I had determin'd never to ſee you more.

Confuſion!

Ay! we are all out; this is a Turn ſo unex⯑pected, that I ſhall make nothing of my Part, they muſt e'en play the Scene betwixt themſelves.

'Twas ſome relief to think, tho' abſent, you would love me ſtill; but to find, tho' For⯑tune had been kind, that you, more cruel and in⯑conſtant, had reſolv'd to caſt me off.—This, as I never cou'd expect, I have not learnt to bear.

I am ſorry to hear you blame in me, a Reſo⯑lution that ſo well becomes us both.

I have Reaſon for what I do, but you have none.

Can we want a Reaſon for parting, who have ſo many to wiſh we never had met.

Look on me Barnwell, am I deform'd 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 Extacy, you preſt and moulded thus, while on my Eyes you gazed with ſuch delight, as if Deſire increas'd by being fed.

No more, let me repent my former Follies, if poſſible, without remembring what they were.

Why?

Such is my Frailty that 'tis dangerous.

Where is the Danger, ſince we are to part?

The Thought of that already is too pain⯑ful.

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

No,—no,—I never ſaid I did,—O my Heart!—

Perhaps you pity me?

I do,—I do,—indeed, I do.

You'll think upon me?

Doubt it not while I can think at all.

You may judge an Embrace at parting too great a Favour, though it would be the laſt?

A Look ſhall then ſuffice,—farewell for ever.

SCENE X.

If to reſolve to ſuffer be to conquer, I have conquer'd. Painful Victory!

SCENE XI.

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 ſhou'd 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.

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

My Friend, your Arm.

Now I am gone for ever.

One thing more;—ſure there's no dan⯑ger in my knowing where you go? If you think otherwiſe?—

Alas!

We are right I find, that's my Cue.

Ah; dear Sir, ſhe's going ſhe knows not whether; but go ſhe muſt.

Humanity obliges me to wiſh you well; why will you thus expoſe your ſelf to needleſs Trou⯑bles?

Nay, there's 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.

No more, my Friend; ſince he for whoſe dear Sake alone I ſuffer, and am content to ſuffer, is kind and pities me. Wheree'er I wander through Wiles and Deſarts, benighted and forlorn, that Thought ſhall give me comfort.

For my Sake! O tell me how; which way am I ſo curs'd as to bring ſuch Ruin on thee?

No matter, I am contented with my Lot.

Leave me not in this Incertainty.

I have ſaid too much.

How, how am I the Cauſe of your Undoing?

'Twill but increaſe your Troubles.

My Troubles can't be greater than they are.

Well, well, Sir, if ſhe won't ſatisfy you, I will.

I am bound to you beyond Expreſſion.

Remember, Sir, that I deſir'd you not to hear it.

Begin, and eaſe my racking Expectation.

Why you muſt know, my Lady here was an only Child; but her Parents dying while ſhe was young, left her and her Fortune, (no incon⯑ſiderable one, I aſſure you) to the Care of a Gen⯑tleman, who has a good Eſtate of his own.

Ay, ay, the barbarous Man is rich enough;—but what are Riches when compared to Love?

For a while he perform'd the Office of a faithful Guardian, ſettled her in a Houſe, hir'd her Servants;—but you have ſeen in what manner ſhe liv'd, ſo I need ſay no more of that.

How I ſhall live hereafter, Heaven knows.

All Things went on as one cou'd wiſh, till, ſome Time ago, his Wife dying, he fell violent⯑ly in love with his Charge, and wou'd fain have marry'd her: Now the Man is neither old nor ugly, but a good perſonable ſort of a Man, but I don't know how it was ſhe cou'd never endure him; in ſhort, her ill Uſage ſo provok'd him, that he brought in an Account of his Executorſhip, wherein he makes her Debtor to him.—

A Trifle in it ſelf, but more than enough to ruin me, whom, by this unjuſt Account, he had ſtripp'd of all before.

Now ſhe having neither Money, nor Friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as her ſelf, he compell'd her to paſs his Account, and give Bond for the Sum he demanded; but ſtill provided hand⯑ſomely for her, and continued his Courtſhip, till being inform'd by his Spies (truly I ſuſpect ſome [25] in her own Family) that you were entertain'd at her Houſe, and ſtay'd with her all Night, he came this Morning raving, and ſtorming like a Mad⯑man, talks no more of Marriage; ſo there's no Hopes of making up Matters that Way, but vows her Ruin, unleſs ſhe'll allow him the ſame Favour that he ſuppoſes ſhe granted you.

Muſt ſhe be ruin'd, or find her Refuge in another's Arms?

He gave me but an Hour to reſolve in, that's happily ſpent with you;—and now I go.—

To be expos'd to all the Rigours of the various Seaſons; the Summer's parching Heat, and Winter's Cold, unhous'd to wander Friendleſs thro' the unhoſpitable World, in Miſery and Want; at⯑tended with Fear and Danger, and purſu'd by Malice and Revenge, woud'ſt thou endure all this for me, and can I do nothing, nothing to prevent it?

'Tis really a Pity, there can be no Way found out.

O where are all my Reſolutions now; like early Vapours, or the Morning Dew, chas'd by the Sun's warm Beams they're vaniſh'd and loſt, as tho' they had never been.

Now I advis'd her, Sir, to comply with the Gentleman, that wou'd not only put an End to her Troubles, but make her Fortune at once.

Tormenting Fiend, away.—I had ra⯑ther periſh, nay, ſee her periſh, than have her ſav'd by him; I will my ſelf prevent her Ruin, tho' with my own. A Moment's Patience, I'll return imme⯑diately.—

SCENE. XII.

'Twas well you came, or, by what I can perceive, you had loſt him.

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 En⯑tertainment, like mine, is not kept with no⯑thing.

That's very true; but then you ſhou'd be reaſonable in your Demands; 'tis pity to diſcourage a young Man.

SCENE XIII.

What am I about to do!—Now you, who boaſt your Reaſon all-ſufficient, ſuppoſe your ſelves in my Condition, and determine for me; whether it's right to let her ſuffer for my Faults, or, by this ſmall Addition to my Guilt, prevent the ill Effects of what is paſt.

Theſe young Sinners think every Thing in the Ways of Wickedneſs ſo ſtrange,—but I cou'd tell him that this is nothing but what's very com⯑mon; for one Vice as naturally begets another, as a Father a Son:—But he'll find out that himſelf, if he lives long enough.

Here take this, and with it purchaſe your Deliverance; return to your Houſe, and live in Peace and Safety.

So I may hope to ſee you there a⯑gain.

Anſwer me not,—but fly,—leaſt, in the Agonies of my Remorſe, I take again what is not mine to give, and abandon thee to Want and Miſery.

Say but you'll come.—

You are my Fate, my Heaven, or my Hell; only leave me now, diſpoſe of me hereafter as you pleaſe.

SCENE XIV.

What have I done.—Were my Reſolu⯑tions founded on Reaſon, and ſincerely made,—why then has Heaven ſuffer'd 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 it ſelf, or are Vice and Virtue only empty Names? Or do they de⯑pend on Accidents, beyond our Power to produce, or to prevent,—wherein we have no Part, and yet muſt be determin'd by the Event?—But why ſhould I attempt to reaſon? All is Confuſion, Horror, and Remorſe;—I find I am loſt, caſt down from all my late erected Hopes, and plung'd again in Guilt, yet ſcarce know how or why—

SCENE I.

MEthinks I wou'd not have you only learn the Method of Merchandize, and pra⯑ctiſe it hereafter, merely as a Means of getting Wealth.—'Twill be well worth your Pains to ſtudy it as a Science.—See how it is founded in Reaſon, and the Nature of Things.—How it has promoted Humanity, as it has opened and yet keeps up an Intercourſe between Nations, far remote from one another in Situation, Cuſtoms and Religion; pro⯑moting Arts, Induſtry, Peace and Plenty; by mu⯑tual Benefits diffuſing mutual Love from Pole to Pole.

Something of this I have conſider'd, and hope, by your Aſſiſtance, to extend my Thoughts much farther.—I have obſerv'd thoſe Countries, where Trade is promoted and encouraged, do not make Diſcoveries to deſtroy, but to improve Man⯑kind,—by Love and Friendſhip, to tame the fierce, and poliſh the moſt ſavage,—to teach them the Advantages of honeſt Traffick,—by taking from them, with their own Conſent, their uſeleſs Super⯑fluities, and giving them, in Return, what, from their Ignorance in manual Arts, their Situation, or ſome other Accident they ſtand in need of.

'Tis juſtly obſerv'd:—The populous Eaſt, luxuriant, abounds with glittering Gems, bright Pearls, aromatick Spices, and Health-reſto⯑ring Drugs: The late found Weſtern World glows with unnumber'd Veins of Gold and Silver Ore.—On every Climate, and on every Country, Heaven [29] has beſtowed ſome good peculiar to it ſelf.—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 examin'd your Accounts: They are not only juſt, as I have always found them, but regularly kept, and fairly enter'd.—I commend your Diligence. Method in Buſineſs is the ſureſt Guide. He, who neglects it, fre⯑quently ſtumbles, and always wanders perplex'd, uncertain, and in Danger. Are Barnwell's Accounts ready for my Inſpection; he does not uſe to be the laſt on theſe Occaſions.

Upon receiving your Orders he retir'd, I thought in ſome Confuſion.—If you pleaſe, I'll go and haſten him.—I hope he has n't been guilty of any Neglect.

I'm now going to the Exchange; let him know, at my Return, I expect to find him ready.

SCENE II.

How forcible is Truth? The weakeſt Mind, inſpir'd with Love of that,—fix'd and collected in it ſelf,—with Indifference beholds—the united Force of Earth and Hell oppoſing: Such Souls are rais'd 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; when the Mind, weaken'd and diſſolved by the ſoft Paſſion, feeble and hopeleſs oppoſes its own Deſires.—What is an Hour, a Day, a Year of Pain, to a whole Life of Tortures, ſuch as theſe?

SCENE III.

O, Barnwell!—O, my Friend, how art thou fallen?

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

'Tis not to be conceal'd.—Iv'e News to tell of him that will afflict your generous Father, your ſelf, and all who knew him.

Defend us Heaven!

I cannot ſpeak it.—See there.

Loſt indeed! Yet how he ſhou'd 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 Tem⯑per; his Manners eaſy, unaffected and engaging.

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.

Since ſuch he was, and was my Friend, can I ſupport his Loſs?—See the faireſt and hap⯑pieſt Maid this wealthy City boaſts, kindly conde⯑ſcends to weep for thy unhappy Fate, poor ruin'd Barnwell!

Trueman, Do you think a Soul ſo delicate as his, ſo ſenſible of Shame, can e'er ſubmit to live a Slave to Vice?

Never, never. So well I know him, I'm ſure this Act of his, ſo contrary to his Nature, muſt have been cauſed by ſome unavoidable Neceſſity.

Is there no Means yet to preſerve him?

O! that there were.—But few Men re⯑cover Reputation loſt.—A Merchant never.—Nor wou'd he, I fear, though I ſhou'd find him, ever be brought to look his injur'd Maſter in the Face.

I fear as much,—and therefore wou'd never have my Father know it.

That's impoſſible.

What's the Sum?

'Tis conſiderable.—I've mark'd it here, to ſhow it, with the Letter, to your Father, at his Return.

If I ſhou'd ſupply the Money, cou'd you ſo diſpoſe of that, and the Account, as to conceal this unhappy Miſmanagement from my Father.

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.

Doubt not but I wou'd purchaſe ſo great a Happineſs at a much dearer Price.—But how ſhall he be found?

Truſt to my Diligence for that.—In the mean time, I'll conceal his Abſence from your Father, or find ſuch Excuſes for it, that the real Cauſe ſhall never be ſuſpected.

In attempting to ſave from Shame, one whom we hope may yet return to Virtue, to Heaven, and you, the Judges of this Action, I appeal, whe⯑ther I have done any thing misbecoming my Sex and Character.

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

If Heaven ſucceed it, I am well rewarded. A Virgin's Fame is ſullied by Suſpicion's ſlighteſt 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.

SCENE IV.

Well! what do you think of Millwood's Conduct now!

I own it is ſurprizing:—I don't know which to admire moſt, her feign'd, or his real Paſſion; tho' I have ſometimes been afraid that her Avarice wou'd diſcover her:—But his Youth and want of Experience make it the eaſier to impoſe on him.

No, it is his Love. To do him Juſtice, notwithſtanding his Youth, he don't want Under⯑ſtanding; 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'll engage to make as great a Fool of him.

And all Circumſtances conſider'd, to make as much Money of him too.

I can't 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 in that Courſe, aſtoniſh even me, who know her ſo well.—

But then you are to conſider that the Money was his Maſter's.

There was the Difficulty of it.—Had it been his own, it had been nothing.—Were the World his, ſhe might have it for a Smile:—But thoſe golden Days are done;—he's ruin'd, and Millwood's Hopes of farther Profits there, are at an End.

That's no more than we all expected.

Being call'd, by his Maſter, to make up his Accounts, he was forc'd to quit his Houſe and Service, and wiſely flies to Millwood for Relief and Entertainment.

I have not heard of this before! How did ſhe receive him?

As you wou'd expect.—She wonder'd what he meant, was aſtoniſh'd at his Impudence,—and, with an Air of Modeſty peculiar to her ſelf, ſwore ſo heartily, that ſhe never ſaw him before,—that ſhe put me out of Countenance.

That's much indeed! But how did Barn⯑well behave?

He griev'd, and, at length, enrag'd at this barbarous Treatment, was preparing to be gone; and, making toward the Door, ſhow'd a Bag of Money, which he had ſtol'n from his Maſter,—the laſt he's ever like to have from thence.

But then Millwood?

Aye, ſhe, with her uſual Addreſs, return'd to her old Arts of lying, ſwearing, and diſſembling.—Hung on his Neck, and wept, and ſwore 'twas meant in Jeſt; till this eaſy Fool, melted into Tears, threw the Money into her Lap, and ſwore he had rather die, than think her falſe.

Strange Infatuation!

But what follow'd was ſtranger ſtill. As Doubts and Fears, follow'd by Reconcilement, ever increaſe Love, where the Paſſion is ſincere; ſo in him it caus'd ſo wild a Tranſport of exceſſive [34] Fondneſs, ſuch Joy, ſuch Grief, ſuch Pleaſure, and ſuch Anguiſh, that Nature in him ſeem'd ſinking with the Weight, and the charm'd Soul diſpos'd to quit his Breaſt for hers,—juſt then, when every Paſſion with lawleſs Anarchy prevail'd,—and Rea⯑ſon was in the raging Tempeſt loſt;—the cruel artful Millwood prevail'd upon the wretched Youth to promiſe what I tremble but to think on.

I am amaz'd! what can it be?

You will be more ſo, to hear it is to at⯑tempt the Life of his neareſt Relation, and beſt Benefactor.—

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.

The ſame.—She was no ſooner poſſeſs'd of the laſt dear Purchaſe of his Ruin, but her Avarice, inſatiate as the Grave, demands this hor⯑rid Sacrifice,—Barnwell's near Relation, and unſuſpected Virtue muſt give too eaſy Means to ſeize the good Man's Treaſure; whoſe Blood muſt ſeal the dreadful Secret, and prevent the Terrors of her guilty Fears.

Is it poſſible ſhe cou'd perſwade him to do an Act like that! He is, by Nature, honeſt, grate⯑ful, compaſſionate, and generous: And though his Love, and her artful Perſwaſions, have wrought him to practiſe what he moſt abhors; yet we all can witneſs for him, with what Reluctance he has ſtill comply'd! So many Tears he ſhed o'er each Offence, as might, if poſſible, ſanctify Theft, and make a Merit of a Crime.

'Tis true, at the naming the Murder of his Uncle, he ſtarted into Rage; and, breaking from her Arms, where ſhe till then had held him, with well diſſembled Love and falſe Endearments, call'd her, cruel Monſter, Devil, and told her ſhe was born for his Deſtruction.—She thought it not for her Purpoſe to meet his Rage with Rage, [35] but affected a moſt paſſionate Fit of Grief;—rail'd at her Fate, and curs'd her wayward Stars,—that ſtill her Wants ſhou'd force her to preſs him to act ſuch Deeds, as ſhe muſt needs abhor, as well as he; but told him Neceſſity had no Law, and Love no Bounds; that therefore he never truly lov'd, but meant, in her Neceſſity, to forſake her;—then kneel'd and ſwore, that ſince, by his Refuſal, he had given her Cauſe to doubt his Love, ſhe never wou'd ſee him more; unleſs, to prove it true, he robb'd his Uncle to ſupply her Wants, and murder'd him, to keep it from Diſcovery.

I am aſtoniſh'd! What ſaid he?

Speechleſs he ſtood; but in his Face you might have read, that various Paſſions tore his very Soul. Oft he, in Anguiſh, threw his Eyes towards Heaven, and then as often bent their Beams on her; then wept and groan'd, and beat his Breaſt; at length, with Horror, not to be expreſs'd, he cry'd, Thou curſed Fair! have I not given dreadful Proofs of Love! What drew me from my youthful Innocence, to ſtain my then un⯑ſpotted Soul, but Love? What caus'd me to rob my gentle Maſter, but curſed Love? What makes me now a Fugitive from his Service, loath'd by my ſelf, and ſcorn'd by all the World, but Love? What fills my Eyes with Tears, my Soul with Tor⯑ture, never felt on this ſide Death before? Why Love, Love, Love. And why, above all, do I re⯑ſolve, (for, tearing his Hair, he cry'd I do reſolve) to kill my Uncle.

Was ſhe not mov'd? It makes me weep to hear the ſad Relation.

Yes, with Joy, that ſhe had gain'd her Point.—She gave him no Time to cool, but urg'd him to attempt it inſtantly. He's now gone; if he performs it, and eſcapes, there's more Money for her; if not, he'll ne'er return, and then ſhe's fairly rid of him.

'Tis time the World was rid of ſuch a Monſter.—

If we don't do our Endeavours to prevent this Murder, we are as bad as ſhe.

I'm afraid it is too late.

Perhaps not.—Her Barbarity to Barnwell makes me hate her.—We've run too great a Length with her already.—I did not think her or my ſelf ſo wicked, as I find, upon Reflection, we are.

'Tis true, we have all been too much ſo.—But there is ſomething ſo horrid in Murder,—that all other Crimes ſeem nothing when compared to that.—I wou'd not be involv'd in the Guilt of that for all the World.

Nor I, Heaven knows;—therefore let us clear our ſelves, by doing all that is 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 curs'd Deſign?

With all my Heart.—How elſe ſhall I clear my ſelf? He who knows of a Murder intended to be committed, and does not diſcover it, in the Eye of the Law, and Reaſon, is a Murderer.

Let us loſe no Time;—I'll acquaint you with the Particulars as we go.

SCENE V.

A diſmal Gloom obſcures the Face of Day; ei⯑ther the Sun has ſlip'd behind a Cloud, or jour⯑neys down the Weſt of Heaven, with more than common Speed, to avoid the Sight of what I'm doom'd to act. Since I ſet forth on this accurſed Deſign, where'er I tread, methinks, the ſolid Earth trembles beneath my Feet.—Yonder lim⯑pid [37] Stream, whoſe hoary Fall has made a na⯑tural Caſcade, as I paſs'd by, in doleful Accents ſeem'd to murmur, Murder. The Earth, the Air, and Water, ſeem concern'd; but that's not ſtrange, the World is puniſh'd, and Nature feels the Shock, when Providence permits a good Man's Fall!—Juſt Heaven! Then what ſhou'd I be! for him that was my Father's only Brother, and ſince his Death has been to me a Father, who took me up an Infant, and an Orphan; rear'd me with ten⯑dereſt Care, and ſtill indulged me with moſt pater⯑nal Fondneſs;—yet here I ſtand avow'd his de⯑ſtin'd Murderer:—I ſtiffen with Horror at my own Impiety;—'tis yet unperform'd.—What if I quit my bloody Purpoſe, and fly the Place!

—But whether, O whether, ſhall I fly!—My Maſter's once friendly Doors are ever ſhut againſt me; and without Money Millwood will never ſee me more, and Life is not to be endu⯑red without her:—She's got ſuch firm Poſſeſſion of my Heart, and governs there with ſuch deſpotick Sway;—Aye, there's the Cauſe of all my Sin and Sorrow:—'Tis more than Love; 'tis the Fever of the Soul, and Madneſs of Deſire.—In vain does Nature, Reaſon, Conſcience, all oppoſe it; the impetuous Paſſion bears down all before it, and drives me on to Luſt, to Theft, and Murder.—Oh Conſcience! feeble Guide to Virtue, who only ſhows us when we go aſtray, but wants the Power to ſtop us in our Courſe.—Ha! in yonder ſhady Walk I ſee my Uncle.—He's alone.—Now for my Diſguiſe.—

This is his Hour of private Meditation. Thus daily he prepares his Soul for Heaven,—whilſt I—But what have I to do with Heaven!—Ha! No Struggles, Conſcience.—

SCENE VI.

If I was ſuperſtitious, I ſhou'd fear ſome Danger lurk'd unſeen, or Death were nigh:—A heavy Melancholy clouds my Spirits; my Ima⯑gination is fill'd with gaſhly Forms of dreary Graves, and Bodies chang'd by Death,—when the pale lengthen'd Viſage attracks each weeping Eye,—and fills the muſing Soul, at once, with Grief and Horror, Pity and Averſion.—I 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 be⯑hold their future ſelves, how does each inordinate Paſſion and Deſire ceaſe or ſicken at the View?—The Mind ſcarce moves;—The Blood, curd⯑ling, and chill'd, creeps ſlowly thro' the Veins,—fix'd, ſtill, and motionleſs, like the ſolemn Object of our Thoughts.—We are almoſt at preſent—what we muſt be hereafter, 'till Curioſity awakes the Soul, and ſets it on Inquiry.—

SCENE VII.

O Death, thou ſtrange myſterious Power,—ſeen every Day, yet never underſtood—but by the incommunicative Dead, What art thou?—The extenſive Mind of Man, that with a Thought circles the Earth's vaſt Globe,—ſinks to the Centre, or aſcends above the Stars; that World's exotick finds, or thinks it finds,—thy [39] thick Clouds attempts to paſs in vain, loſt and be⯑wilder'd in the horrid Gloom,—defeated ſhe returns more doubtful than before; of nothing certain, but of Labour loſt.

Oh, 'tis impoſſible!

A Man ſo near me, arm'd and maſqu'd!

Nay, then there's no Retreat.

Oh! I am ſlain! All gracious Heaven re⯑gard the Prayer of thy dying Servant. Bleſs, with thy choiceſt Bleſſings, my deareſt Nephew; forgive my Murderer, and take my fleeting Soul to endleſs Mercy.

Expiring Saint! Oh, murder'd, martyr'd Uncle! Lift up your dying Eyes, and view your Nephew in your Murderer.—O do not look ſo tenderly upon me.—Let Indignation lighten from your Eyes, and blaſt me e're you die.—By Heaven, he weeps in Pity of my Woes.—Tears,—Tears, for Blood.—The Murder'd, in the Agonies of Death, weeps for his Murderer.—O, ſpeak your pious Purpoſe,—pronounce my Pardon then,—and take me with you.—He wou'd, but cannot.—O why, with ſuch fond Affection do you preſs my murdering Hand!—What! will you kiſs me!

He's gone for ever,—and oh! I follow.—

Do I ſtill live to preſs the ſuffering Boſom of the Earth?—Do I ſtill breath, and taint with my infectious Breath the wholeſome Air!—Let Heaven, from its high Throne, in Juſtice or in Mercy, now look down on [40] that dear murder'd Saint, and me the Murderer.—And, if his Vengeance ſpares,—let Pity ſtrike and end my wretched Being.—Murder the worſt of Crimes, and Parricide the worſt of Murders, and this the worſt of Parricides. Cain, who ſtands on Record from the Birth of Time, and muſt to its laſt final Period, as accurs'd, [...]lew a Brother, favour'd above him.—Deteſted Nero, by another's Hand, diſpatch'd a Mother, that he fear'd and hated.—But I, with my own Hand, have mur⯑der'd a Brother, Mother, Father, and a Friend; moſt loving and belov'd.—This execrable Act of mine's without a Parallel.—O may it ever ſtand alone,—the laſt of Murders, as it is the worſt.—

SCENE I.

HOW falſly do they judge who cenſure or applaud, as we're afflicted or rewarded here. I know I am unhappy, yet cannot charge my ſelf with any Crime, more than the common Frailties of our Kind, that ſhou'd provoke juſt Heaven to mark me out for Sufferings ſo uncommon and ſevere. Falſly to accuſe our ſelves, Heaven muſt abhor, then it is juſt and right that Innocence ſhould ſuffer; for Heaven muſt be juſt in all its Ways.—Perhaps by that they are kept from moral Evils, much worſe than penal, or more im⯑prov'd in Virtue: Or may not the leſſer Ills that they ſuſtain, be the Means of greater Good to others? Might all the joyleſs Days and ſleepleſs Nights that I have paſt, but purchaſe Peace for thee—

SCENE II.

What News of Barnwell?

None.—I have ſought him with the greateſt Diligence, but all in vain.

Doth my Father yet ſuſpect the Cauſe of his abſenting himſelf?

All appear'd ſo juſt and fair to him, it is not poſſible he ever ſhou'd; but his Abſence will no lon⯑ger be conceal'd. Your Father's wiſe; and though he ſeems to hearken to the friendly Excuſes, I wou'd make for Barnwell; yet, I am afraid, he regards 'em only as ſuch, without ſuffering them to influence his Judgment.

How does the unhappy Youth defeat all our Deſigns to ſerve him, yet I can never repent what we have done. Shou'd he return, 'twill make his Reconciliation with my Father eaſier, and pre⯑ſerve him from future Reproach from a malicious unforgiving World.

SCENE III.

This Woman here has given me a ſad, (and bating ſome Circumſtances) too probable Ac⯑count of Barnwell's Defection.

I am ſorry, Sir, that my frank Confeſſion of my former unhappy Courſe of Life ſhou'd cauſe you to ſuſpect my Truth on this Occaſion.

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 influenc'd to break his Truſt, and wrong me, at ſeveral Times, of conſiderable Sums of Money; now, as I know this to be falſe, I wou'd fain doubt the whole of her Relation,—too dreadful—to be willingly believ'd.

Sir, your Pardon; I find my ſelf on a ſud⯑den ſo indiſpos'd, that I muſt retire.—Providence oppoſes all Attempts to ſave him.—Poor ruin'd Barnwell!—Wretched loſt Maria!—

SCENE IV.

How am I diſtreſs'd on every Side? Pity for that unhappy Youth, fear for the Life of a much valued Friend—and then my Child—the only Joy and Hope of my declining Life. Her Melancholy in⯑creaſes hourly, and gives me painful Apprehenſions of her Loſs.—O Trueman! this Perſon informs me, that your Friend, at the Inſtigation of an im⯑pious Woman, is gone to rob and murder his vene⯑rable Uncle.

O execrable Deed, I am blaſted with the Horror of the Thought.

This Delay may ruin all.

What to do or think I know not; that he ever wrong'd me, I know is falſe,—the reſt may be ſo too, there's all my Hope.

Truſt not to that, rather ſuppoſe all true than loſe a Moment's Time; even now the horrid Deed may be a doing;—dreadful Imagination;—or it may be done, and we are vainly debating on the Means to prevent what is already paſt.

This Earneſtneſs convinces me that he knows more than he has yet diſcover'd. What ho! without there! who waits?

SCENE V.

Order the Groom to ſaddle the ſwifteſt Horſe, and prepare himſelf to ſet out with Speed.—An Affair of Life and Death demands his Di⯑ligence.

SCENE VI.

For you, whoſe Behaviour on this Occaſion I have no Time to commend as it deſerves, I moſt in⯑gage your farther Aſſiſtance.—Return and obſerve this Millwood till I come. I have your Directions, and will follow you as ſoon as poſſible.

SCENE VII.

Trueman, you I am ſure wou'd not be idle on this Occaſion.

SCENE VIII.

He only who is a Friend can judge of my Di⯑ſtreſs.

SCENE IX.

I wiſh I knew the Event of his Deſign;—the Attempt without Succeſs would ruin him.—Well! what have I to apprehend from that? I fear too much. The Miſchief being only intended, his Friends, in pity of his Youth, turn all their Rage on me. I ſhould have thought of that before.—Suppoſe the Deed done, then, and then only I ſhall be ſecure; or what if he returns without attempt⯑ing it at all?

SCENE X.

But he is here, and I have done him wrong; his bloody Hands ſhow he has done the Deed, but ſhow he wants the Prudence to con⯑ceal it.

Where ſhall I hide me? whether ſhall I fly to avoid the ſwift unerring Hand of Juſtice?

Diſmiſs thoſe Fears; tho' Thouſands had purſu'd you to the Door, yet being enter'd here you are ſafe as Innocence; I have ſuch a Cavern, by Art ſo cunningly contriv'd, that the piercing Eyes of Jealouſy and Revenge may ſearch in vain, nor find the Entrance to the ſafe Retreat, there will I hide you if any Danger's near.

O hide me from my ſelf if it be poſſible; for while I bear my Conſcience in my Boſom, tho' I were hid where Man's Eye never ſaw, nor Light e'er dawn'd, 'twere all in vain. For that inmate,—that impartial Judge, will try, convict, and ſen⯑tence me for Murder; and execute me with never ending Torments. Behold theſe Hands all crim⯑ſon'd o'er with my dear Uncle's Blood! Here's a Sight to make a Statue ſtart with Horror, or turn a living Man into a Statue.

Ridiculous! Then it ſeems you are afraid of your own Shadow; or what's leſs than a Shadow, your Conſcience.

Tho' to Man unknown I did the accurſed Act, what can we hide from Heav'ns omniſcient Eye?

No more of this Stuff;—what advantage have you made of his Death? or what advantage may yet be made of it?—did you ſecure the Keys of his Treaſure,—thoſe no doubt were [46] about him?—what Gold, what Jewels, or what elſe of Value have you brought me?

Think you I added Sacrilege to Murder? Oh! had you ſeen him as his Life flowed from him in a Crimſon Flood, and heard him praying for me by the double Name of Nephew and of Murderer; alas, alas! he knew not then that his Nephew was his Murderer; how wou'd you have wiſh'd as I did, tho' you had a thouſand Years of Life to come, to have given them all to have lengthen'd his one Hour. But being dead, I fled the Sight of what my Hands had done, nor cou'd I to have gain'd the Empire of the World, have violated by Theft his ſacred Corps.

Whining prepoſterous canting Villain, to murder your Uncle, rob him of Life, Natures firſt, laſt, dear Prerogative, after which there's no Injury, then fear to take what he no longer wanted; and bring to me your Penury and Guilt. Do you think I'll hazard my Reputation; nay my Life to enter⯑tain you?

Oh!—Millwood!—this from thee;—but I have done,—if you hate me, if you wiſh me dead; then are you happy,—for Oh! 'tis ſure my Grief will quickly end me.

In his Madneſs he will diſcover all, and in⯑volve me in his Ruin;—we are on a Precipice from whence there's no Retreat for both,—then to pre⯑ſerve my ſelf.—

There is no other Way,—'tis dreadful,—but Reflection comes too late when Danger's preſſing,—and there's no room for Choice.—It muſt be done.

SCENE XI.

Fetch me an Officer and ſeize this Villain, he has confeſs'd himſelf a Murderer, ſhou'd I let him eſcape, I juſtly might be thought as bad as he.

SCENE XII.

O Millwood! ſure thou doſt not, cannot mean it. Stop the Meſſenger, upon my Knees I beg you, call him back. 'Tis fit I die indeed, but not by you. I will this Inſtant deliver my ſelf into the Hands of Juſtice, indeed I will, for Death is all I wiſh. But thy Ingratitude ſo tears my wounded Soul, 'tis worſe ten thouſand times than Death with Torture.

Call it what you will, I am willing to live; and live ſecure; which nothing but your Death can warrant.

If there be a Pitch of Wickedneſs that ſeats the Author beyond the reach of Vengeance, you muſt be ſecure. But what remains for me, but a diſmal Dungeon, hard-galling Fetters, an awful Tryal, and ignominious Death, juſtly to fall unpi⯑tied and abhorr'd?—After Death to be ſuſpended between Heaven and Earth, a dreadful Spectacle, the warning and horror of a gaping Croud. This I cou'd bear, nay wiſh not to avoid, had it but come from any Hand but thine.—

SCENE XIII.

Heaven defend me! Conceal a Murderer! here, Sir, take this Youth into your Cuſtody, I accuſe [48] him of Murder; and will appear to make good my Charge.

To whom, of what, or how ſhall I com⯑plain; I'll not accuſe her, the Hand of Heav'n is in it, and this the Puniſhment of Luſt and Parricide; yet Heav'n that juſtly cuts me off, ſtill ſuffers her to live, perhaps to puniſh others; tremendous Mercy! ſo Fiends are curs'd with Immortality, to be the Ex⯑ecutioners of Heaven.—

SCENE XIV.

Where's Lucy, why is ſhe abſent at ſuch a Time?

Wou'd I had been ſo too, thou Devil!

Inſolent! this to me?

The worſt that we know of the Devil is, that he firſt ſeduces to Sin, and then betrays to Pu⯑niſhment.

SCENE XV.

They diſapprove of my Conduct,—and mean to take this Opportunity to ſet up for themſelves.—My Ruin is reſolv'd,—I ſee my Danger, [49] but ſcorn both it and them.—I was not born to fall by ſuch weak Inſtruments.—

SCENE XVI.

Where is this Scandal of her own Sex, and Curſe of ours?

What means this Inſolence? Who do you ſeek?

Millwood:

Well, you have found her then.—I am Millwood.—

Then you are the moſt impious Wretch that e'er the Sun beheld.

From your Appearance I ſhou'd have ex⯑pected Wiſdom and Moderation, but your Manners bely your Aſpect.—What is your Buſineſs here? I know you not.

Hereafter you may know me better; I am Barnwell's Maſter.

Then you are Maſter to a Villain; which, I think, is not much to your Credit.

Had he been as much above thy Arts, as my Credit is ſuperior to thy Malice, I need not bluſh to own him.

My Arts;—I don't underſtand you, Sir! If he has done amiſs, what's that to me? Was he my Servant, or yours?—You ſhou'd have taught him better.

Why ſhou'd I wonder to find ſuch uncom⯑mon Impudence in one arriv'd to ſuch a Height of Wickedneſs.—When Innocence is baniſh'd, Mo⯑deſty ſoon follows. Know, Sorcereſs, I'm not ig⯑norant of any of your Arts, by which you firſt de⯑ceiv'd the unwary Youth: I know how, Step by Step, you've led him on, (reluctant and unwilling) from Crime to Crime, to this laſt horrid Act, which [50] you contriv'd, and, by your curs'd Wiles, even forced him to commit, and then betray'd him.

Ha! Lucy has got the Advantage of me, and accuſed me firſt, unleſs I can turn the Accuſation, and fix it upon her and Blunt, I am loſt.

Had I known your cruel Deſign ſooner, it had been prevented. To ſee you puniſh'd as the Law directs, is all that now remains.—Poor Satiſ⯑faction,—for he, innocent as he is, compared to you, muſt ſuffer too. But Heaven, who knows our Frame, and graciouſly diſtinguiſhes between Frailty and Preſumption, will make a Difference, tho' Man cannot, who ſees not the Heart, but only judges by the outward Action.—

I find, Sir, we are both unhappy in our Servants. I was ſurpriz'd at ſuch ill Treatment, from a Gentleman of your Appearance, without Cauſe, and therefore too haſtily return'd it; for which I ask your Pardon. I now perceive you have been ſo far impos'd on, as to think me engaged in a former Correſpondence with your Servant, and, ſome Way or other, acceſſary to his Undoing.

I charge you as the Cauſe, the ſole Cauſe of all his Guilt, and all his Suffering, of all he now endures, and muſt endure, till a violent and ſhame⯑ful Death ſhall put a dreadful Period to his Life and Miſeries together.

'Tis very ſtrange; but who's ſecure from Scandal and Detraction?—So far from contribu⯑ting to his Ruin, I never ſpoke to him till ſince that fatal Accident, which I lament as much as you: 'Tis true, I have a Servant, on whoſe Account he has of late frequented my Houſe; if ſhe has abus'd my good Opinion of her, am I to blame? Has n't Barn⯑well done the ſame by you?

I hear you; pray go on.

I have been inform'd he had a violent Paſ⯑ſion for her, and ſhe for him; but I always thought it innocent; I know her poor, and given to expenſive [51] Pleaſures. Now who can tell but ſhe may have in⯑fluenced the amorous Youth to commit this Murder, to ſupply her Extravagancies, it muſt be ſo.—I now recollect a thouſand Circumſtances that con⯑firm it: I'll have her and a Man Servant, that I ſuſpect as an Accomplice, ſecured immediately. I hope, Sir, you will lay aſide your ill-grounded Suſpicions of me, and join to puniſh the real Con⯑trivers of this bloody Deed.

Madam, you paſs not this Way: I ſee your Deſign, but ſhall protect them from your Malice.

I hope you will not uſe your Influence, and the Credit of your Name, to skreen ſuch guilty Wretches. Conſider, Sir! the Wickedneſs of per⯑ſwading a thoughtleſs Youth to ſuch a Crime.

I do,—and of betraying him when it was done.

That which you call betraying him, may convince, you of my Innocence. She who loves him, tho' ſhe contriv'd the Murder, would never have deliver'd him into the Hands of Juſtice, as I (ſtruck with the Horror of his Crimes) have done.—

How ſhou'd an unexperienc'd Youth eſcape her Snares; the powerful Magick of her Wit and Form, might betray the wiſeſt to ſimple Dotage, and fire the Blood that Age had froze long ſince. Even I, that with juſt Prejudice came prepared, had, by her artful Story, been deceiv'd, but that my ſtrong Conviction of her Guilt makes even a Doubt impoſſible. Thoſe whom ſubtilly you wou'd accuſe, you know are your Accuſers; and what proves unanſwerably, their Innocence, and your Guilt; they accus'd you before the Deed was done, and did all that was in their Power to have prevented it.

Sir, you are very hard to be convinc'd; but I have ſuch a Proof, which, when produced, will ſilence all Objections.

SCENE XVII.

Gentlemen, pray place your ſelves, ſome on one Side of that Door, and ſome on the other; watch her Entrance, and act as your Prudence ſhall direct you.—This Way—

and note her Behaviour; I have obſerv'd her, ſhe's dri⯑ven to the laſt Extremity, and is forming ſome de⯑ſperate Reſolution.—I gueſs at her Deſign.—

SCENE XVIII.

Here thy Power of doing Miſchief ends; de⯑ceitful, cruel, bloody Woman!

Fool, Hypocrite, Villain.—Man! thou can'ſt not call me that.

To call thee Woman, were to wrong the Sex, thou Devil!

That imaginary Being is an Emblem of thy curſed Sex collected. A Mirrour, wherein each particular Man may ſee his own Likeneſs, and that of all Mankind.

Think not by aggravating the Fault of others to extenuate thy own, of which the Abuſe of ſuch uncommon Perfections of Mind and Body is not the leaſt.

If ſuch I had, well may I curſe your bar⯑barous Sex, who robb'd me of 'em, e'er I knew their Worth, then left me, too late, to count their Value by their Loſs. Another and another Spoiler came, and all my Gain was Poverty and Reproach. My Soul diſdain'd, and yet diſdains Dependance and Contempt. Riches, no Matter by what Means [53] obtain'd, I ſaw ſecur'd the worſt of Men from both; I found it therefore neceſſary to be rich; and, to that End, I ſummon'd all my Arts. You call 'em wicked, be it ſo, they were ſuch as my Converſation with your Sex had furniſh'd me withal.

Sure none but the worſt of Men convers'd with thee.

Men of all Degrees and all Profeſſions I have known, yet found no Difference, but in their ſeveral Capacities; all were alike wicked to the ut⯑moſt of their Power. In Pride, Contention, Ava⯑rice, Cruelty, and Revenge, the Reverend Prieſt⯑hood were my unering Guides. From Suburb-Ma⯑giſtrates, who live by ruin'd Reputations, as the unhoſpitable Natives of Cornwall do by Ship-wrecks, I learn'd, that to charge my innocent Neighbours with my Crimes, was to merit their Protection; for to skreen the Guilty, is the leſs ſcandalous, when many are ſuſpected, and Detraction, like Darkneſs and Death, blackens all Objects, and levels all Di⯑ſtinction. Such are your venal Magiſtrates, who fa⯑vour none but ſuch as, by their Office, they are ſworn to puniſh: With them not to be guilty, is the worſt of Crimes; and large Fees privately paid, is every needful Virtue.

Your Practice has ſufficiently diſcover'd your Contempt of Laws, both human and divine; no wonder then that you ſhou'd hate the Officers of both.

I hate you all, I know you, and expect no Mercy; nay, I ask for none; I have done nothing that I am ſorry for; I follow'd my Inclinations, and that the beſt of you does every Day. All Actions are alike natural and indifferent to Man and Beaſt, who devour, or are devour'd, as they meet with others weaker or ſtronger than themſelves.

What Pity it is, a Mind ſo comprehenſive, daring and inquiſitive, ſhou'd be a Stranger to Re⯑ligion's ſweet, but powerful Charms.

I am not Fool enough to be an Atheiſt, tho' I have known enough of Mens Hypocriſy to make a thouſand ſimple Women ſo. Whatever Re⯑ligion is in it ſelf, as practis'd by Mankind, it has caus'd the Evils, you ſay, it was deſign'd to cure. War, Plague, and Famine, has not deſtroy'd ſo many of the human Race, as this pretended Piety has done; and with ſuch barbarous Cruelty, as if the only Way to honour Heaven, were to turn the preſent World into Hell.

Truth is Truth, tho' from an Enemy, and ſpoke in Malice. You bloody, blind, and ſuperſti⯑tious Bigots, how will you anſwer this?

What are your Laws, of which you make your Boaſt, but the Fool's Wiſdom, and the Coward's Valour; the Inſtrument and Skreen of all your Vil⯑lanies, by which you puniſh in others what you act your ſelves, or wou'd have acted, had you been in their Circumſtances. The Judge who condemns the poor Man for being a Thief, had been a Thief him⯑ſelf had he been poor. Thus you go on deceiving, and being deceiv'd, harraſſing, plaguing, and de⯑ſtroying one another; but Women are your univer⯑ſal Prey.

SCENE I.

I Have recommended to Barnwell a Reve⯑rend Divine, whoſe Judgment and Inte⯑grity I am well acquainted with; nor has Millwood been neglected, but ſhe, unhappy Woman, ſtill ob⯑ſtinate, refuſes his Aſſiſtance.

This pious Charity to the Afflicted well becomes your Character; yet pardon me, Sir, if I wonder you were not at their Trial.

I knew it was impoſſible to ſave him, and I and my Family bear ſo great a Part in his Diſtreſs, that to have been preſent wou'd have aggravated our Sorrows without relieving his.

It was mournful indeed. Barnwell's Youth and modeſt Deportment, as he paſt, drew Tears from every Eye: When placed at the Bar, and ar⯑raigned before the Reverend Judges, with many Tears and interrupting Sobs he confeſs'd and ag⯑gravated his Offences, without accuſing, or once re⯑flecting on Millwood, the ſhameleſs Author of his Ruin; who dauntleſs and unconcern'd ſtood by his Side, viewing with viſible Pride and Contempt the vaſt Aſſembly, who all with ſympathizing Sorrow wept for the wretched Youth. Millwood when call⯑ed upon to anſwer, loudly inſiſted upon her Inno⯑cence, and made an artful and a bold Defence; but finding all in vain, the impartial Jury and the learn⯑ed Bench concurring to find her guilty, how did ſhe curſe her ſelf, poor Barnwell, us, her Judges, all [56] Mankind; but what cou'd that avail? ſhe was con⯑demn'd, and is this Day to ſuffer with him.

The Time draws on, I am going to viſit Barnwell, as you are Millwood.

We have not wrong'd her, yet I dread this Interview. She's proud, impatient, wrathful, and unforgiving. To be the branded Inſtruments of Vengeance, to ſuffer in her Shame, and ſympathize with her in all ſhe ſuffers, is the Tribute we muſt pay for our former ill ſpent Lives, and long confe⯑deracy with her in Wickedneſs.

Happy for you it ended when it did. What you have done againſt Millwood I know proceeded from a juſt Abhorrence of her Crimes, free from Intereſt, Malice, or Revenge. Proſelytes to Vir⯑tue ſhou'd be encourag'd. Purſue your propoſed Reformation, and know me hereafter for your Friend.

This is a Bleſſing as unhop'd for as unme⯑rited, but Heaven that ſnatched us from impending Ruin, ſure intends you as its Inſtrument to ſecure us from Apoſtacy.

With Gratitude to impute your Deliverance to Heaven is juſt. Many, leſs virtuouſly diſpos'd than Barnwell was, have never fallen in the Manner he has done,—may not ſuch owe their Safety ra⯑ther to Providence than to themſelves. With Pity and Compaſſion let us judge him. Great were his Faults, but ſtrong was the Temptation. Let his Ruin learn us Diffidence, Humanity and Circum⯑ſpection;—for we,—who wonder at his Fate,—perhaps had we like him, been tryed,—like him, we had fallen too.

SCENE II.

See there the bitter Fruits of Paſſion's de⯑teſted Reign, and ſenſual Appetite indulg'd. Se⯑vere Reflections, Penitence and Tears.

My honoured injured Maſter, whoſe Good⯑neſs has covered me a thouſand times with Shame, forgive this laſt unwilling Diſreſpect,—indeed I ſaw you not.

'Tis well, I hope you were better im⯑ploy'd in viewing of your ſelf;—your Journey's long, your Time for preparation almoſt ſpent.—I ſent a Reverend Divine to teach you to improve it, and ſhou'd be glad to hear of his Succeſs.

The Word of Truth, which he recom⯑mended for my conſtant Companion in this my ſad Retirement, has at length remov'd the Doubts I la⯑bour'd under. From thence I've learn'd the infinite Extent of heavenly Mercy; that my Offences, tho' great, are not unpardonable; and that 'tis not my Intereſt only, but my Duty to believe and to rejoice in that Hope,—So ſhall Heaven receive the Glo⯑ry, and future Penitents the Profit of my Example.

Go on.—How happy am I who live to ſee this?

'Tis wonderful,—that Words ſhou'd charm Deſpair, ſpeak Peace and Pardon to a Mur⯑derer's Conſcience;—but Truth and Mercy flow in every Sentence, attended with Force and Energy divine. How ſhall I deſcribe my preſent State of Mind? I hope in doubt,—and trembling I re⯑joice.—I feel my Grief increaſe, even as my Fears [58] give way.—Joy and Gratitude now ſupply more Tears, than the Horror and Anguiſh of Deſpair before.

Theſe are the genuine Signs of true Re⯑pentance, the only Preparatory, certain Way to everlaſting Peace.—O the Joy it gives to ſee a Soul form'd and prepar'd for Heaven!—For this the faithful Miniſter devotes himſelf to Meditation, Abſtinence and Prayer, ſhuning the vain Delights of ſenſual Joys, and daily dies that others may live for ever.—For this he turns the ſacred Volumes o'er, and ſpends his Life in painful Search of Truth.—The Love of Riches and the Luſt of Power, he looks on with juſt Contempt and Deteſtation; who only counts for Wealth the Souls he wins; and whoſe higheſt Ambition is to ſerve Mankind.—If the Reward of all his Pains be to preſerve one Soul from wandering, or turn one from the Error of his Ways, how does he then rejoice, and own his little Labours over paid.

What do I owe for all your generous Kindneſs? but tho' I cannot, Heaven can and will reward you.

To ſee thee thus, is Joy too great for Words. Farewell,—Heaven ſtrengthen thee.—Farewell.

O! Sir, there's ſomething I cou'd ſay, if my ſad ſwelling Heart would give me leave.

Give it vent a while, and try.

I had a Friend,—'tis true I am unworthy, yet methinks your generous Example might per⯑ſwade;—cou'd I not ſee him once before I go from whence there's no return.

He's coming,—and as much thy Friend as ever;—but I'll not anticipate his Sorrow,—too ſoon he'll ſee the ſad Effect of his contagious Ruin. This Torrent of Domeſtick Miſery bears too hard upon me,—I muſt retire to indulge a Weakneſs [59] I find impoſſible to overcome.

—Much lov'd—and much lamented Youth—Farewell—Heaven ſtrengthen thee—Eternally Farewell.

The beſt of Maſters and of Men—Fare⯑well—while I live let me not want your Pray⯑ers.

Thou ſhalt not;—thy Peace being made with Heaven, Death's already vanquiſh'd;—bear a little longer the Pains that attend this tranſitory Life, and ceaſe from Pain for ever.

SCENE III.

I find a Power within that bears my Soul above the Fears of Death, and, ſpight of conſcious Shame and Guilt, gives me a Taſte of Pleaſure more than Mortal.

SCENE IV.

Sir, there's the Priſoner.

SCENE V.

Trueman,—My Friend, whom I ſo wiſht to ſee, yet now he's here I dare not look upon him.

O Barnwell! Barnwell!

Mercy! Mercy! gracious Heaven! for Death, but not for this, was I prepared.

What have I ſuffer'd ſince I ſaw you laſt?—what Pain has Abſence given me?—But oh! to ſee thee thus!

I know it is dreadful! I feel the Anguiſh of thy generous Soul,—but I was born to mur⯑der all who love me.

I came not to reproach you;—I thought to bring you Comfort,—but I'm deceiv'd, for I have none to give;—I came to ſhare thy Sorrow, but cannot bear my own.

My Senſe of Guilt indeed you cannot know,—'tis what the Good and Innocent, like you, can ne'er conceive;—but other Griefs at preſent I have none, but what I feel for you.—In your Sorrow I read you love me ſtill,—but yet methinks 'tis ſtrange—when I conſider what I am.

No more of that,—I can remember nothing but thy Virtues,—thy honeſt, tender Friendſhip, our former happy State and preſent Miſery.—O had you truſted me when firſt the Fair Seducer tempted you, all might have been prevented.

Alas, thou know'ſt not what a Wretch I've been! Breach of Friendſhip was my firſt and leaſt Offence.—So far was I loſt to Goodneſs,—ſo devoted to the Author of my Ruin,—that had ſhe inſiſted on my murdering thee,—I think,—I ſhou'd have done it.

Prithee aggravate thy Faults no more.

I think I ſhou'd!—thus Good and Gene⯑rous as you are, I ſhou'd have murder'd you!

We have not yet embrac'd, and may be in⯑terrupted. Come to my Arms.

Never, never will I taſte ſuch Joys on Earth; never will I ſo ſooth my juſt Remorſe. Are thoſe honeſt Arms, and faithful Boſom, fit to embrace [61] and to ſupport a Murderer.—Theſe Iron Fetters only ſhall claſp, and flinty Pavement bear me,—

even theſe too good for ſuch a bloody Monſter.

Shall Fortune ſever thoſe whom Friendſhip join'd!—Thy Miſeries cannot lay thee ſo low, but Love will find thee,

Upon this rugged Couch then let us lie, for well it ſuits our moſt deplorable Condition.—Here will we offer to ſtern Calamity,—this Earth the Altar, and our ſelves the Sacrifice.—Our mutual Groans ſhall eccho to each other thro' the dreary Vault.—Our Sighs ſhall number the Moments as they paſs,—and mingling Tears communicate ſuch An⯑guiſh, as Words were never made to expreſs.

Then be it ſo.—Since you propoſe an Intercourſe of Woe, pour all your Griefs into my Breaſt,—and in exchange take mine,

Where's now the Anguiſh that you promis'd?—You've taken mine, and make me no Return.—Sure Peace and Comfort dwell within theſe Arms, and Sorrow can't approach me while I'm here!—This too is the Work of Heaven, who, having be⯑fore ſpoke Peace and Pardon to me, now ſends thee to confirm it.—O take, take ſome of the Joy that overflows my Breaſt!

I do, I do. Almighty Power, how have you made us capable to bear, at once, the Extreams of Pleaſure and of Pain?

SCENE VI.

Sir.

I come.

SCENE VII.

Muſt you leave me!—Death would ſoon have parted us for ever.

O, my Barnwell, there's yet another Task behind:—Again your Heart muſt bleed for others Woes.

To meet and part with you, I thought was all I had to do on Earth! What is there more for me to do or ſuffer?

I dread to tell thee, yet it muſt be known.—Maria.

Our Maſter's fair and virtuous Daughter!

The ſame.

No Misfortune, I hope, has reach'd that lovely Maid! Preſerve her, Heaven, from every Ill, to ſhow Mankind that Goodneſs is your Care.

Thy, thy Misfortunes, my unhappy Friend, have reach'd her. Whatever you and I have felt, and more, if more be poſſible, ſhe feels for you.

I know he doth abhor a Lie, and would not trifle with his dying Friend.—This is, indeed, the Bitterneſs of Death!

You muſt remember, for we all obſerv'd it, for ſome Time paſt, a heavy Melancholy weigh'd her down.—Diſconſolate ſhe ſeem'd, and pin'd and languiſh'd from a Cauſe unknown;—till hearing of your dreadful Fate,—the long ſtifled Flame blaz'd out.—She wept, ſhe wrung her Hands, and tore her Hair, and, in the Tranſport of her Grief, diſcover'd her own loſt State, whilſt ſhe lamented yours.

Will all the Pain I feel reſtore thy Eaſe, lovely unhappy Maid?

Why did n't you let me die and never know it?

It was impoſſible;—ſhe makes no Secret of her Paſſion for you, and is determin'd to ſee you e'er you die;—ſhe waits for me to introduce her.—

SCENE VIII.

Vain buſy Thoughts be ſtill!—What avails it to think on what I might have been,—I now am,—What I've made my ſelf.

SCENE IX.

Madam, reluctant I lead you to this diſmal Scene: This is the Seat of Miſery and Guilt.—Here awful Juſtice reſerves her publick Victims.—This is the Entrance to ſhameful Death.—

To this ſad Place, then no improper Gueſt, the abandon'd loſt Maria brings Deſpair, and ſee the Subject and the Cauſe of all this World of Woe.—Silent and motionleſs he ſtands, as if his Soul had quitted her Abode,—and the life⯑leſs Form alone was left behind;—yet that ſo perfect, that Beauty and Death,—ever at Enmity,—now ſeem united there.

I groan, but murmur not.—Juſt Hea⯑ven, I am your own; do with me what you pleaſe.

Why are your ſtreaming Eyes ſtill fix'd be⯑low?—as tho' thoud'ſt give the greedy Earth thy Sorrows, and rob me of my Due.—Were Happineſs within your Power, you ſhould beſtow it where you pleas'd;—but in your Miſery I muſt and will partake.

Oh! ſay not ſo, but fly, abhor, and leave me to my Fate.—Conſider what you are:—How vaſt your Fortune, and how bright your Fame:—Have Pity on your Youth, your Beau⯑ty, and unequalled Virtue,—for which ſo many noble Peers have ſigh'd in vain. Bleſs with your Charms ſome honourable Lord.—Adorn with your Beauty; and, by your Example, improve the Engliſh Court, that juſtly claims ſuch Merit; ſo ſhall I quickly be to you as though I had never been.—

When I forget you, I muſt be ſo indeed.—Reaſon, Choice, Virtue, all forbid it.—Let Women, like Millwood, if there be more ſuch Wo⯑men, ſmile in Proſperity, and in Adverſity forſake. Be it the Pride of Virtue to repair, or to partake, the Ruin ſuch have made.

Lovely, ill-fated Maid!—Was there ever ſuch generous Diſtreſs before?—How muſt this peirce his grateful Heart, and aggravate his Woes?

E'er I knew Guilt or Shame, when For⯑tune ſmil'd, and when my youthful Hopes were at the higheſt; if then to have rais'd my Thoughts to you, had been Preſumption in me, never to have been pardon'd,—think how much beneath your ſelf you condeſcend to regard me now.

Let her bluſh who, profeſſing Love, invades the Freedom of your Sex's Choice, and meanly ſues in Hopes of a Return.—Your inevitable Fate hath render'd Hope impoſſible as vain.—Then why ſhou'd I fear to avow a Paſſion ſo juſt and ſo diſintereſted?

If any ſhou'd take Occaſion, from Millwood's Crimes, to libel the beſt and faireſt Part of the Creation, here let them ſee their Error.—The moſt diſtant Hopes of ſuch a tender Paſſion, from ſo bright a Maid, might add to the Happineſs [65] of the moſt happy, and make the greateſt proud.—Yet here 'tis laviſh'd in vain:—Tho' by the rich Preſent, the generous Donor is undone,—he, on whom it is beſtow'd, receives no Benefit.

So the Aromatick Spices of the Eaſt, which all the Living covet and eſteem, are, with unavail⯑ing Kindneſs, waſted on the Dead.

Yes, fruitleſs is my Love, and unavailing all my Sighs and Tears.—Can they ſave thee from approaching Death?—from ſuch a Death?—O terrible Idea!—What is her Miſery and Diſtreſs, who ſees the firſt laſt Object of her Love, for whom alone ſhe'd live,—for whom ſhe'd die a thouſand, thouſand Deaths, if it were poſſible,—expiring in her Arms?—Yet ſhe is happy, when compar'd to me.—Were Millions of Worlds mine, I'd gladly give them in exchange for her Condition.—The moſt conſummate Woe is light to mine. The laſt of Curſes to other miſerable Maids, is all I ask; and that's deny'd me.

Time and Reflection cure all Ills.

All but this;—his dreadful Cataſtrophe Virtue her ſelf abhors.—To give a Holiday to ſuburb Slaves, and paſſing entertain the ſavage Herd, who, elbowing each other for a Sight, purſue and preſs upon him like his Fate.—A Mind with Piety and Reſolution arm'd, may ſmile on Death.—But publick Ignominy,—everlaſting Shame,—Shame the Death of Souls,—to die a thouſand Times, and yet ſurvive even Death it ſelf, in never dying Infamy, is this to be endured?—Can I, who live in him, and muſt, each Hour of my devoted Life, feel all theſe Woes renew'd,—can I endure this!—

Grief has impair'd her Spirits; ſhe pants, as in the Agonies of Death.—

Preſerve her, Heaven, and reſtore her Peace,—nor let her Death be added to my Crimes,—

I am ſummon'd to my Fate.

SCENE X.

The Officers attend you, Sir.—Mrs. Millwood is already ſummon'd.

Tell 'em I'm ready.—And now, my Friend, farewell,

Support and com⯑fort the beſt you can this Mourning Fair.—No more.—Forget not to pray, for me,—

would you, bright Excellence, permit me the Honour of a chaſte Embrace,—the laſt Happi⯑neſs this World cou'd give were mine,

Exalted Goodneſs!—O turn your Eyes from Earth, and me, to Heaven,—where Virtue, like yours, is ever heard.—Pray for this Peace of my departing Soul.—Early my Race of Wickedneſs began, and ſoon has reach'd the Summet:—E'er Nature has finiſh'd her Work, and ſtamp'd me Man,—juſt at the Time that others begin to ſtray,—my Courſe is finiſh'd; tho' ſhort my Span of Life, and few my Days; yet count my Crimes for Years, and I have liv'd whole Ages.—Juſtice and Mercy are in Heaven the ſame: Its utmoſt Severity is Mercy to the whole,—thereby to cure Man's Folly and Preſumption, which elſe wou'd render even infinite Mercy vain and ineffectual.—Thus Juſtice, in Compaſſion to Mankind, cuts off a Wretch like me, by one ſuch Example to ſecure Thouſands from future Ruin.

SCENE XI.

Heart-breaking Sight.—O wretched, wretched Millwood.

You came from her then:—How is ſhe diſ⯑poſed to meet her Fate?

Who can deſcribe unalterable Woe?

She goes to Death encompaſſed with Horror, loathing Life, and yet afraid to die; no Tongue can tell her Anguiſh and Deſpair.

Heaven be better to her than her Fears; may ſhe prove a Warning to others, a Monument of Mercy in her ſelf.

O Sorrow, inſupportable! break, break my Heart.

In vain.