SCENE I.
Mr. ANDREWS's house.
Enter MARIA and THOMAS.
MARIA. But why these moping, melancholy looks?
Each eye observes and marks them now unseemly,
Whilst every countenance but your's speaks joy,
At the near wedding of our master's daughter.
Sure none so well deserv'd this noble prize:
And young lord Weston will be bless'd indeed.
THOMAS. It has been countermanded.
MARIA. What again?
This is the second time. What can this mean?
Then, his unusual absence, now a month,
Nor any cause assign'd.
THOMAS. Some accident.
I know a truer flame was ne'er profess'd:
A fondness which commenced in his apprenticeship,
Here in this house, then but the late lord's nephew,
Nor next in heirship to estate or title.
MARIA. And sure all must approve his well-judg'd choice!
In charms and virtues there are none surpass her.
THOMAS. Heav'n grant my fears are groundless! but, Maria,
To think on what of late I daily see,
Afflicts my soul.
MARIA. What is't your fears suggest?
THOMAS. A wasted fortune and a sinking credit,
With the near ruin of this worthy family;
The thought materially concerns us both.
MARIA. But, why again, should we distress ourselves
For that we cannot help?
THOMAS. Ungenerous thought!
Duty and love and gratitude demand it.
'Twas here we met each other; here we wedded,
And ever have receiv'd the kindest treatment.
But what disturbs me most—I have been privy
To matters which I should not have conceal'd
From our good friend her father.
MARIA. Think not of it.
It is not possible to save them now.
THOMAS. Would in his second marriage he had met
With one more suited to his years and rank!
MARIA. But are not all things for the better alter'd?
Our house fill'd often with the best of company?
THOMAS. The best saidst thou? O! no, the worst of all,
A shameless crew of fashionable pillagers;
So that this bank house, by their nightly riot,
Might rather seem a rake-frequented tavern;
And ruin is their sport. Is not each servant
A worn-out victim to those midnight revels,
Without a sabbath's rest? (For in these times,
All sanctity is scoff'd at by the great,
And heaven's just wrath defy'd.) An honest master,
Scarcely a month beyond his fiftieth year,
(Heart-rent with trouble at these sad proceedings,)
Wears to the eye a visage of fourscore:
Nor to be wondered at.
MARIA. You dream too much.
THOMAS. O! it is seen by all. Oft through his groves,
With folded arms and downcast looks he saunters,
Ev'n 'midst the dank inclemency of night.
MARIA. You're too severe, too scrupulous; why, man,
My mistress is a perfect saint, compar'd
With some of those I formerly have serv'd.
THOMAS. Her conduct has of late been foully censur'd.
But I've disclos'd the whole to our kind neighbours
Wilson and Goodwin, his most faithful friends—
MARIA. For which ten thousand blisters scald your tongue! [Aside]
THOMAS. Who are resolv'd (the task howe'er ungrateful)
Quickly to lay his desp'rate state before him.
MARIA. But pray, why should not we as well as others,
Avail ourselves of something, whilst all's going?
THOMAS. Think'st thou to tempt me by a thought so vile?
No; I defy ev'n Envy's cankering tongue
To brand me with the name of faithless steward
Still steady to my trust, nor love, nor fear,
Shall reason from my soul, its inbred honesty.
What then would be the transport of the thought,
That I, from wreck had sav'd this shatter'd bark,
Though poverty and want were my reward!
MARIA. I see you are as obstinate as usual,
And still persist in your old-fashion'd ravings.
Does not experience daily prove that wealth
Alone gives honour; poverty disgrace?
THOMAS. All this concerns this transient world alone;
Nor is it worth a single moment's thought.
A slender pittance, earn'd by honest industry,
Surpasses mines of wealth acquir'd by fraud.
MARIA. It cannot sure be wrong to make reprisals!
Hath she not got in loan from us our earnings
From time to time, nor heeds our pressing calls?
THOMAS. Ay, as she wastes the honest tradesman's dues,
Which from her husband she receives to pay.
But would her crime be an excuse for ours?
Were that the rule, 'twould be a desp'rate world.
MARIA. 'Tis not a wonder he should be distress'd.
Six months are scarcely past since one cashier,
In whom you know he plac'd the highest confidence,
Absconded with some thousands.
THOMAS. So 'tis said, [Bell rings]
But time will quickly shew the truth of all.
MARIA. Heard you the bell? 'tis he, just come to town.
THOMAS. And well he came so late, or he had met
On their retreat, that group of restless rioters,
Who day and night pursue this misled woman. [Bell rings again.]
It is the bell again. I am resolv'd
To speak my fears, receive them as he may.
MARIA. Prithee, forbear till you revolve it further. [He, goes off]
Doubtless she's daily plunging into ruin
The poor infatuated man her husband,
Whom fondness hath made blind to her misconduct.
But I must hear what passes at this meeting;
Wherefore, I'll to the closet next the chamber,
Where usually they meet for private conference. [She goes off.]
SCENE II.
Another room in Mr. ANDREWS's house.
Mr. ANDREWS and THOMAS.
ANDREWS. What strange disorder runs thro' all this house!
It seems more like a place of midnight revelling,
Than habitation of a sober family,
And every servant in it looks a spectre.
[A servant delivers Mr. ANDREWS a letter, which he reads;
servant retires.]
"This from your late unfortunate cashier, serves
to inform you that he never wrong'd you; 'tis true,
he was deficient much when he departed, yet, by
that Power to whom all thoughts lie open! he knows
not how it happened; but, if the present rumours
are not false, your greatest foe is nearest to
your heart."
Such secret notices of late are frequent.
When was this letter brought?
THOMAS. 'Twas left last night.
ANDREWS. Is my wife up?
THOMAS. She's not long gone to rest.
ANDREWS. Too much her practised course. Unthinking woman!
Thus she precipitates our common ruin. [Aside.]
Did not you tell me that my neighbour Wilson
Had been enquiring for me here to-day?
THOMAS. He was three times, and now I hear his voice.
ANDREWS. 'Tis opportune; return when he departs. [THOMAS goes off]
Enter WILSON.
Welcome! thrice welcome! truest, best of friends.
WILSON. I hope 'twill speedily be in my power,
As 'tis my wish sincere, to give you joy
On the most happy marriage of your daughter.
Andrew. A thousand thanks! 'twas to have been to morrow,
But is postponed a while.
WILSON. There is no prize,
Wealthy, or noble, which she doth not merit.
ANDREWS. Again I thank my friend; but tell me wherefore,
We meet not now as we were wont? time was
When scarce a single day knew us asunder;
Of late we're so for weeks.
WILSON. Where lies the blame?
You then were us'd to join your happy friends,
In all their harmony and mirthful innocence;
But you and yours have quite estrang'd yourselves,
Scorning to mingle in our humble circles.
ANDREWS. And is this mode of life to us peculiar?
The tide of fashion, in these days of riot,
Sweeps all before it that its torrent meets.
WILSON. To our eternal shame!—All sense is fled,
And ev'ry social pleasure with their virtues.
Nor boast we more that wholesome plain economy
Which made our ancestors so justly fam'd
For honestly, and every gen'rous deed;
But in its stead a splendid, wasteful vanity
(Regardless of the toiler's hard-earn'd claims,)
Pervades each rank, and all distinction levels:
Too sure fore-runners of the loss of freedom.
ANDREWS. Your picture is as just as it is gloomy.
But you can firmly stem th' infection's tide,
And 'scape the censure we so justly merit.
Yet you'd not blame your friend, if you knew all. [He walks to
and fro.]
WILSON. I cannot longer justify myself,
To be a mute spectator of such ruin,
As hourly threatens this respected family. [Aside.]
To flatter, or conceal would ill become
That friendship you have said you so esteem.
My heart is open then, and can't acquit you.
You've lost that fortitude you once possess'd.
ANDREWS. O Wilson! I confess your charge is just.
The truth is, I'm no longer master here,
Nor of my family, nor of myself;
And yet you may remember, no man liv'd
More happily than I with my first wife.
WILSON. She had all the virtues that adorn her sex.
ANDREWS. And was withal of such a gentle nature,
That I could ne'er conceive that ev'n in thought,
She would impede or contradict my wish.
WILSON. The loss was great. 'Tis now about ten years?
ANDREWS. Not more: you also know, that shortly after,
(Full short indeed!) I wedded with the present.
WILSON. Not with the approbation of your friends.
Our women even then were greatly alter'd,
Their manners as their education different.
Their beauties too, are as their hearts deceitful,
While art supplies the spoil of their excesses.
I'm happy in the thoughts of being single.
ANDREWS. Condemn not all for some; and prize their worth.
By them we are refin'd; by them inspir'd;
For them, we ev'ry toil and danger court,
That lead to glory and make fame immortal.
Trust me, my friend, there's no terrestrial blessing
Equals the union of two souls in virtue.
WILSON. Your wife was then but Young?
ANDREWS. About sixteen,
And I in years superiour to her father.
Yet she appear'd of such congenial manners
With my first wife, whose intimate she was,
It led me to this early second marriage.
And ev'n long after, such was her behaviour,
That I insensibly forgot my loss;
For tho' by birth and family allied,
To several of the first in rank and fortune,
Yet did not that the least affect her conduct,
Which she still suited to our humbler station;
A tender parent and a loving wife.
WILSON. And such might have remain'd, had she not quit
The innocent society of those,
Who best were suited to her state in life.
ANDREWS. O! 'tis most true; and I have often thought
My happiness too great for long continuance.
The toil, fatigue and numerous disappointments,
(The sure attendants on a life of business)
Were sooth'd and sweeten'd by the fond endearments,
With which she met me in the hours of leisure.
Oft hath she vow'd, that she despis'd the profit,
How great soe'er, that sunder'd us at times.
But all the halcyon days I once enjoy'd,
Do but conspire to aggravate the misery,
Which now quite weighs me down.
WILSON. Nor is it strange.
Your house is grown a nuisance to its neighbours,
Where twice in every week, if not more frequent,
A motley crowd at midnight hour assembles;
Whose ruffian-like attendants in the street,
Alarm the peaceful, and disturb their quiet.
ANDREWS. I know, I feel it all.
WILSON. Its inside too
Is not less riotous; where this same medly
Waste the whole night, destroying health and fortune,
Of ev'ry social duty quite regardless.
ANDREWS. They've been unseen by me. My health's weak state
Will not admit my sleeping in the city;
Whence also, I am often whole days absent;
As my neglected finances disclose.
Have you at any time beheld these scenes?
WILSON. Once, on the invitation of your spouse.
ANDREWS. Relate them, if not irksome.
WILSON. At your instance.
Then, the first object 'midst this wild assembly,
(For such the night's proceedings fully prov'd it)
That urg'd my wonder, was the heavy purses
Which were display'd there, even by the women,
Without remorse or shame.
ANDREWS. Ay, there!—Proceed.
WILSON. After the night had been near three part wasted,
Full half the meeting more like spectres seem'd
Than of this world. The clamour then grew great;
Whilst ev'ry torturing passion of the foul
Glar'd in the ghastly visages of several.
Some grinn'd in rage, some tore their hair, whilst others,
Upon their knees, with hands and eyes uplifted,
In curses dar'd assail all-ruling Providence
Under the varied names of Fate and Fortune.
Nor is there one in the black list of crimes,
Which these infernals seem'd not prompt to perpetrate,
Whilst on a cast their trembling fortunes hung.
ANDREWS. O Wilson! every passion, every power
Of the great human soul are by this vice,
This fatal vice of all, quite, quite absorb'd,
Save those which its fell purposes excite!
Oh! that most vile seducer lady Belmour!
Wer't not for her, my wife had been a stranger
To all those evils; I to all my misery.
WILSON. But have our sex surrender'd their prerogative?
Or have I liv'd to see the world revers'd?
You are a man—
ANDREWS. I know not what I am.
Alas! my friend is stranger to these matters!
When once a woman deviates from discretion,
Setting her heart on every vain pursuit,
No husband then rests master of his fate.
Fond love no limit knows to its submission,
Not more than beauty to its thirst for empire,
Whose tears are not less pow'rful than its smiles.
Nay, ev'n dislike, 'gainst reason, oft must yield,
Whilst the mind's quiet is an object priz'd;
So is the sex from its sweet purpose chang'd—
WILSON. Your state then seems quite hopeless of relief?
ANDREWS. O! could I wean her from this one sad vice!
Wipe out this only speck in her rich volume!
Then, all my woes should cease; then, would I write,
In truth's fair characters, her matchless worth,
Nor blush to boast the fondness of my heart.
WILSON. Your love admits some doubt.
ANDREWS. My love of her!——-
WILSON. Ev'n so.
Do you not tamely see her, ev'ry day,
Destroying wantonly her precious health?
But what is more———I shall proceed too far.
ANDREWS. Go on, I am prepar'd.
WILSON. Her reputation—
ANDREWS. Her reputation!
WILSON. I have said it,
ANDREWS. Heav'n!
WILSON. It has not 'scap'd the busy tongue of censure,
Yet let appearances be what they may,
I think she's innocent.
ANDREWS. What, innocent!
Against appearances!—impossible.
All sense disclaims the thought; these neglected,
Neglect of virtue is the sure attendant,
And ev'n the firmest may be then seduced;—
'Tis as the noon-day plain.—Who? who's the villain?
The murderer of my peace? By heav'n! he dies.
WILSON. Madness indeed! all may be mere surmise;
Wherefore, at present it will be most prudent,
To hush the sad ideas of suspicion.
A little time must prove its truth, or falsehood;
Besides, the person charg'd is of high rank.
ANDREWS. O! there's no rank can sanctify such outrage.
Lord Belmour! say—
WILSON. Yes—he—or why that name?
ANDREWS. They nearly are a-kin—and yet of late
His visits have been rather more than usual.
But have you any proof for this your hint?
WILSON. It is the current rumour of the neighbourhood,
Else I should ne'er have dar'd to wound your ear;
But friendship urges the unpleasing task—
You tell me, you sleep mostly in the country?
ANDREWS. What then? he may, ev'n when I sleep in town,
Pass nights with her, and all unknown to me.
WILSON. You puzzle me.
ANDREWS. 'Tis easily explain'd.
For some time past we've slept in separate chambers.
For when she had exchang'd her harmless life
For the destructive course she now pursues,
Her hours became so late and so uncertain,
My rest was quite disturb'd.
WILSON. Unhappy state!
Have you discours'd her calmly on these matters?
Few of her sex possess superiour talents.
ANDREWS. Her temper is so chang'd, so sour'd of late,
Which with her sad misconduct still increases;
And she so prides herself on her alliances,
And the caresses of her vain associates,
That neither I, nor her neglected children,
Dare ev'n attempt the least discourse with her.
Did you know all, 'twould rend your tender heart. [He pauses
a while, then walks about much disturbed.]
WILSON. He has abundance more to hear of yet;
Two bills this very day, went off unpaid,
A stroke too fatal, e'er to be recover'd. [Aside.]
Affliction is heav'n's trial of our patience,
As of its love sure proof; and oft' our benefit.
ANDREWS. Can you continue friend to such lost fortune?
WILSON. How it would grieve me could you even doubt it!
The surest test of friendship is affliction.
'Tis then, the faithful heart displays itself,
Whilst vain professors vanish in the gloom.
ANDREWS. Tell me—Oh tell me! what would you advise?
WILSON. Against we meet on the Exchange to-day,
I will revolve it well.
ANDREWS. Reward your goodness heav'n! [WILSON goes off.]
Re-enter THOMAS.
Oh what a fatal change in my affairs!
Have you observ'd it, Thomas, yet been silent?
THOMAS. I almost wish I knew not how to answer:
But since it is his will I must obey. [Aside.]
Dare then your faithful servant speak some truths,
With which his heart is full?
ANDREWS. What prevents you?
THOMAS. I dare not—yet—[aside] suppose 'twere of a wife,
So lov'd, so doted on?—
ANDREWS. Prithee, proceed.
THOMAS. Then know, last night, that as I lay awake,
And hearing near the compting-house a noise,
I rose, and in the dark mov'd softly towards it;
When I (unseen by her) beheld her passing
Quickly from thence, and in her hands a light,
And key, with which she op'd the iron chest.
ANDREWS. [After some pause] Good heav'n! that she could injure
me so deeply———
My credit———but I cannot bear to expose her!
Means have been us'd to stop all further mischief,
On some suspicions of mine own before.
So for the present, must appear to doubt it. [Aside.]
[To THOMAS] For this, I owe you my most grateful thanks.
I've ever found you faithful to my interest;
Yet, as your zeal may have alarm'd your fears,
Speak not of this, until I weigh it further,
Not even to your wife.
THOMAS. I shall obey. [THOMAS goes off]
ANDREWS. What an unhappy man!—It is impossible—
I ne'er knew one in ev'ry thought more pure
Than she was once—and now to be so chang'd—
I will not see her more—and yet—O heav'n!—
'Tis demonstration only can convince me.
Ah! lovely woman, didst thou ne'er design
But in thy proper sphere alone to shine,
Using with modesty each winning art,
To fix, as well as captivate the heart,
Love's purest flame might gild the nuptial days,
And Hymen's altars then for ever blaze.
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