Barn. Such is my frailty, that 'tis dangerous. Mil. Where is the danger, since we are to part? Barn. The thought of that already is too painful. Mil. If it be painful to part, then I may hope at least, you do not hate me?

Barn. No

my heart!

-no -I never said I did

Mil. Perhaps you pity me? »

Barn. I do I do- -Indeed I do.

Mil. You'll think upon me?

Barn. Doubt it not, while I can think at all.

-Oh!

Mil. You may judge an embrace at parting too great a favour-though it would be the last. [He draws back.] A look shall then suffice-Farewell-for ever.

-I have

[Exeunt Mil. and Lucy. Barn. If to resolve to suffer be to conquerconquer'd-Painful victory!

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

Barn. I hope it was; yet it is kind, and I must thank

you

for it.

Mil. My friend, your arm. [To Lucy.] Now, I ar gone for ever. [Going. Barn. One thing more-Sure there's no danger in my knowing where you go? If you think otherwise— Mil. Alas! [Weeping. Lucy. We are right, I find, that's my cue. [Aside.] Ah, dear sir! she's going she knows not whither! but go she must.

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

Lucy. 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.

Mil. No more, my friend; since he for whose dear sake alone I suffer, and am content to suffer, is kind and pities me; where'er I wander, thro' wilds and deserts, benighted and forlorn, that thought shall give me comfort.

my

lot.

Barn. For my sake! Oh, tell me how, which way am
I so cursed to bring such ruin on thee?
Mil. No matter; I am contented with
Barn. Leave me not in this uncertainty.
Mil. I have said too much.
Barn. How, how am I the cause of your undoing?
Mil. To know it will but increase your troubles.
Barn. My troubles can't be greater than they are.
Lucy. Well, well, sir, if she wont satisfy you I will.
Barn. I am bound to you beyond expression.

Mil. Remember, sir, that I desire you not to hear it.
Barn. Begin, and ease my racking expectations.

Lucy. Why, you must know, my lady here, was an only child, and her parents dying while she was young, left her and her fortune (no inconsiderable one, I assure you) to the care of a gentleman who has a good estate of his own.

Mil. Ay, ay, the barbarous man is rich enough; but what are riches when compar'd to love?

Lucy. 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.

Mil. How I shall live hereafter, Heaven knows!

Lucy. All things went on as one could wish; till some time ago, his wife dying, he fell violently in love with his charge, and would fain have married her. Now the man is neither old nor ugly, but a good personable sort of a man; but, I don't know how it was, she could 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

Mil. A trifle in itself, but more than enough to ruin me, whom, by this unjust account, he had stripp'd of all before.

Lucy. Now, she having neither money nor friend, except me, who am as unfortunate as herself, he compell'd her to pass his account, and give bond for the sum he demanded; but still provided handsomely for her, and continued his courtship, till being inform'd by his spies (truly I suspect some in her own family,) that you were entertained at her house, and staid with her all night, hẹ came this morning, raving and storming like a madman, 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.

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

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

Barn. 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; attended with fear and danger, and pursu'd by malice and revenge. Wouldst thou endure all this for me, and can I do nothing, nothing to prevent it?

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

out.

Barn. Oh, where are all my resolutions now? Like early vapours, or the morning dew, chac'd by the sun's warm beams, they're vanish'd and lost, as tho' they had never been.'

Lucy. Now I advise her, sir, to comply with the gentleman; ' that would not only put an end to her trou6 bles, but make her fortune at once.'

Barn. Tormenting fiend, away! I had rather perish, nay, see her perish, than have her sav'd by him. ́I will myself prevent her ruin, though with my own. A moment's patience; I'll return immediately. [Exit. Barn. Lucy. 'Twas well you came, or, by what I can perceive, you had lost him.

Mil. That I must confess, was a danger I did not foresee; I was only afraid he should have come without

money. You know, a house of entertainment, like mine, is not kept without expence.

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

Mil. Leave that to me.

Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money.

Barn. What am I about to do?

Lucy. These young sinners think every thing in the way of wickedness so strange!

But I could tell him,

for one

But he'll find out that

that this is nothing but what's very common; vice naturally begets another. himself, if he lives long enough. [Aside. Barn. Here, take this, and with it purchase your deliverance; return to your house, and live in peace and safety.

Mil. So I may hope to see you there again?

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

Mil. Say but you'll come.

Barn. Only leave me now, dispose of me hereafter as you please. [Exeunt Mil. and Lucy. What have I done? 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 hope, and plunged again in guilt, yet scarce know how or why. Such undistinguish'd horrors make my brain The seat of fearful darkness and of pain.

ACT III.

[Exit.

SCENE I. A Room in Thorogood's House. THOROW GOOD and TRUEMAN discovered (with account books) sitting at a table.

Thor. Methinks I would not have you only learn the method of merchandise, and practise it hereafter, 6 merely as a means of getting wealth: it will be well

・・

worth your pains to study it as a science, to see how it is founded in reason, and the nature of things: how it promotes humanity, as it has open'd and yet keeps up an intercourse between nations, far remote from one another in situation, customs, and religion; promoting arts, industry, peace, and plenty; by mutual benefits 6 diffusing mutual love from pole to pole.

True. 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 6 destroy, but to improve mankind by love and friendship; to tame the fierce, and polish the most savage; to teach them the advantage of honest traffic, by taking from them, with their own consent, their useless 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.

Thor. 'Tis justly observ'd; the populous East, luxuriant, abounds with glittering gems, bright pearls, aromatic spices, and health-restoring drugs: the late found western world's rich earth glows with unnumber'd veins of gold and silver ore. On every climate, and on every country, Heaven has bestow'd some good peculiar to itself. It is the industrious merchant's business to collect the various blessings of each soil and climate; and with the product of the whole to enrich his native country."

*This conversation is so good and instructive, and is so pleasing a piece of repose amid the horrors of the other scenes, that I would wish it always to be retained in the representation. (See before, p. 188. Note.)

Bishop Horne, in his Sermon intred Considerations on the Sea, has a passage to the same effect:

66

By the invention of shipping, and the art of navigation, the sea ❝is made in reality to join those nations, which it appears to divide; "the communication being often far more easy and expeditious by 66 water, than it would have been by land. The riches of both the "Indies are wafted to our shores; we sit at home, and feast upon "the productions of every country under heaven; while the super"fluity of our own commodities is disposed of, to advantage, abroad. "A friendly intercourse is opened between the most distant lands."Savages are humanized, and become proficients in the arts and