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T^testtdeb  to 
rftlje 

^niiJersit^  of  'Qloroitta 

The  Estate  of  the  late 
Professor  A.S.P.  '.Toodhouse 


'Bj 


€6e  ^AWMmu^  J>erie^ 


SECTION  III 

THE  ENGLISH  DRAMA 

FROM    ITS    BEGINNING    TO    THE    PRESENT    DAY 


GENERAL    EDITOR 

GEORGE  PIERCE  BAKER 

rSOFBSSOK   OF   DRAMATIC   IJTKRATO»« 
IN  HAKVAKD  UHIVKSSITV 


> 


From  Perin  in  Cornwall; 

OF 
A  mod  Bloody  and  vn-exampled  Murthcr 

»ery  latcJ;  coniii)itted  by  a  Father  on  his  owne 

SoniK  (»*#  WitUtilf  rttariui  frim  thi  l»ijti)  it 

ihe  InAiguion  of  a  mcccilefle 

Stcp-aothcr* 

Tt^etitr  wilt  titir  ftiUTtltmtJI  viriteted  emits.  Mug 

all  pcrfoimcdin  tiic  Month  of  Scptem- 


LONDON 

Ptiotcdb7£.4f.tadatc(aticfoldcaiCi>itCiwiigKCaIfl8» 


HE 
LONDON  MERCHANT 


OR 


THE  HISTORY  OF  GEORGE  BARNWELL 


AND 


FATAL  CURIOSITY 


By  GEORGE  LILLO 


EDITED    BY 

ADOLPHUS  WILLIAM  WARiJ,  Litt.D.,  F.B.A. 

MASTER  OF   PETERHOUSE  COLLEGE 
CAMBRIDGE,   ENGLAND 


BOSTON,  U.S.A.,  AND  LONDON 

D.  C.   HEATH  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,    1906,   BY  D.   C.   HEATH  ft  Ott 
ALL  SIGHTS   RESERVED 


2  EO 


pp 
in  , 

JAN    5  1966 

vQOb 

^^^2ij05^ 

1036947 

l3fograpi^r 


Very  little  is  known  concerning  the  personal  life  of 
George  Lillo,  the  author  of  the  two  plays  which  are  re- 
(irinted  in  this  volume,  and  each  of  which  may  be  said  to 
have  a  place  of  its  own  in  the  history  of  the  modem 
drama.  His  name  is  Flemish,  and  he  was  very  probably 
a  descendant  of  refugees  whom  religious  persecution  had 
driven  to  this  country.  '  Lillo '  was  the  name  of  the  fort 
that  stood  above  Antwerp  on  the  northern  bank  of  the 
Scheldt." 

On  the  occasion  of  the  marriage,  in  1734,  of  the  Prin- 
cess Royal  of  Great  Britain  (Anne,  daughter  of  King 
George  II)  to  the  Prince  of  Orange  (William  IV), 
Lillo  produced  a  masque  entitled  Britannia  and  Bata'via. 
In  this  quite  unpretending  and  uninteresting  production, 
its  two  eponymous  personages  are  introduced  as  the  joint 
defenders  of  freedom  against  Spain  and  Rome,  and  it  is 
proclaimed  as  Britannia's  duty  to  requite  Batavia,  by  means 
of  the  match  now  concluded,  for  the  services  of  her 
champion  Liberto  (William  III).^  Other  passages  in 
Lillo' s  writings  indicate  his  probably  inherited  hatred  of 

1  I  am  reminded  of  tbis  circumstance  by  Mr.  G.  Edmundson,  one  of  oor 
foremost  living  authorities  on  the  history  and  literature  of  the  Netherlands. 
He  adds :  ^  Motley  speaks  of  the  beautiful  country  house  and  farm  of 
Lillo.  The  name  was  probably  that  of  the  owner,  and  it  is  quite  possible 
that  a  family  of  that  name  may  have  been  among  the  refugees  who  came 
to  hngland,  after  the  capture  of  Antwerp  by  Parma." 

X  Batavia^s  guardian.angel,  Eliphas,  observes  ; 

*  From  proud  Hispania's  proud  and  cruel  power 
I've  brought  her  here  ; 

And  the  Prince  of  Orange  is  saluted  as 

*  The  princely  youth 

In  whom  Libcrto's  name 
Must  live  or  be  extinguished.* 


vi  ilBtograpljp 

persecution  and  his  ill-will  towards  the  Spanish  monarchy ; 
and  it  should  be  remembered  that  during  the  period  of  his 
literary  activity  Spain  gradually  became  once  more  to 
Englishmen  the  most  unpopular  of  foreign  powers, '  and 
that  in  1 740,  when  the  masque  was  printed,  she  was  once 
more  at  war  with  England.  LjUp'^  biblical  knowledge, 
as  wpII  as  hj.;  evidently  RtrOPg  '''■'iS'"'"'  '"■"''"mfTIt,  !^•■' 
pSfti333y-.flfrmmted  for  by  the  express  statement  that  he 
apolitical  opinions  were  no  doubt 
in  geiicfiil  ugl'Kement  with  those  which  at  that  time  pre- 
vailed among  English  Protestant  nonconformists.  3 

Lillo  is  stated  to  have  been  brought  up  a&-a  jeweller^ 
and  during  a  considerable  part  of  his  life  appears  Whave 
carried  on  this  trade  in  the  City  of  London,  where  the 
diamond  business  is  to  this  day  largely  in  the  hands  of 
Dutch  merchants.  With  the  City  his  writings  —  and  not 
TAt  London  Mtrchant  only  —  show  him  to  have  been 
familiar.  4  Whether  or  not  his  success  as  a  playwright, 
which  was  established  with  great  rapidity  on  the  produc- 
tion of  The  London  Merchant  in.-t73i^^terfered  with  the 
steady  progress  of  his  business  Im.-,  fCmalns  uncertain.  In 
his  later  years,  he  appears  to  have  resided  at  Rotherhithe. 
He  died  on  September  3,,J4!42j_and  was  buried  in  the 
vault  of  Shoreditch  Church.     If  any  reliance   is  to  be 

t  See  the  bitter  reference  to  religious  persecution  in  Tha  Londtn  hftr- 
thant^  11.  65-7;,  p.  89,  and  the  tirade  against  Spain  in  Fatal  Curhiitj^ 
Act  1^  Sc.  I  (p.  149). 

z  Several  apt  biblical  illustrations  will  be  noted  in  Thi  Londfn  Mtr- 
thant.  LiUo's  deep  religious  sentiment  is  welt  brought  out  in  his  ptay  Thi 
Chriitian  Hire;  see  Scanderbeg's  prayer,  vol.  I,  p.  149,  ed.  1775,  and  cf. 
the  close  of  his  speech  in  the  opening  scene,  idim^  p.  288. 

{  See  the  passage  against  the  theory  of  Right  Divine  in  Tht  Chritttan 
Htrt^  Act  V,  ad  fin. ^  idtm^  p.  30I. 

4  It  is  curious  that  in  a  purely  conceived  and  finely  written  passage  of 
The  Christian  Hert^  idem.,  p.  269,  Lillo  should  have  introduced  a  graphic 
reminiscence  of  the  darkest  aspect  of  the  London  streets.  See  also  the 
reference  in  The  London  Aicrc^nr,  11.  35-47,p.  88,  to  the  blackmail  levied 
by  corrupt  London  (non-City)  magistrates. 


515iograpliv  vii 

placed  on   a  couplet  in  Hammond's  Prologue  to  Lillo's 
Elmerick,  posthumously  printed  in  1 740  — 

*  Deprest  by  want,  afflicted  by  disease. 
Dying  be  wrote,  and  dying  wish'd  to  please  ' — 

he  must  have  fallen  into  or  have  been  overtaken  by  pecu- 
niary difficulties  at  some  time  previous  to  his  death.  But 
the  passage  may  be  nothing  but  a  fictitious  appeal  ad 
miser'uordiam  —  especially  if  the  statement  of  the  £10- 
graphia  Dramatica  be  authentic,  that  he  '  died  possessed 
of  an  estate  of  ^40  per  annum,  besides  other  effects  of 
a  considerable  value. '  The  same  authority  describes  him 
as  <  in  person  lusty,  but  not  tall  ;  and  of  a  pleasing  as- 
pect, though  unhappily  deprived  of  the  sight  of  one  eye. ' 
Davies,  who  must  have  known  him  personally,  speaks  of 
his  gentle  manners  ;  and  in  the  Linjes  of  the  Poets,  pur- 
porting to  be  by  Theophilus  Cibber,  he  is  stated  to  have 
been  '  a  man  of  strict  morals,  great  good-nature  and 
sound  sense,  with  an  uncommon  share  of  modesty.'  But 
his  personal  worth  is  best  attested  by  thTulbute  to  him 
inserted  by  Fielding  in  The  Champion  (February  26, 
1739/40).  Briefly  noticing  the  production  of  Lillo's 
tragedy  of  Elmerick,  Fielding  says  that  '  such  a  Regard 
to  Nature  shines  through  the  whole,  that  it  is  evident  the 
Author  writ  less  from  his  Head  than  from  an  Heart  capable 
of  exquisitely  Feeling  and  Painting  human  Distresses, 
'of  '~~''         '    "~^        " 


but  of  causmg  noas,.'  'JL'o  a  rathef  "RyperbolicaT 
meii3ation  of  Lillo's  Fatal  Curiosity,  cited  below,  he  then 
adds  that  the  author  '  had  the  gentlest  and  honestest 
Manners,  and,  at  the  same  Time,  the  most  friendly  and 
obliging.  He  had  a  perfect  Knowledge  of  Human  Na- 
ture, though  his  Contempt  of  all  base  Means  of  Applica- 
tion, which  are  the  necessary  Steps  to  great  Acquaintance, 
restrained  his  Conversation  within  very  narrow  Bounds. 
He  harl  thp   gpirit  nf  an  nlHQKoCTag,"^ined  to  the  Inno- 


115iograp!)p 


cence  of  a^sprimitive  Christian  i^he  was  content  with  hi; 
little  Slate  6t  iTiJe,  in  which  his  excellent  Temper  of  Mind 
gave  him  an  Happiness  beyond  the  Power  of  Riches  ;  and 
it  was  necessary  for  his  Friends  to  have  a  sharp  Insight 
into  his  Want  of  their  Services,  as  well  as  good  Inclina- 
tions or  Abilities  to  serve  him.  In  short,  he  was  one  of 
the  best  of  Men,  and  those  who  knew  him  best  will  most 
regret  his  Loss.'  A  finer  tribute  has  rarely  been  paid  by 
one  high-minded  writer  to  another  ;  and  it  came  in  this 
instance  with  particular  force  and  grace  from  one  who  was 
to  hold  the  mirror  up  to  human  nature  at  large,  as  well 
as  to  magistrates  in  particular.' 

The  following  is  a  list  of  Lillo'  s  plays  in  the  order  of 
their  production,  with  brief  notes  as  to  those  not  included 
in  the  present  volume.  It  is  due  to  Lillo  that  his  compe- 
tence —  to  say  the  least  —  as  a  writer  of  the  species  of 
tragedy  accepted  by  his  age  should  not  be  altogether 
overlooked. 

Syl-via,  or  The  Country  Burial,  first  acted  at  Lincoln's 
Inn  Fields  in  1731,  was  printed  in  the  same  year.  This 
<  opera '  is  of  homespun,  and  in  truth  of  quite  coarse,  ma- 
terial, virtue  and  vice  being  rather  tumbled  up  together  ; 
while  the  unbearably  gross  scene  of  the  '  country  burial ' 
and  the  resuscitation  of  the  drunken  wife  has  no  connexion 
with  the  plot.  There  is  nothing  characteristic  of  Lillo  in 
this  piece  except  -^j^^i^  >»n^..r,,.y  tQ-»i-TriTOtinurnB69r^ 

Tie  London  Merchant,  or  The  History  of  George  Barn- 
ivell,  was  first  acted  at  Drury  Lane  June  zz,  1731,  and 
printed  in  the  same  year.  __-__  __„^ 

^♦?  christian  tiero^  regular  »jgge3yin  blank  vers^ 
wasfirst  acte3~ai  DruryXane  in  1 7^,  and  prlnidd  Iti  tlie 

I  As  to  Ficlding'8  subsequent  tribute,  in  Jastfh  Andrtvti,  to  thi  Lon- 
don Mtrchanl,  see  below,  p.  xxvii. 


llBiograplj?  ix 

same  year,  with  a  Life  of  Scanderbeg  (the  hero  of  the  play), 
which  may,  or  may  not,  be  Lillo's.  This  tragedy  seems 
to  have  given  offence  to  the  friends  of  Whincop,  the  author 
of  the  tragedy  of  Scanderbeg  (published  after  his  death  in 
1747),  as  an  ungenerous  plagiarism  of  his  theme  ;  and  the 
ill-will  shows  itself  in  the  List  of  Dramatic  Authors  printed 
with  Whincop's  piece,  where  Lillo  is  described  as  'by 
profession  a  Jeweller,  but  having  a  strong  Inclination  for 
Poetry,  which  oftentimes  is  mistaken  for  Genius.'  Lillo's 
own  play,  though  untouched  by  poetic  fire,  and  at  the 
height  of  its  action  hardly  equal  to  an  exposition  of  the 
conflict  in  the  hero  between  love  and  duty,  is  something 
more  than  wholesome  and  pure.  It  has  a  solid  ring,  and 
only  becomes  stagey  when  it  reaches  the  episode  of  the 
Sultan's  daughter,  Hellena. 

Fatal  Curiosity,  'a  true  Tragedy,'  was  first  acted  at 
the  Little  Haymarket  in  1736,  and  printed  in  1737. 

Marina,  a  Play,  in  three  acts,  partly  in  blank  verse, 
and  partly  in  prose,  was  first  performed  at  Covent  Garden 
in  1738,  and  printed  in  the  same  year.  It  may  be  sum- 
marily described  as  '  taken  out '  of  Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre ; 
but  the  obscenity  is  unfortunately  kept  in. 

Arden  of  Fe'vershanij  J  3.n  historical  Tragedy,'  in  blank 
verse,  though  said  to  have  been  written  in  173^,  was  not 
published  till  long  after  the  author's  death,  in  1 762.    This 
by  no'means  commendalde  adaptation  of  a  powerful  origi- 
nal is  interesting  because  of  the  special  association,  through  j 
The  London  Merchant,  of  Lillo' s  name  with  the  develop-  !      -^■ 
ment  of  '  domestic  tragedy '   in  our  dramatic  literature.  '  'X 
But  the  '  additions  '  (Alicia's  attempt  at  murder,  in  Lady 
Macbeth's  manner,  in  Act  11,  her  remorse  and  Arden's 
'  kindness '  in  Act  iv,  and  his  death-scene)  may  be  set 
down  as  little  else  but  interpolations.    However,  as  the 
adaptation  was  '  finished '  by  John  Hoadley,  Lillo  cannot 


be  held  altogether  responsible  for  it,  or  chargeable  with 
the  authorship  of  its  bald  tag. 

Elmerick,  or  Justice  Triumphant,  published  in  1740, 
is  likewise  a  posthumous  tragedy,  but  of  the  regular  type, 
and  wholly  in  blank  verse.  In  this  finely  conceived  and 
well-executed  drama,  justly  praised  by  Fielding,  some 
traces  are  recognisable  of  a  masculine  conception  of  virtue, 
«  public '  and  private,  which  ranges  above  that  accepted 
by  his  age.  Ismena's  Lucretia-like  narration  shows  re- 
finement of  feeling  ;  and  though  the  diction  nowhere  rises 
to  poetry,  it  is  devoid  neither  of  passion  nor  of  force. 

Of  the  entertainment  Britannia  and  Bata'via,  printed 
in  1740,  mention  has  already  been  made.  It  does  not 
appear  to  have  been  performed.  The  dramatis  personal 
are  quite  different  from  those  of  Britannia,  or  the  Royal 
Lovers,  an  entertainment  given  at  Goodman's  Fields 
from  February,  1734,  with  a  Pastoral  Epithalamium, 
« The  Happy  Nuptials,'  by  Carey  introduced  in  its  last 
scene  (Genest,  iii,  433).  A  comedy  by  Lillo  called  The 
Regulators  is  stated  (in  a  note  to  Davies'  i  Life  m  the  edi- 
tion of  1 8 1  o)  to  have  been  '  said  to  be  existing  in  manu- 
script, in  1773  'i   but  it  has  never  seen  the  light. 


gintroDuctton 

The  London  Merchant,  or  The  History  of  George 
Barnwell,  when  first  acted  at  Drury  Lane  on  June  22, 
1 7  3 1 ,  seems  to  have  been  announced  under  the  title  of 
The  Merchant,  or  the  True  History  of  George  Barn- 
well. The  sub-title  in  each  case  clearly  shows  the 
author  tohave  desired  it  to  be  understood  that  his  play 
was  directly  founded  upon_  fact.  Conscious  of  the 
innovation  which  this  at  the  time  implied,  and  as  a  dra- 
matist who  had  not  yet  made  his  way  with  the  public, 
Lillo  seems  to  have  preferred  to  produce  his  play  on 
the  stage  out  of  the  regular  theatrical  season.  Yet, 
though  the  critics  ex  officio  may  have  been  conspicuous 
by  their  absence  from  the  pit  at  the  first  performance, 
and  may  afterwards  have  declined  to  allow  their  judg- 
ment to  go  simply  by  default,"  the  arch-critic  of  the 
</Augu§tan-age  is  said  to  have  been  present  on  the  mem- 
orable twenty-second  of  June,  which  Jieraided  a  P 
literary  revolution  quite  beyond  his  ken .v^^ffpelg^criti- 
cism  is  on  record  *  that  the  author  of  The  London  Mer- 
chant had  in  this  play   '  never  deviated  frogrpfopriety^   |  - 

pYrpptin_a_ffiw  pm-igfy  III  WWI.'ll   llr  nimnd-aTH  gfpaTpr     . 

ation  of  language  than  was  consistent  with  the  char- 
acter]^   rir  anticipation  "of  tTie  per~  \ 
formance,  the  old  ballad  of  George  Barnwell,  which  is     " 

V       '  See  (Hammond's)  Prologue  to  Elmerick : 

'  His  Barnwell  once  no  critic's  test  could  bcar^ 
But  from  each  eye  still  draws  the  natural  tear.' 

^  See  the  life  of  Lillo  in  T.  Gibber's  Li-va  of  the  Poets  of  Great 
Britain  and  Ireland  (1753),  vol.  v,  p.  339. 


xii  3|ntrotiurtlon 

reproduced  as  an  appendix,"  was  reprinted  in  a  large 
number  of  copies  —  many  thousands  are  said  to  have 
been  sold  in  a  single  day;  and  the  story  has  often  been 
repeated,  how  on  the  first  night  many  of  the  intending 
spectators  had  bought  a  copy  for  the  purpose  of  making 
a  '  ridiculous  comparison  '  between  it  and  the  play, 
but  that  before  the  latter  was  finished,  they  threw  away 
their  ballads  and  took  out  their  handkerchiefs. 

The  part  of  George  Barnwell  was  on  this  occasion 
played  by  '  Mr.  Gibber,  junior  '  — Theophilus  Gibber 
(the  son  of  'King  CoUey'),  whose  life,  as  the  Bie- 
graphia  Dramatica  says  with  almost  literal  truth, 
'  was  begun,  pursued  and  ended  in  a  storm.'  He  was 
at  the  time  manager  of  the  summer  company  at  Drury 
Lane,  of  which  theatre  he  was  patentee  from  Sep- 
tember, 1731,  to  June,  1732,  in  his  father's  place. 
The  part  of  Millwood  was  taken  by  Mrs.  Butler,  who 
is  found  acting  with  the  younger  Gibber  as  late  as 
1742-3.  Genest*  says  that  'htde  is  recorded  of  her, 
but  she  seems  to  have  been  a  respectable  actress.' 
Maria  was  performed  by  Mrs.  Gibber  ( Theophilus' s 
first  wife,  who  died  in  1734);  she  also  spoke  the 
deplorable  Epilogue.  The  part  of  Lucy  was  taken  by 
Mrs.  Gharkes  (CoUey  Gibber's  youngest  daughter 
Gharlotte).  The  play  was  thoroughly  successful,  and 
was  acted  for  twenty  nights  to  crowded  houses.  On 
July  2,  1 73 1,  Queen  Garoline,  whose  moral  Jlair  was 

*  Seep.  122.      ^  Some  Account  of  the  Engliih  StagefVo\.\Vy\i,^o. 

^  Not  Clarke,  as  given  in  the  dramatis  personae  of  some  octavos 
and  the  edition  of  1810.  Mrs.  Charkc  (who  acted  Mrs.  Wilmot 
in  FataJ  Curiosity  in  1755)  was  doubtless  the  same  person.  Her 
name  had  of  old  had  a  Puritan  sound  in  London. 


3Introt)uction  xiii 

quite  equal  to  her  literary  insight,  sent  to  Drury  Lane 
for  the  manuscript  of  The  London  Merchant  in  order  to 
peruse  it;  and  it  was  duly  carried  by  Mr.  Wicks  (who  had 
not  been  in  the  cast)  to  Hampton  Court.  The  manager 
Cibber  behaved  liberally  to  Lillo,  procuring  for  him  a 
fourth  benefit-night  in  the  winter  season,  so  that  he 
netted  a  sum  of  several  thousand  pounds  by  the  success 
of  his  piece,  which  continued  a  stock  play  while  Cibber 
remained  connected  with  Drury  Lane.  It  came  to  be 
frequently  acted  in  the  Christmas  and  Easter  holidays, 
being  esteemed  a  better  entertainment  for  the  city  pren- 
tices than  the  coarse  shows  with  which  they  were  at 
such  seasons  habitually  regaled  on  the  stage;  and  this 
tradition,  nof withstanding  Charles  Lamb's  protest,' 
lingered  on  to  a  comparatively  recent  day.* 

'  In  a  footnote  to  his  essay  On  the  Tragedies  of  Shakespeare^ 
which,  as  his  editor  A.  Ainger  truly  observes,  *  contains  some 
of  the  noblest  criticism  ever  written,'  and  from  which  an  example 
of  such  criticism,  though  uncomplimentary  to  Lillo,  will  be  quoted 
in  my  text.  *  If,'  says  Lamb,  *  this  note  could  hope  to  meet  the 
eye  of  any  of  the  Managers,  I  would  entreat  and  beg  of  them,  in 
the  name  of  both  the  galleries,  that  this  insult  upon  the  morality 
of  the  common  people  of  London  should  cease  to  be  eternally 
repeated  in  the  holiday  weeks.  Why  are  the  'Prentices  of  this 
famous  and  well-governed  city,  instead  of  an  amusement,  to  be 
treated  over  and  over  again  with  a  nauseous  sermon  of  George  Barn- 
well ?  Why  at  the  end  of  their  vistas  are  we  to  place  x\\c  gallows  f 
Were  I  an  uncle  I  should  not  much  like  a  nephew  of  mine  to 
have  such  an  example  placed  before  his  eyes.  It  is  really  making 
uncle-murder  too  trivial  to  exhibit  it  as  done  upon  such  slight  mo- 
tives ;  —  it  is  attributing  too  much  to  such  characters  as  Millwood  ; 
it  is  putting  things  into  the  heads  of  good  young  men,  which  they 
would  never  otherwise  have  dreamed  of.  Uncles  that  think  any- 
thing of  their  lives,  should  fairly  petition  the  Chamberlain  against  it. ' 

*  I  can  remember   The  London  Merchant  being  thus  annually 


xiv  iHntroDuction 

On  December  26,  1751,  and  afterwards,  the  part  of 
George  Barnwell  was  played  at  Drury  Lane  by  David 
BflilS  f'^"'  °^  Millwood  being  taken  by  Mrs.  Pritchard, 
who  may  not  have  felt  it  necessary  to  be  too  '  genteel ' 
on  the  occasion  ) ;  and  many  years  afterwards  this  gifted 
actor  (whose  own  youthful  indiscretion  had  led  his 
father>^to  cut  him  ofF  with  an  annual  shilling  'to  put 
him  in  mind  of  the  misfortune  he  had  to  be  bom ' ) 
told  a  curious  story  in  connexion  with  this  impersona- 
tion. About  the  time  of  the  revival  of  the  play.  Dr. 
Barrowby  ■  was  sent  for  to  the  apprentice  of  a  « capital 
merchant ' ;  when  this  youth  confessed  )  the  physician 
that  in  consequence  of  an  illicit  amf  he  had  embez- 
zled two  hundred  pounds  of  his  ;-/'s  money,  but 
that  since  witnessing  a  few  nights ).  i;  y  the  perform- 

ance of  George  Barnwell  he  hau  n.  '  t,  moment's 

peace  and  desired  to  die  so  as  to  av,  «.he  shame  of 
discovery.  Dr.  Barrowby  intervened  ;  the  apprentice's 
father  paid  the  money,  and  for  nine  or  ten  years  anony- 
mously sent  to  Ross  an  annual  present  Oii  ten  guineas  as 
a  tribute  of  gratitude.      -  "       :' 

I  played  at  the  Theatre  Royal,  Manchester.     Sir  Henry  Irving,  when 

j    a  member  of  the  stock  company  at  that  theatre,  at  the  beginning  of 

I    a  career  which  was  not  only  full  of  honours  for  himself  but  most 

j    beneficent  to  the  national  stage,  frequently  played  George  Barnwell. 

\  How  I  wish  that,  like  our  common  friend  Mr.  E.  J.  Broadfield,  to 

whom  Sir  Henry  mentioned  this  fact,  I  could  have  heard  the  great 

actnr  repeat  the  speech,  which  late  in  life  he  could  still  recall,  of 

the  unhappy  youth  on  his  way  to  execution. 

»  If  this  was  the  celebrated  (or  notorious)  Dr.  Barrowby,  there 
must  be  some  error  of  date,  as  this  personage  —  with  whose  re- 
ported character  the  story  docs  not  appear  to  be  altogether  in  keep- 
ing—  died,  according  to  Dr.  Norman  Moore  in  the  Dictionary  of 
National  Biografhy,  on  December  30,  1 75 1. 


31ntrol)uction  xv 

In  1796,  The  London  Merchant,  after  remaining 
unperformed  for  seven  years,  was  revived,  with  Charles 
Kemble  in  the  hero's  part,  and  no  less  a  personage  than 
Mrs.  Siddons  (who  had  thought  that  the  revival  might 
be  to  her  brother's  advantage)  in  that  of  Millwood. 

The  printed  editions  of  this  play  are  extremely  nu- 
merous; not  less  than  22  are  to  be  found  in  the  Brit- 
ish Museum,  and  to  these  not  less  than  four  have  to 
be  added  following  the  first  and  second,  and  preceding 
the  seventh  (in  1 740).  In  the  first  and  second  editions, 
both  of  which  appeared  in  the  year  of  the  first  produc- 
tion of  the  play  on  the  stage,  the  last  act  consists  of 
eleven  scenes,  of  which  the  tenth  ends  with  Barnwell's 
departure  to  execut''  '■  and  the  eleventh  is  the  short 
scene,  which  cong  '%  the  play  in  all  the  editions, 
between  Bluntn^  W7<m'i  Trueman.  The  intervening 
scene,  which  li  i.AA  at  the  place  of  execution,  with  the 
gallows  at  the  further  end  of  the  stage,  appears  to  have 
been  performed  on  the  stage/or  several  years,  but  then 
to  have  been  laid  aside,  till  it  was  reintroduced  on  the 
revival  of  the  play  at  Bath  in  1 8 1 7.  Genest '  adds  that 
the  fifth  '  genuine  edition  '  of  the  play  was  announced  for 
publication  on  February  8,  1735  (N.  S.)  '  with  a  new 
Frontispiece,  from  an  additional  scene,  never  before  ^^ 
printed. ' '  The  additional  scene  appears  in__the  edition  of        f^ 

I  Seme  Account  of  the  English  Stage,  vol.  in,  pp.  195-6.  ^)  >— 

'  Tfcis  edition  is  not  in  the  British  Museum  j  and  the  scene  is  C\^c^l 
printed  in  the  present  volume  from  the  edition   of  1740.     Tlie       A   '^ 
frontispiece  may  be  the  original  of  the  sorry  woodcut  prefixed  to       i^  S^ 
the  reprint  of  George  Barnivtll  in  vol.  ix  of  Cumberland's  British      M^  ^ 
Theatre   (1826).     All  endeavours  to  discover  fhis  edition   or  an       Q..^ 
engraving  of  a  scene  in  the  play  have  proved  unsuccessful. 


v/ 


xvi  31ntroDuction 

the  play  of  1 740,  and  in  both  Gray's  and  Davies's  col- 
lective editions  of  Lillo's  Works,  but  in  none  of  the 
single  editions  of  the  play,  so  far  as  they  have  been  veri- 
fied, after  that  of  1768. 

The  story  of  The  London  Merchant,  to  which  the 
play  assigns  the  date  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  reign,  not 
long  before  the  sailing  of  the  Great  Armada,  is  (as  already 
observed)  presented  by  the  author  as  a  reproduction  of 
actual  events.  It  had  manifestly  been  suggested  to  Lillo 
by  the  old  ballad  already  mentioned,  which  is  to  be 
found  in  Bishop  Percy's  Reliques  of  Ancient  English 
Poetry '  and  in  English  and  Scottish  Ballads,  selected 
and  edited  by  F.  J.  Child,*  from  which  latter  it  is  here 
reprinted  as  an  appendix.  Bishop  Percy  observes  :  •  As 
for  the  ballad,  it  v^'as  printed  at  least  as  early  as  the 
middle  of  the  1 7th  century.  It  is  here  given  from 
three  old  printed  copies,  which  exhibit  a  strange  inter- 
mixture of  Roman  and  black-letter.  It  is  also  collated 
with  another  copy  in  the  Ashmole  Collection  at  Oxford, 
entitled  :  "An  Excellent  Ballad  of  George  Barnwell, 
an  apprentice  of  London,  who  thrice  robb' d  his  master, 
and  murdered  his  uncle  in  Ludlow."  The  tune  is  The 
Merchant. '  Professor  Child  adds  :  '  There  is  another 
copy  in  Ritson's  Ancient  Songs,  11,  156.  Throughout 
the  Second  Part,  the  first  line  of  each  stanza  has,  in  the 
old  editions,  two  superfluous  syllables,  which  Percy 
ejected  ;  and  Ritson  has  adopted  the  emendation.' 

It  will  be  seen  that,  while  there  is  a  general  agree- 
ment between  ballad  and   play,   the  former  contains 

'   Vol.  Ill,  pp.  197  uijq.    Ed.  Wheatley,  3  toIs.  1876-7. 
'  Vol  VIII,  pp.  213  ituq.    Boston,  1859. 


■-?-» 


31ntroi)uction  xvii 

nothing  as  to  the  virtuous  attachment  of  the  master's 
daughter  for  Barnwell,  or  as  to  the  friendship  of  his  fel- 
low apprentice  ;  while  with  regard  to  Barnwell  himself, 
the  story  in  the  ballad  takes  a  different  close,  sending 
him  out  to  meet  his  fate  'in  Polonia,'  instead  ofbring- 
ir;;  him  to  justice  in  company  with  his  paramour  at 
home.  It  is  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  to  resist  the 
conclusion  that  the  dramatist  must  have  had  access  to 
some  source  or  sources  of  information  concerning  the 
story  of  George  Barnwell  besides  the  old  ballad  itself. 

It  was  probably  the  eclat  given  to  the  reputation  of 
Lillo's  play  by  the  Kemble  revival  of  it  in  1796  which 
led  to  the  publication  of  a  three-volume  novel  by  T.  S.  / 
Surr,  entitled  Barnwell,  which  is  dedicated  to  Mrs.  '•'  ^' 
Siddons,  and  of  which,  in  its  fourth  edition  (London, 
1807),  a  copy  is  to  be  found  in  the  British  Museum.' 
That  the  author  has  caught  the  spirit  of  the  dramatist's 
purpose  is  shown  by  the  motto  from  Cowper  which  he 
prefixes  to  his  story  : 

*  Studious  of  song, 
And  yet  ambitious  not  to  sing  in  vain, 
I  would  not  trifle  merely  '  j 

but  in  the  course  of  the  novel  he  is  said  to  have  devi- 
ated from  the  facts  on  which  it  is  based  more  than  Lillo 
himself  had  done  in  his  play. 

Are  these  facts  to  be  found  in  a  narrative,  treating  poor 
Barnwell's  affair  with  much  didactic  exuberance,  which 

'  Of  Thomas  Skinner  Surr,  who  died  in  1847,  a  short  but  curi- 
ous account  is  given  in  the  Dictionary  of  National  Biograp/iy,  vol. 
LV.  He  was  a  prosperous  City  man  and  a  successful  novelist,  who 
knew  the  value  of  direct  portraiture  in  fiction. 


tA-/L 


xviii  3l!ntroDuctuin 

was  published  not  long  afterwards  and  of  which  the 
Preface  ?  is  dated  '  St.  Gads,  December  z  1 ,  1 809  '  ? 
In  this  version  of  the  story,  which  claims  to  possess 
unimpeachable  authority,  there  is  a  profusion  of  per- 
sonal and  local  names.  The  hero  is  a  native  of  '  the 
Vale  of  Evesham,  where  the  family  of  the  Barnwells 
flourished.'  The  good  merchant  to  whom  the  youth 
was  apprenticed  was  '  Mr.  Strickland,  a  very  consid- 
erable woollen-draper  in  Cheapside. '  Barnwell  has  two 
fellow  apprentices  named^Thorowgdod^-gfai  Truemag. 
whereas  in  the  play  the  forr!Tet~of'  these  names,  which 
might  Sddim  to  liavewilie  sTralght  tjjOrnJjunfte^JTs  given 
to  the  Merchant.  As  to 'the  evil  herome  ofthe  tragedy, 
the  Memoirs  state  that  Sarah  was  the  daughter  of  a  re- 
spectable merchant  at  Bristol,  where,  instead  of  duti- 
fully marrying  a  Mr.  Vaughan,  she  ran  away  with 
a  less  respectable  member  of  society  named  Millwood, 
who  with  her  assistance  set  up  a  barber's  shop  '  near  the 
Gun  '  in  Shoreditch,  but  not  long  afterwards  '  lost  his 
life  in  a  midnight  broil  '  ;  whereupon  she  converted 
their  house  into  a  brothel.      The  '  general  residence  ' 

'  Memoirs  of  George  Barnivell,  the  unhappy  subject  of  Lillo^t 
celebrated  Tragedy^  deri'ved from  the  most  authentic  source^  and  in' 
tended  for  the  perusal  and  instruction  of  the  Rising  Generation,  By 
a  Descendant  of  the  Barnwell  Family.  Printed  at  Harlow  [in  Es- 
sex] by  B.  Flower  for  W.Jones  .  .  .  of  No.  5,  Newgate  Street, 
London,  1810.  An  abridgment  of  this  was  published  (London, 
1820)  under  the  title  of  The  Life  and  History  of  George  Barnwell, 
etc. 

^  That  Thoroughgood  was  a  real  name  is  oddly  enough  shown  by 
an  advertisement,  in  my  copy  of  the  Memoirs,  of  a  story  or  tract 
against  juvenile  infidelity  and  vice,  entitled  Philario  and  Clarinda,\ 
and  purporting  to  be  by  *  the  late  Rev.  John  Thorowgood.* 


31ncroDuction  xix 

of  Barnwell's  uncle  was  at  Camberwell  in  Surrey; 
and  the  murder  of  him  took  place  in  Camberwell  Grove. 
After  the  deed  had  been  done,  the  old  gentleman's 
body  was  carried  to  an  old  public-house  hard  by, 
'  well  known  by  the  sign  of  the  Tiger  and  the  Tabby. ' 
Millwood  received  the  assassin  graciously  :  '  I  have 
a  little  leisure  now  to  listen  to  you  ;  how  did  the  old 
codger  meet  his  fate  ? '  A  brief,  but  telling,  account 
is  given  of  Barnwell's  subsequent  flight  to  Nottingham 
and  Lincoln,  where  he  is  apprehended  by  the  messen- 
gers of  justice  to  whom  Mr.  Strickland  had  imparted 
Millwood's  information.  In  Newgate  George  Barn- 
well opens  his  mind  to  the  Ordinary,  who  '  was  ex- 
tremely attentive  to  him,  and  in  writing  down  the 
particulars  of  his  past  life,  for  the  benefit  of  young  men 
who  should  themselves  feel  tempted  to  leave  the  paths 
of  integrity  and  virtue. '  This  chaplain  has  not  handed 
down  his  notes ;  but  it  is  tantalising  that  it  should  ap- 
parently be  impossible  to  control  the  further  statement 
of  this  narrative,  that  Barnwell  was  tried  at  the  King- 
ston assizes  on  October  1 8,  1706,  before  Chief  Baron 
Bury  and  Mr.  Justice  Powel,  M"-.  Wainwright  be- 
ing counsel  for  the  Crown,  and  Mr.  Price  with 
him.  The  trial  attracted  a  very  numerous  audience  ; 
'  fathers,  and  others  who  had  the  care  of  the  rising 
generation,  came  with  their  offspring  and  proteges, 
hoping  much  from  the  development  of  the  progress  of 
vice  which  would  take  place,  and  the  wretched  appear- 
ance of  the  victim.'  Sarah  Millwood,  Robert  Thorow- 
good,  Thomas  Trueman,  and  other  witnesses  were 
examined.    The  speeches  of  counsel  are  condensed,  but 


XX 


iflntroiuction 


/ 


the  convict's  edifying  speech  at  the  close  is  given  in  foil.  • 
He  was  sentenced  to  be  hung  in  chains  on  Kennington 
Common,  and  his  speech  at  the  gallows  is  likewise 
included  in  the  Memoirs,  which  furnish  no  clue  as  to 
Mil| wood's  ultimate  fate. 

'^h^gniric^^-y  the  production  of  Lillo's  London 
Af^-^fr/^i^T'fontrrliistory  of  the  modern,  and  in  the 
first^  instance  for  that  of  the  EJnglish,  drama  lies  in  his 
choice  of  subject  and,  though  perhaps  not  in  the  same 
measure,  in  his~aioice  of  form.  The  last  spark  of  origin- 
ality seemed  to"  have  died  ^ut  of  English  tragedy,  to- 
gether with  the  last  trace  of  an  occasional  reaction 
towards  the  freedoflijQf  th^^fijteabetha^s,?  and  the  dead 
level  of  mere  jjgtatictM^ofFrd^'^  classical  jDQ.dels  had 
remained  undist5?Bea  bTtTe  gentle  emm^es  reached 
in  the  more  successful  of  the  dramatic  works  of  Am- 
brose Philips,  Charles  Johnson,  Fenton  and  Hughes, 
in  the  Sophonisba  of  Thomson,  and  in  Young's  Busiris 
and  The  Revenge.  In  his  present  endeavour,  Lillo 
renounced  all  aspirations  for  a  theme  worthy  of 
'  Tragocdia  cothurnata,  fitting  kings  ' ; 

■  There  is  nothing  in  Lillo's  play  which  directly  recalls  this 
speech.  It  IS  singular  that  of  a  trial  of  which  time,  place,  and  the 
names  of  the  presiding  judges  are  given  (William  Bury  died  as 
Chief  Baron  of  the  Exchequer  in  1716,  Sir  John  Powell  as  a 
Judge  m  the  Exchequer  in  171  3),  no  record  should  appear  to  be 
accessible.  But  a  communication  to  Nom  and  SiuerUi  (2  Ser 
vol.  V,  1858),  stating  that  the  writer  had  never  met  with  any 
authenticated  notice  of  the  trial  and  condemnation  of  George  Barn- 
well, elicited  no  response  ;  and  my  own  enquiries  have  proved 
equally  unsuccessful.  It  appears  that  no  record  exUts  of  ordinary 
criminal  trials  held  at  so  early  a  date,  except  occasionally  in  news- 
papers. 


/ 


3IntroDuctton  xxi 


and,  reaching  forth  his  hand  no  further  than  the  seeth- 
ing human  life  immediately  around  him,  thereby  set  an 
example  of  which,  for  better  for  worse,  the  modern 
drama  has  never  since  lost  sight.  At  the  samt-tinae,  as 
an  almost  inevitable^  coiiaequence-^P^:;£h»ee-ef-8ub-  . 

jri^' hr^rlaijTif H  fnr  himsdf  .f^^^j^ -^f fr^,  as  the     k/ 
dra~matIcTorrn_jiloa£--Appropriit»^^&l^4>k"|5afp^  .ft 

so  removed  another  of  the  shackles  which  English  trag-  ■Pj^S-— 
edyv  -'"hTigginFjheilch/Tn  she, clanked,'  had  chosen  to 
impose"  uporTnerselfv^ 

It  War"tTiurlhat^illo,  by  what  to  himself  and  his 
contemporaries  seemed  an  innovation,  gave  a  new  and 
enduring   vitality   to   the   dramatic   species   known   in    ^j/CT^ 
literary   history   as    '  domestic   tragedYj^'     Of  course,        ^»,^ 
neither  the  extensionNJMfWFangeoFthe  tragic  drama  I  'T 

"iSto  tTie  sphere  of  every-day  popular  life,  nor  the  use  y 

of  prose  as  the  vehicle  of  a  tragic  action,  was  a  new  ,^/ 
thing  in  the  history  of  the  English  theatre.  It  should, 
moreover,  be  noted  that  Lillo  did  not  venture  so  far  as 
to  move  the  time  at  which  his  tragedy  played  forward  to 
Tiis  own  day,  In  the  opening  scene  he  takes  care  to 
make  it  clear  that  the  time  of  the  action  is  the  reign  of  ■ 
Elizabeth  ;  'and  it  is  even  dated  with  a  certain  precision 
as  not  long  before  the  sailing  of  the  great  Spanish  Ar- 
mada, when  a  loan  for  meeting  the  expenses  of  its 
outfit  is  supposed  to  have  been  refused  to  Philip  by  the 
Genoese. ' 

'  There  is  probably  no  kind  of  historical  foundation  for  this  re- 
fusal. At  the  time  in  question  the  influence  of  Spain  was  dominant 
at  Genoa,  though  King  Philip  could  not  meet  the  pecuniary  obli- 
gations which  he  had  incurred  there. 


xxii  31ntroDuttton 

Elizabethan  tragedy  had  never  disdained  the  treat- 
ment of  themes  derived  from  the  actual,  more  or  less 
contemporary,  life  of  ordinary  English  society.  Such 
a  play  was  the  very  notable  Arden  of  Fever  sham  (after- 
wards adapted  by  Lillo  himself)  which  was  printed  in 
I  592,  but  had  probably  been  acted  some  seven  years 
earlier.  It  is  a  dramatic  version  of  the  story  of  the 
murder  of  a  Kentish  gentleman,  related  by  Holinshed, 
which  had  possibly  already  served  as  the  theme  of  a 
previous  play.  Murderous  Michael  (1578).  Both 
Tieck  and  Ulrici  thought  Shakspere's  hand  discernible 
in  Arden  of  Feversham  ;  and  the  play  certainly  contains 
passages  which  recall  his  touch.  Another  extant  early 
play  of  the  same  description  is  A  Warning  for  Fair 
Women  (1599).  In  the  first  decade  of  the  seventeenth 
century  several  plays  of  the  same  or  a  similar  type 
were  published  :  among  them  The  London  Prodigal, 
printed  in  1605,  which  contains  the  pathetic  character 
of  the  faithful  Luce.  Lessing  appears  to  have  consid- 
ered this  play  Shaksperean,  and  to  have  intended  to 
adapt  it  for  the  German  stage.  Another  play  of  the 
class  of  Arden  of  Feversham  is  A  Yorkshire  Tragedy 
(printed  in  1608),  a  powerful  dramatisation  of  a  hor- 
rible story  of  real  life,  which  Schlegel  believed  to  be 
by  Shakspere's  hand,  but  which  Hazlitt  thought  rather 
in  Thomas  Heywood's  manner.  Thomas  Heywood's 
undoubted  masterpiece  in  the  species  of  the  domestic 
drama,  A  Woman  Killed  with  Kindness  (acted  not  later 
than  1603),  is  true  in  colouring,  and  rises  to  a  high 
pitch  of  tragic  power  in  the  thrilling  scene  of  the  hus- 
band's unexpected  return  to  his  polluted  home.    Among 


3Introtiuctton  xxiii 

later  Elizabethan  (or  Jacobean)  plays  of  a  similar  kind 
may  be  included  George  Wilkins's  Miseries  of  Enforced 
Marriage  (printed  1607),  and  perhaps  also  Dekker 
and  Ford's  Witch  of  Edmonton  (printed  1658,  but 
probably  produced  in  1 62 1 ). 

The  tone  and  temper  of  the  earlier  Restoration  drama_ 
could  hardly  favour  the  treatment  of  themes  of  domestic 
intimacy  and  trouble;  but  towards  the  close  of  the  cen- 
tury a  reaction  in  this  direction  set  in  with  Thomas 
Southerne's  The  Fatal  Marriage,  or  The  Innocent  Adul- 
tery (1694),  afterwards  revived  under  the  name  of 
Isabella,  but  known  to  so  modern  a  young  lady  as 
Miss  Lydia  Languish  under  its  more  captivating  title. 
This  is  a  tragic  version  of  an  extremely  long-lived 
literary  theme,  most  widely  familiar  to  modern  readers 
through  Tennyson's  Enoch  Arden,  and  bordering  on 
the  story  of  Lillo's  own  Fatal  Curiosity.  The  jnter- 
est  ja^attleriv  '5uE)jecrS'',of  this  description  was  kept 
alive^by  some  of  the  tragedies  of  Rowe  —  such  as  The 
Fair  Penitent,  with  the  original  Lothario  —  and  more 
especially  of  Otway  —  The  Orphan  vn  particular.  But 
the  beginnings  of^Seiitimental  Conie3^2riid  not  make 
their  appearance  oii^lit  Englijh  stage  till  some  years 
later.  Colley  Cibber,  in  his  Careless  Husband,  pro- 
duced in  1 704,  professed  to  have  deliberately  sought 
'  to  reform  by  example  the  coarseness  of  contemporary 
comedy  '  ;  and  to  this  end  made  the  pathetic  treatment 
of  a  moral  purpose  the  basis  of  the  action  of  this  play. 
He  cannot,  however,  be  said  to  have  carried  much 
further  the  experiment  which  his  theatrical  instinct 
had  suggested  to  him.    The  Dedication  of  his  comedy 


xxiv  31ntroDttctton 

The  Lady's  Last  Stake,  or  The  Wife^s  Resentment 
(  1 708 )  declares  that  '  a  Play  without  a  just  Moral  is 
a  poor  and  trivial  undertaking '  ;  but  the  piece  cannot 
be  classed  as  a  sentimental  comedy,  though  it  ends  with 
the  return  of  husband  and  wife  to  a  mutual  affection. 
Of  his  later  plays.  The  Provoked  Husband  (^i'j2i), 
an  adaptation  of  Vanbrugh's  Journey  to  London,  pro- 
vided this  unsentimental  comedy  with  a  sentimental 
ending,  largely  written  in  iambics  ( so  that  coals  of  fire 
were  heaped  on  the  head  of  Vanbrugh,  who  in  his 
Relapse  had  given  an  immoral  turn  to  the  plot  of  Gib- 
ber's first  comedy,  Lovers  Last  Shift).  Meanwhile 
the  hint  given  by  Gibber's  Careless  Husband  was  taken 
and  bettered  by  Steele.  After,  in  his  Lying  Lover 
(1703),  he  had  made  a  serious  and  pathetic  addition 
of  his  own,  in  blank  verse,  to  the  action  of  Gorneille's 
,       Menteur,  he  in  1705  produced  The  Tender  Husband, 

ll/-^-    a  comedy  in  which  virtuous  affection  between  husband 
-JAand  wife  is  ipa>oAs«ed  as  a  dramatic  motive.    His  Con- 

^f^  \cious  /■f?'"^^4'?|^i^i)l  J!!ll!r'l  thejiiin  intfrpnTraLthe 
comedy  is  -aentiiimiiial,  i^aybe  reckoned  as  trfiril-blown 
example  of  the  -newspeeJes. 

About  the_54ine  time,  it  was  beingjssj^uously  culti- 

'  vated  iiT'Trifnce^Vvhere  already/Coriieill^-'had  shown, 

by  exampte  aiTwell  as  by  precept-that  the  sorrowings 
and  sufferings  of  people  of  our  own  class,  or  near  to 
it,  touch~us  more  jiearly_than  the  griefs  of  kings  and 
'^eens.  TheFrench  growth  was  more  abundant,  but 
in  this  period  hardly  went  beyond  English  precedent, 
and  was  in  part  influenced  by  it.  Destouches,  whose 
first  acted  comedy  dates  from  1710,  resided  in  Eng- 


jdntroUuction  xxv 

land  from  1717—23  (three  years  before  Voltaire's 
famous  visit)  and  married  an  English  wife.  His  Phtlo- 
sophe  marie  (1727)  —  afterwards  reproduced  on  the 
English  stage  in  1732  in  a  version  by  John  Kelley  — 
is  a  comedy  with  a  serious  basis  and  a  morally  satisfac- 
tory ending  ;  and  in  his  later  productions  he  pursued 
the  same  vein  —  from  Le  Glorieux  (1732),  in  which 
there  is  a  suggestion  of  Timon,  to  Le  Dusipateur 
(1753),  which  is  (to  speak  theatrically  rather  than 
ethically)  a  serious  drama  in  a  comic  form.  More 
notable,  from  a  literary  point  of  view,  are  the  delight- 
fol  dramatic  productions  of  Marivaux  ;  but  even  his 
masterpiece,  the  imperishable  Jeu  de  r  Amour  et  du 
Hasard  (1730),  whose  grace  and  elegance  are  made 
perfect  by  a  gentle  undercurrent  of  pathos,  is  not  so 
much  a  sentimental  comedy  as  a  comedy  with  sentiment 
in  it.  The  transition  to  sentimental  comedy  proper, 
and  the  slight  supplementary  step  to  the  comedie  lar- 
moyante  —  in  which  very  rare  comic  islets  are  left  float- 
ing in  a  sea  of  tears  —  were  achieved  by  Nivelle  de  la 
Chaussee.  He  still  adhered  to  the  use  of  verse  (for 
which  his  clever  Epitre  a  Clio  is  a  very  agreeable  apo- 
logy),  but  in  his  comedy  La  Fausse  Antipathie  (1734) 
the  sentiment  already  predominates  over  the  gaiety  ; 
and,  alike  in  the  Prologue  prefixed  to  it,  and  in  the 
Critique  with  which  according  to  custom  he  followed  it 
up,  he  presents  himself  as  the  conscious  representative 
of  a  school  of  dramatists  in  search  of  what  is  true, 
natural,  and  « dramatic  to  a  fault.'  His  Ecole  des  Amis 
(1737),  his  Melanide  (1741),  and  his  Ecole  des 
Meres  (1744),  f°''"'  *  series  of  tributes  to  virtue  and 


xxvi  31ntroDuction 

the  status  quo  ante  helium,  and  are  all  more  or  less  amen- 
able to  Frederick  the  Great's  objection  against  turning 
the  stage  into  a  bureau  de  fadeur.  But  Frederick's  own 
philosopher  and  friend,  Voltaire  himself,  had  occasion- 
ally shown  an  inclination  to  essay  the  new  style  ;  wit- 
ness passages  of  his  comedy  U  Enfant  Prodigue  ( 1736) 
and  the  whole  argument  of  his  Nanine,  ou  Le  Prejuge 
Vaincu  (1746),  which  is  taken  direct  from  Richard- 
son's Pamela,  of  which  subject,  afterwards  a  favourite 
stage  theme  of  the  Revolution  age,  Nivelle  de  la  Chaus- 
see's  dramatic  version,  Pamela,  had  appeared  six  years 
eajJier(i743)._ 
^^Meanwhile,  it  should  be  noted  that  while  in  some  of 

/t'the  plays  of  the  above-named  French  writers  senti- 
mental comedy  and  its  excess,  comedie  larmoyante, 
already  rubbed  shoulders  with  domestic  tragedy,"  there 
is  nothing  in  these  or  in  any  contemporary  productions 
to  deprive  Lillo's  most  important  work  of  its  title  to 
originality  ;  indeed  the  large  majority  of  these  plays  were 

factually  later  in  date  than  The  London  Merchant.  _Jt 
isquite.Jme_that-fhe  ■mQral_growth  and  social  expan- 
sion in  the  life  of  the  English  ipiddle-class,  which  -Vvas 
closely  connected  with  its  political  advance,  in  the  early 
Georgian  period  -^"tlieja££eased  regard  paid  in  this  age 
tolKe  demand's  oF religion  and  morality,  the  combination 

'  Voltaire,  in  his  preface  to  the  *  bagatelle,*  as  he  calls  it,  of 
Nanine  distinguishes  sentimental  from  *  tearful  '  comedy.  He  says  : 
*  Comedy,  I  repeat,  may  have  its  moods  of  passion,  anger,  and 
melting  pity,  provided  that  it  afterwards  makes  well-bred  people 
laugh.  If  it  were  to  lack  the  comic  element  and  to  be  only  tearful 
[lurmoyanie)^  it  is  then  that  it  would  be  a  very  faulty  and  very  dis- 
agreeable species.' 


3Introi)uction  xxvii 

,q[^  fuller  tolerance  in  matttrs  of  belief  with  a  greater 
rijour  inTEe  coiTduct  of  life  in  some  of  its  aspects^  jujd 
notaBIy  as~to  the  relations  between  the  sexes,  togejher 
vyith  the  influence  exercised  in  most  of  these  directions 
bylhe  iiiiproved  social  position  of  Protejtgnx,noncon.- 
\.^rnTifis,  inade  tiXmselves  fctt  m  m my  branches  of  thp 
national  Uterawre  and  aru_-Mpst  notably  was  such  the 
caseln~Engllish  prose  fiction,  as  entirely  recast  in  spirit 
as  weir  as  in  form  by  Richardson,  and  in  pictorial  art 
as  nationalised,  and  at  the  same  time  'moralised,'  by 
Hogarth.  But  it  should  be  remembered  that  these 
changes  did 'not  p^ceQe7TunSfTov^5^yIlfl^inn"bva~ 
tiOT^nthe  stage  7^or^^^!f<awarnoMpublisiie?  till 
tj^ff^^SfUfffo^Fii^s  earliest  important _woft~  l^Tx 
'Hiir/oFT  Progreis )  was  not  issued  to  subscribers^  till 

'7H-.'-. . .  " "  '   : 

..The  brilliant  success  of  Lillo's  play  on  the  English 

stage  and  the  remarkable  attention  bestowed  upon  his 
effort  in  France,  Holland,  and  more  especially  in  Ger- 
many (of  which  there  will  be  something  further  to 
say),  was  no  doubt  primarily  due  to  his  choice  of 
subject,  and  to  the  direct  appeal  thus  made  to  the 
business  and  bosoms  of  the  spectators  and  readers  of  his 

•  In  hie  Jo'tph  Andrews  (1742)  Fielding,  in  the  humorous 
dialogue  between  the  poet  and  the  player  (bk.  iii,  ch.  10)  puts 
into  the  mouth  of  the  latter  the  following  ironical  depreciation  of 
the  tragic  poets  of  his  own  generation;  *  .  .  .  but  yet,  to  do  justice 
to  the  actors,  what  could  Booth  or  Betterton  have  made  of  such 
horrible  stuff"  as  Kenton's  Marianne,  Frowde's  Philotas,  or  Mallet's 
Eurydice,  or  those  low,  dirty,  '*  last  dying  speeches,"  which  a  fel- 
low in  the  City  or  Wapping,  your  Dillo  or  Lillo  (what  was  his 
name),  called  tragedies?  ' 


y 


<i.4«- 


xxviii  31«trol3uction 

tragedy.  The  London  Merchant  undeniably  falls  short 
of  the  definition  of  tragedy  implied  in  the  admirably 
expressed  statement  by  a  distinguished  living  critic  of 
both  the  ancient  and  the  modern  drama,  that  '  every 
tragic  action  consists  of  a  great  crisis  in  some  great  life, 
not  merely  narrated  but  presented  in  act,  through  lan- 
guage, in  such  a  way  as  to  move  the  hearts  of  those 
who  see  and  hear.'  '  The  greatness  of  the  life,  as 
well  as  the  greatness  of  the  crisis  in  it  —  and  in  each 
case  a  greatness  which,  to  quote  the  same  writer,  is 

/'at  once  outward  and  inward' — is  what  raises  such  a 
tragedy  as  Othello  out  of  the  region  of  the  domestic 
drama  in  which  some  critics  have  thought  themselves 
warranted  in  including  it.  Charles  Lamb,  though  from 
a  slightly  different  point  of  view,  has  said  much  the 
same  thing  in  his  own  inimitable  way;  and,  though 
in  my  opinion  the  passage  reflects  somewhat  severely 
on  the  shortcomings  of  Lillo's  treatment,  it  is  too 
admirable  in  substance  not  to  be  once  more  quoted  at 
^^^ength: 

f,  '  It  is  common  for  people  to  talk  of  Shakspere'  s  plays  be- 
'  ing  so  natural,  that  everybody  can  understand  him.  They 
!  are  natural  indeed,  they  are  grounded  deep  in  nature,  so 
I  deep  that  the  depth  of  them  lies  out  of  the  reach  of  most 
,  of  us.  You  shall  hear  the  same  persons  say  that  George 
Barnivell  is  very  natural,  and  Othello  is  very  natural,  that 
they  are  both  very  deep  ;  and  to  them  they  are  the  same 
\  kind  of  thing.  At  the  one  they  sit  and  shed  tears,  be- 
1  cause  a  good  sort  of  young  man  is  tempted  by  a  naughty 

*  See  Professor  Lewis  Campbeirs  Tragic  Drama  it:  ^uhylus, 
SophocUi  and  Shakespeare  (  1904),  p.  29. 


3IntroD»ictton:  xxix 

woman  to  commit  a  triflingJ>eccadillOf  the  murder  of  an 
uncIe^Fso,  tliatTTall,  and  so  coinesto  an  untimely  end, 
which  is  so  moving ;  and  at  the  other,  because  a  blacka- 
moor in  a  fit  of  jealousy  kills  his  innocent  white  wife  : 
and  the  odds  are  that  ninety-nine  out  of  a  hundred  would 
willingly  behold  the  same  catastrophe  happen  to  both  the 
heroes,  and  have  thought  the  rope  more  due  to  Othello 
fjian  tfjRarnwpll.  For  of  the  texture  of  Othello's  mind, 
.^he  inwaid  /lOllWruction  marvellously  laid  open  with  all 
its  strength  and  weaknesses,  its  heroic  confidences  and  its  \ 
human  misgivings,  its  agonies  of  hate  springing  from  the 
depths  of  love,  they  see  no  more  than  the  spectators  at  a 
cheaper  rate,  who  pay  their  pennies  apiece  to  look  through 
the  man's  telescope  in  Leicester  Fields,  see  into  the  m- 
ward  plot  and  topography  of  the  moon.  Some  dim  thing 
or  other  they  see,  they  see  an  actor  personating  a  passion, 
of  grief,  of  anger,  for  instance,  and  they  recognize  it  as  a 
copy  of  the  usual  external  effects  of  such  passions  ;  or  at 
least  as  being  true  to  that  symbol  of  the  emotion  which 
passes  current  at  the  theatre  for  it,  for  it  is  often  no  more 
than  that  :  but  of  the  grounds  of  the  passion,  its  corre- 
spondence tojigreat_or_heroi£jiaturej  vvITiciris~tK~only 
worthj^  otject  of  tragedy:r-^lhat_comaion  auditors  kaow 
aii^thing  of  this  ...  I  can^  neither  belieYe»J»or. . undfir- 
stand  Kow Ttcan  be  possible.'  ' 

Whether,  within  the  limits  of  his  subject,  Lillo  can 
be  said  to  display  dramatic  povv^r  of  a  high  kind,  is  a 
question  as  to  which  I  should  i)6t  be  prepared  to  allow  jjl   ^ 
judgment   to  go  by  default,  -^here  can  be  n^  doubt  *-^^ 
that  although  the  charactera/of  this  play  are  taken  from     X^/ 

|actual_lif£_iliey  are^fqr  tl&most  part  devoid  of  that 
inherent   vividness_which    impresses  us  when  human 


XXX  31nfoDuction 

"amrr^rfvpais  ifs  [liHiien  depths  under  jne  searchlight  of 
an  awful  calamity,  of  a  great  moral  ti;ial.     Not  only  the 
eminently  respectable  London   merchant,  his  blameless 
/v(laughter,  and  Barnwell's  friend  —  the  very  model  of  a 
\  virtuous  apprentice  —  are  of  the  stage,  stagey ;  but  there 
\is  no  touch  of  poetry  to  soften  the  very  truthful  and  very 
Ipainful  picture  of  Barnwell's  own  loss  of  the  innocence 
,'which  leaves  the  soul  free.    On  the  other  hand,  certain 
'/touches  in  the  personality  of  the  heartless  harlot  Mill- 
'  wood,   and   the  suggestion   at   least   of  an   impressive 
though  daring  apology  for  her  wickedness,  gave  to  this 
character  a  vitality  of  its  own  and  prevented  it  from 
being  submerged  with  the  play  to  which  it  belonged.    It 
must,  moreover,  be  conceded  that  in  the  scenes  where 
the  dramatic  action  rises  to  its  height,  Lillo  avoids  re- 
dundancy of  speech,  and  sustains  the  attention  of  reader 
■,  or  spectator  by  the  force  of  the  situation  itself.     Beyond 
/this  he  does  not  go,  at  least  in  this  tragedy,  where  he 
neither  seeks  nor  finds  an  opportunity  for  essaying  one 
1  of  those  subtler  studies  of  the  wild  vagaries  into  which 
human  nature  deviates  when  corrupted  by  crime,  or  of 
the  depths  of  elemental  feeling  which  terror,  remorse, 
and   self-pity   are   capable  of  sounding  —  such  as,   in 
dealing  with  such  themes,  writers  far  inferior  in  power 
to  Dickens,  or  even  to  Dostoieffsky,  have  succeeded  in 
stamping  upon  our  imaginations.     He  can  hardly  have 
been  held,  even  by  an  age  not  averse  like  our  own  to 
lengthy  moralisings,  to  have  made  up  for  these  shortcom- 
ings, in  many  passages  of  his  piece,  by  a  sententiousness 
which  must  have  been  like  a  second  nature  to  him,  since 
traces  of  it  appear  in  all  his  dramatic  productions,  from 


jflntroDuttion  xxxi 

the  earliest  and  least  commendable  of  them  onwards.  \ 
Not  that  this  habit  invariably  lands  him  in  platitudes  \ 
even  when  he  indulges  it,  for  clearness  of  didactic  ex-    A 
pression  is  in  him  by  no  means   always   accompanied    j  j 
by  shallowness,  and  his  favourite  storehouse  of  gnomic   j  / 
illustraiions  is  the  Biblcj^.^- 

Vei  possibly,  the  popularity  of  Lillo's  play  was  in 
the  first  mstance  enhanced  byETs  use  o^rose^instead 
of  verst  _  throughout  Ihe  dialogue.  Clearly  a  theme 
talten  from  every -day  life  is  in  an  English  drama  — '  and 
probably  in  a  German,  while  French  drariiatic  verse 
stands  on  a  somewhat  different  footing  —  most  satisfac- 
torily treated  without  a  metrical  transforination  "3f  the 
lang'ua^t!  ill  vvliich  it  is  Llotlicd  ; '  nor  can  [ohnaon's 
plea  to  the  contrary  be  regarded  as  other  than  para- 
doxical. That  illustrious  critic  •  could  hardly  consider 
a  prose  tragedy  as  dramatic ;  it  was  difficult  for  the 
performers  to  speak  it  ;  let  it  be  either  in  the  middling 
or  in  low  life,  it  might,  though  in  metre  and  spirited,  be 
properly  familiar  and  colloquial  ;  many  in  the  middling 
rank  were  not  without  erudition  ;  they  had  the  feel- 
ings and  sensations  of  nature,  and  every  emotion  in 
consequence   thereof,  as  well  as  the  great  ;  even  the 

'  Diderot,  in  his  essay  De  la  Poesie  Dramatique  cited  below,  puts 
the  matter  admirably  (section  x)  :  *  I  have  sometimes  aslced  myself 
whether  domestic  tragedy  might  be  written  in  verse,  and,  without  par- 
ticularly knowing  why,  have  answered,  no.  ...  Is  it,  perhaps,  that 
this  species  requires  a  particular  style  of  which  I  have  no  notion  ? 
Or  that  the  truth  of  the  subject  treated  and  the  violence  of  the 
interest  excited  reject  a  symmetrised  form  of  speech  ?  Or  is  it  that 
the  status  of  the  dramatis  penonac  is  too  near  to  our  own,  to  admit 
of  a  harmony  according  to  rule  r  ' 


K\ 


xxxii  3!ntroDuction 

lowest,  when  impassioned,  raised  their  language  ;  and 
the  writing  of  prose  was  generally  the  plea  and  excuse 
of  poverty  of  genius.'  ■  It  will  scarcely  be  thought  a 
corroboration  of  Johnson's  paradox  that  in  The  London 
I  Merchant  Lillo  largely  falls  into  the  practice  ot  writing 
;  blank  verse  which  he  prints  as  prose. ^  This  practice, 
for  which  precmJcnta  were  [0  be  found  near  at  hand  in 
Gibber,  must,  whether  consciously  adopted  or  not,  be 
unhesitatingly  set  down  as  a  fault  in  art,  since  it  confuses 
the  perceptions  of  the  hearer  by  a  wilful  mixture  of  forms 
—  although  it  is  a  fault  frequently  committed  by  writers 
of  picturesque  prose,  and  even  by  so  great  a  master  as 
Dickens. 

We  may  safely  conclude  that  the  audiences  which 
crowded  to  the  early  performances  of  The  London  Mer- 
(hant  troubled  themselves  little  about  either  the  artistic 
defects  or  the  artistic  merits  of  the  play.  What  they 
welcomed  in  Lillo^  tragedy  was,  in  the  first  instance, 
the  courage  wiST  which,  resuming  the  native  freedom 
of  the  English  drama,  he  ha^  choieiTliSItheme  from  a 
sphere  of  experience  immediarelv  familinr  to  them  ; 
and,  secondly,  the  plaiHness~of~tiig'^ora'r"which  he 
enforced,  and  the  direct  waTlirTv'hich  he  enforced  it. 
As  will  be  se?n  trom  the  prefatory  Dedication  prefixed 
by'LiUo  to  his  published  play,  Lillo  was  quite  aware 
of  what  he  had  accomplished  on  boththeseheads ;  but 

'  In  Johnson's  remarks  to  G.  E.  Howard,  on  receiving  from 
him  his  play  of  Tht  Female  Gamester,  in  Baker's  Biographia  Dra' 
matica,  s.  v.   The  Gamester. 

'  See  especially  the  last  Scene  of  Act  ui,  and  the  prison-scene  in 
the  last  Act. 


^IntroDuction 


xxxm 


he  showed  himself  to  have  been  aiming  at  a  wrong 
mark  when  he  declared  that  he  had  « attempted  to  en- 
large the  province  of  the  graver  kind  of  poetry.  .  .  . 
Plays,  founded  on  moral  tales  UL-Piivate  Jife..  may -be  of 
a3lllir!lblti^^]use  J)y.xarrying_  coavictioiLtQ  the  mind  with 
such  irresistible^  force.  .as_tfl. £llgage-ill  the  _  faculties  jind 
powers  of  the  soul  in  the  cause  of  virtuCj^  by  stifling 
vice  in  its  hrst  prin^iples^'^  True  criticism,  while  re- 
cognismg  the  great  service  boldly  rendered  by  Lillo  to 
dramatic  art  by  legitimately  vindicating  to  it  the  right 
of  ranging  over  as  wide  as  possible  an  area  of  subjects, 
cannot  of  course  set  its  approval  upon  his  avowjd 
intention  to  force  that  art  into  the  service  of  moral- 
ity, and  to  turn  the  actor  into  a  week-day  preacher. 
Hettner,  in  the  masterly  section  of  his  standard  work 
on  the  history  of  eighteenth  century  literature  devoted 
by  him  to  the  movement  originated  by  Lillo,'  quotes 
a  passage  from  a  letter  written  by  Goethe  to  Meyer 
in  1793,  which  puts  this  matter  at  once  so  succinctly 
and  so  completely  that  it  may  well  be  re-quoted  here  : 
•  The  old  song  of  the  Phihstine,  that  art  must  acknow-  j 
ledge  the  moral  law  and  subordinate'  itself  to  it,  con- 1 
tains  not  more  than  a  half-truth.  /Art  has  always  re-' 
cognised  that  law,  and  must  alwa/s  recognise  it,  because 
the  laws  of  art,  like  the  moral  law,  are  derived  from 
reaso^  but  if  art  were  to  subordinate  itself  to  morals, 
K~~wefe  better  for  her  that  a  millstone  were  hanged 
about  her  neck  and  that  she  were  drowned  in  the 
depths  of  the  sea,  than  that  she  should  be  doomed  to 

*   LUttratur^eich'ichte  des  iS  Jahrhundertiy  vol,  I,  p.  5 14  «yy. 
(edition  of  1865).  I , 


\ 


XXXIV 


31ntroDuctton 


t 


die  away/gradually  into  the  platitude  of  a  utilitarian 
puj'pose.  "  ' 

^  -7'^Iirthe  age  on  which  Lillo  (though  the  actual  term 
was  not  invented  by  him  or  by  any  other  English  writer 
or  critic)  bestowed  th^^^ft-of  ddaiilk  tra^eay  at»a  new 
dramatic  speQes  was,  'n  trie  glaffi^itfrsgtfffineiftatgnd 
(■fTurnanitariaiLAijlui^iatm,  impervious  to  the  Kiiof  any 
stich- "purely  aesthetic  danger.  Un  the  tnglish  stage, 
where,  as  has  been  seen,  Lillo  had  in  truth  only  restored 
the  freedom  of  an  earlier  and  more  spacious  era,  no  great 
school  of  dramatists  availed  itself  of  the  re-emancipation 
(if  it  may  be  so  called)  achieved  by  him;  but  not  the 
less,  even  though  he  himself  returned  to  its  beaten  track, 
was  the  ascendancy  of  blank-verse  tragedy  on  the  French 
model  henceforth  doomed  to  gradual  extinction.  Lillo's 
Fatal  Curiosity,  as  we  shall  see,  besides  his  brace  of 
CX»i-i<.»'<  adaptations  from  the  Elizabethan  drama,  followed  in  the 
—  trarkjnf  {lis  earliest  tragedy;  and  before  long  Edward 

^'MoorCiJn' his  monotonous,  buLjear-compelling  prose 
Tt?S|e3yor~^^G^«;^{/fr_(.l.7X3Lli?P''ovided  the  Eng- 
lish stage^ith  a  second   stock-piece  of  essentially  the 
isame  class  as  The  London  Merchant  —  not  lessjiniple 
in  its  psychology  and  stiltedjn  ks  rhetoric,  but  more 
'clearly  cut  ih  tWln  and  eyen_jnore- signally  exhibiting 
Tthe  foTce  oFlctionjjOlElayi,   Comedy  still  maintained 


^ 


'tic  literature;  but  the  sentimental  variety  continued  to 
predominate,  and  was  only  scotched,  not  killed,  by  the 
touch  of  nature  supplied  by  Goldsmith.  Richard  Cum- 
berland, who  possessed  a  genuine  power  of  character- 
isation, may  be  said  to  have  carried  on  the   dramatic 


31ntroDuctton         ^^n^xxv 

species  reintroduced  by  Lillo;  but  he  at  the  same  time, 
so  to  speak,  broke  it  off  as  a  tragic  growth  by  yield- 
ing to  a  demand  which  (until  these  latter  days)  the 
theatrical  public  has  persisted  in  preferring  —  the  de- 
mand for  a  so-called  '  happy  ending.'  Thus  on  the 
English  stage,  too,  the  species  accomplished  the  evolu- 
tion through  which  it  passed  in  the  French  and  in  the 
German  theatre,     k      .,  Cp^J'^    {k(A^*t 

Both  of  these  were,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  far  more 
strongly  affected  by  Lillo's  innovation  than  was  our 
own,  but  even  they  In  different  degrees.  In  France,  ', 
as  has  been  already  mentioned,  the  tendency  of  sev-  ^^^aJUL 
eral  successful  dramatists  more  or  less  contemporary 
with  him  was  to  give  prominence  in  comedy  to  an 
appeal  to  moral  sentiment.  It  is  clear  that  Lillo's  play 
directly  cnntrihiiredj-nw^rd''  fhc  artnal  fransfnrmTJnn 
of'thc  voTntStfTarmoyasliLlDXQ^^e  ulterior^ species,  in 
which  the  comic  element  was  practically  extinguished, 
and  nothing  rernained  but  a  direct  appeal  to  morality 
and  the  emotions.  In  I  T^fSlhere  was  published  at  Paris 
a'  French  version  of  The  London  Merchant  by  Pierre 
Clement,  who,  born  at  Geneva  in  1 707,  had  relin- 
quished his  duties  as  a  Calvinist  minister  to  become  tutor 
at  Paris  to  the  children  of  Earl  Waldegrave,  British 
ambassador  at  that  court.  He  afterwards  accompanied 
them  to  England  and  Italy;  and  having  then  devoted 
himself  at  Paris  to  literary  pursuits,  including  the  pro- 
duction of  plays,  was  invited  by  the  Church  authorities 
at  Geneva  to  resign  his  title  of  minister.  In  I  767  he 
died  insane  at  Charenton.  Among  his  plays  were  two 
translations  from  the  English,  one   of  which  was  Le 


'^ 


xxxvi  jIlntroDuftion 

Marckand  de  Londres.'-  It  reached  a  second  edition  in 
1751;  and  therejafibe  no  doubt  that  to  its  direct 
influence  uponQ3idcrot  )was  largely  due  the  production 
of  the  plays  by  which  lie  deliberately  sought  to  revolu- 
tionise the  French  theatre,  and  which  occupy  an  im- 
portant place  in  its  history  as  well  as  in  that  of  dramatic 
literature  in  general.  The  earlier  of  these  plays,  Le 
Fih  Naturel,  published  in  1757,  was  at  once  fcillowed 
by  the  three  Etftretiens,  dialogues  in  which  Diderot 
expounds  his  dramatic  principles  and  their  application 
to  his  recent  production,  and  in  which  he  twice  refers 
to  Lillo's  play  as  typical  of  the  species  which  he  is 
endeavouring  to  introduce.*  In  1758  followed  Le  P'ere 
de  Famille,  accompanied  by  the  Discours  lur  la  fohie 
dramatique,  addressed  to  Grimm,  in  the  tenth  section 
of  which  the  thpor^J^f  HnmesrirtragpHy  and  its  appli- 
cation  by  himself  is  fully  expounded!  In  1760,  Diderot 
composed  an  adaptation  of  Moore's  Gamester,  but  as 
in  1762  a  translation  of  this  piece  was  printed  by  the 
Abbe  Brute  de  Loirette,  Diderot's  version  remained 
unpublished  till   1 8 19.3    Hb  own  early  association  of 

'  The  other,  ha  Double  Metamorphose  ( 1749),  *^  ^  version  of 
the  celebrated  ballad  opera  by  some  half  a  dozen  authors.  The  Devil 
to  Pay. 

"In  Entretien  i,  he  eulogises  the  natural  pathos  of  the  prison- 
scene  between  Barnwell  and  Maria  in  Act  v  of  The  London  Mer- 
chant. (See  note  in  loc.)  In  Entretien  ii^  Dorval,  after  claiming 
for  the  new  species  the  title  of  *  trageJie  domeuii^ue  et  hourgeoise, 
adds  :  '  The  English  have  The  Merchant  of  London  and  The  Game- 
ster^  tragedies  in  prose.  The  tragedies  of  Shakespeare  are  half 
ver^,  half  prose.' 

'  Le  Jfoueur.    Drame  imiti  de  I'Anglaii. 


31ntroDuction  xxxvii 

The  Gamester  with  The  London  Merchant  had  led  to  a 
general  and  long-enduring  belief  in  France  that  Moore's 
drama  was  by  Lillo.  But  the  amplest  extant  tribute  by 
Diderot  to  Lillo  occurs  in  the  Correspondence  of  Grimm, 
who  speaks  of  the  great  success  of  The  London  Merchant 
in  England,  and  its  high  reputation  in  France  since 
the  publication  of  the  French  translation  of  it.  He 
adds  a  critique  by  Diderot  on  the  Epitre  de  Barnevelt, 
by  Claude-Joseph  Dorat,  a  writer  of  quite  inexhaustible 
fecundity,  supposed  to  be  written  from  prison  by  Barn- 
well (or,  more  metrically,  'Barnevelt')  to  his  friend 
'  Truman,'  expanding  into  a  '  heroic  '  epistle  the  narra- 
tive of  his  parricidal  crime.  Diderot  falls  into  the  trap 
of  confounding  the  excellent  Thoroughgood  (softened 
into  '  Sorogoud  ')  with  Barnwell's  unhappy  uncle;  but 
no  better  critical  page  was  ever  written  than  that  distin- 
guishing the  lifehke  method  of  Lillo  frnm  thfi  ppHanr- 
ries  of  his"adapter. ' 


Beyond  a  doubt  Diderot' s  dramatic  '  innovation ' 
would  not  have  exercised  the  effect  actually  produced  by 
it  but  for  the  great  name  of  the  editor  of  the  Encyclopedic, 
and  for  the  general  fermentation  of  ideas  into  the  midst 
of  which  i  was  cast.  Equally  beyond  a  doubt,  this  effect 
was  litera  -y  rather  than  theatrical,  so  far  as  France  itself 
was  conc"^rned.  Le  Fits  Naturel,  though  performed 
at  the  Due  d'Ayen's  private  theatre  at  St.  Germain 
(where,  n  1764,  was  also  acted  a  French  version  of 
Lessing's  Miss  Sara  Sampson^  was  not  brought  on  the 

^  Extrail  de  la  Correspondance  dt  Grimm^  /"■  avril  lyd^y  in 
Miscellanea  Oramati(jues :  La  Letire  de  Barne-velt ;  (Euvres  dt 
Diderot,  VIII  ^ BeUe8-Lettres,<>-) ,  449  ieqq.  (Paris,  1875). 


^ 


xxxviii  31ntroDuction 

boards  of  the  Com'edie  Fmn^aise  till  i  77 1 ,  where  (with 
the  help  of  all  the  actors  except  Mole)  it  proved  a 
failure. '  But  its  literary  success  was  remarkable  ;  and 
it  has  been  well  said  that  no  impartial  spectator  could 
have  failed  to  find  in  it  a  hitherto  undiscovered  pathos 
and  a  power  which  made  it  possible  to  forget  the  stage. 
At  the  same  time  Lessing  justly  censured  in  it  a  certain 
preciosity  and  an  occasional  pedantry  of  philosophical 
formula.  In  Le  Pire  de  Famille  the  domestic  drama 
shook  itself  free  from  these  adventitious  elements  ;  but 
though  the  earlier  acts  are  fine  and  flowing,  —  full  of 
the  '  movement '  in  which  Diderot  himself  thought  the 
play  superior  to  its  predecessor,  —  and  though  the  whole 
drama  exhibits  a  conflict  of  souls  rather  than  of  mere 
words,  the  psychological  interest  is  gradually  more  or 
less  dissipated,  and  the  end  of  the  action  falls  flat.  It 
was  moderately  successful  on  the  Paris  stage,  when 
produced  there  in  1761,  after  being  acted  at  Marseilles 
in  the  previous  year.^  On  being  reproduced  at  Paris 
in  1 769,  it  met  with  much  favour,  as  also  at  Naples  in 
1773.  But  though  Diderot's  influence  upon  both  older 
contemporary  dramatists  (such  as  Sedaine)  and  younger 
(such  as  Beaumarchais,  who  essayed  this  sj  ecies  in 
his  earlier,  now  forgotten  plays)  was  conside  able,  its 
real  success  was  remote.  In  the  end  the^^^) — a 
name  which  has  no  character  at  all  —  was  tc  "Eecome 

'  It  was  translated  into  English  under  the  title  of  Dorval,  or  the 
Tes:  of  Virtue  (1767). 

^  It  was  translated  into  English  in  1770;  and  again  in  178 1 
under  the  title  of  A  Family  Picture,  by  a  lady.  Its  re/ival  on  the 
Paris  stage  in  1 84 1  was  not  successful. 


3[IntroDuctton  xxxix 

the  dominating  species  of  the  living  French  stage,  and 
to  survive  through  all  the  changes  rung  upon  one  another 
by  clas^cym  and  romanticism.  'f^/  - 

In  the  mean  hmeDiderot  had  contributed  to  give 
force  and  freedom  to  the  developement  of  the  German 
drama,  in  the  direction  to  which  all  his  efforts  had  -  .,  v 
tended  at  home.  Lessing,  who  in  1760  published  an  --J^^ 
anonymous  translation  of  Diderot's  plays,  and  prefixed  ,  i  g 
his  name  to  its  second  edition  in  178 1,  in  the  preface 
to  the  latter  correctly  states  that  Diderot  had  a  greater 
influence  on  the  German  theatre  than  on  that  of  his 
own  nation.  ■  To  this  influence  no  writer  contributed 
in  anything  like  the  same  measure  as  Lessing  himself, 
both  by  his  translation  and  by  the  memorable  criticisms 
of  the  Fih  Naturel  and  the  Pere  de  Famille  and  of 
Diderot's  dramatic  principles  in  general  in  the  Ham- 
burger Dramaturgic.'^  But  it  was  an  influence  for  the 
reception  of  which  the  soil  had  been  long  and  diligently 
prepared  in  Germany. 

Here  Gottsched  and  other  faithful  devotees  of  French 
literary  influence  by  adaptation  and  imitation  assidu- 
ously cultivated  the   dramatic  species  represented   by 
Marivaux  and    his  successors,   and  the  most  popular    iCLc^ 
member  of  the  Leipzig  School,  Gellert,  indited  an  acad-  * 

emical  dissertation  Pro  comoedia  commovehte,  the  effect    '■'^<J^- 
of  the  innovation  on  the  English  stage  was  even  greater 
than  in  France.    In  Germany  the  movement  began  at 
the  top,  and  organically  connected  itself  with  the  per- 

'  Gesammclte  ff^eric,  1858  edn.  iv,  360  sejj.  v^i-  ' 

^  Nos.  Lxxiiv-Lxxxviii.    See  the  annotated  edition  by  F.  Schroter     (1, — Q 
and  R.  Thiele,  Halle,  1877,  pp.  489  seyy. 


[r-U^. 


xl  iflntrolittction 

ception  of  the  potent  significance  of  the  English  theatre 
I  at  large,  which  was  beginning  to  dawn  upon  the  leaders 
;  of  German  literature.    The  foremost  of  these  leaders 
in  critical  courage  and  insight,  as  well  as  in  formative 
promptitude  and  power,  Lessing,   seized  upon  Lillo's 
d.am£stic  tragedy  as  the  model  of  his  own  earliest  cre- 
ative  effort  in  the  sphere  of  the_drama.    TharA.illn'ji 
,   play  was  the_model  of  Miss  Sara  Sampson,\\-j<y^') 
would  be  rendered  certain  by  a  comparison  of  the  two 
works,   even  had  not  Lessing  given  utterance  to  the 
awful  declaration  that  he  would  rather  be  the  author 
of   The  London  Merchant  than  o'i  The  Dying   Cato. 
Aa^       Although  the   personages   in    Lessing's   drama  belong 
"y^       to  a  rather  more  elevated  class  of  society  than  those 
3^  ti"      of  Lillo's,  Miss  Sara  Sampson  is  unhesitatingly  to  be 
set  down  as  an  example  of  '  middle-class '  domestic 
tragedy.    Of  course  this  does  not  mean  that  Lessing's 
play  (in  which  certain  of  the  names  and  certain  ele- 
ments in  the  situations  are  alike  taken  from    Clarissa 
Harlowe)  is  copied  from  Lillo's,  or  even  that  the  mon- 
strous Marwood  is,  except  in  her  wickedness,  tenacity, 
and  furious  invective,  a  copy  of  the  more  monstrous 
ynf\^      Millwood."  For  the  rest,  although  Lillo's  tragedy  found 
I  ^1,    i"  way  in  a  translation  to  the  German  reading  public 
■'''-        before  1772,  as  it  did  to  that  of  Holland  a  few  years 
later,*  Lessing  had  by  this  time,  urged  by  the  invigor- 
ating and  purifying  force  of  his  genius,  passed  on  to  the 

,  .,   ,  '  See  the  paper,  suggested  by  Professor  Caro's  Lessing  und  Swifi 

'  I  '^     (Jena,   1869),  contributed  by  me  to  Macmillan't  Magazine,  vol. 
XXXV  (1X76-77). 

'  The  British  Museum  contains  copies  of  Der  Kaufmann  von 


3IntroDuction  xH 

creation  of  Emilia  Galotti  (1772),  a  powerful  drama 
that  soars  above  the  region  of  domestic  tragedy  and 
burgerliches  Tr^afrj/zV/from  which  it  had  issued.  Thus 
hehadpassednotonly  beyond  Lillo.but  beyond  Diderot,  ^ 

after  with  the  help  of  the  former  anticipating  the  latter.    LtX^ 
As  late  as  the  years  1779-83,  however,   ne  London        ^^t^ 
Merchant  was  still  to  be..seen  on  the  German  stage,  ..  ^'^^„ 
where  in  these  years  the  great  actor  Schroder  produced       A.     , 
it,  though  without  success,  in  Hamburg  and  in  some  of  ■^"'-^  '  ' 
the  other  leading  German  theatres.    The  Ruhrstick, 
of  which  it  was  the  prototype,  had  too  many  affinities 
with  certain  qualities  of  the  ordinary  German  mind  not 
to  have  established  itself  on  the  national  stage  for  many 
a  long  year  to  come.    Such  a  play  as  IfHand's  very 
effective  Verhrechen  aus  Ehrsucht,  and  many  another 
heart-rending  production  by  that  actor  of  genius  and 
author  of  insight  —  not  to  mention  the  labours  of  Kotze- 
bue  and  Frau  Birch-PfeifFer  which  employed  the  pocket- 
handkerchiefs  of  later  generations  —  may  fairly  be  said 
to  owe  their  literary  paternity  to   George  Barnwell. 
But  the  freedom  which  Lillo  so  materially  helped  to  give  ^>^ 

1  ^2? 


to  the  modern  serious  drama,  and  without  which  it  could 
hardly  have  been  preserved  from  decrepitude  or  emascu- 
lation, entitles  him  to  a  pratefiil  remembrance  whiclTno 

London,  oder  Begehenheiten  G.  BarniveWs.  Ein  biirgcrlichesTrauer- 
spiel,  aus  dem  Englischen  des  Herrn  Tillo  [siV]  iibersetzt  durch 
H.  A.  B.  Neue  Auflage.  Hamburg,  177Z  ;  of  the  same  in  a  later 
edition  of  1 78 1 ;  and  of  De  Koopman  nion  London.  Burgerlyk  treur- 
spel,  naar  het  Engelsche  van  den  Hecr  Tillo  [sic"].  Amsterdam. 
1779.  Neither  the  Dutch  nor  the  German  translation  (of  which 
the  former  seems  to  be  a  version)  contains  the  additional  scene  to 
be  found  in  some  of  the  English  editions. 


xlii  31ntrol)uction 

abuse  of  the  acquisition  ought  to  affect,  and  no  lapse 
ot  time  should  rettder  obsolete.* 


Fatal  Curiosity^  the  second  of  the  two  plays  by  Lillo 
reprinted  in  the  present  volume,  was  first  acted  at  the 
Little  Haymarket,  on  May  27,  1 736,  under  the  title 
of  Guilt  Its  Own  Punishment y  or  Fatal  Curiosity,  It 
is  stated  to  have  been,  on  its  original  production,  played 
seven  times.  *  It  was  announced  for  its  first  perform- 
ance as  *  by  Pasquin*s  Company  of  Comedians.  Never 
acted  before.  Being  a  true  story  in  Common  Life,  and 
the  Incidents  extremely  affecting.  Written  by  the  au- 
thor of  George  Barnwell.'  3  The  Little  Haymarket 
had  then  been  recendy  opened  by  Fielding  (who,  as 

'  The  satire  of  George  de  Barnivell^  Thackeray*s  travesty  in  his 
No-vels  by  Eminent  HanJs^  applies,  not  to  LJUo's  play,  but  to  certain 
of  the  earlier  writings  of  Lord  Lytton ;  the  hero  is  a  representation 
of  *  Devereux,  or  P.  Clifford,  or  E .  Aram,  Esquires' ;  and  the  moral 
-  of  the  tale  is  *  that  Homicide  is  not  to  be  permitted  even  to  the 
(  most  amiable  Genius.'  The  dramatic  effectiveness  of  the  original 
was,  on  the  other  hand,  distinctly  perceptible  in  an  amusing  extrava- 
ganza produced  at  the  Adelphi  some  thirty  or  forty  years  since. 
Some  playgoers  of  the  past  besides  myself  may  remember  the  inimit- 
able agility  with  which  in  this  piece  Mr.  Toole  skipped  over  the 
counter,  and  the  strength  of  passion  which  that  gifted  actress  Miss 
Woolgar  (Mrs.  Alfred  Mellon)  put  into  the  part  of  Millwood. 
The  '  Travestle '  of  the  story  of  George  Barnivell  in  Rejected 
Addresses  {one  of  the  contributions  of  *  Momus  Medlar  *),  though 
included  in  Jeffrey's  praise  of  being  *  as  good  as  that  sort  of  thing 
can  be,'  is  one  of  the  few  things  in  the  famous  volume  whose  wit 
will  not  keep  them  fresh. 

*  From  a  copy  of  Genest,  with  MSS.  notes,  bequeathed  to  the 
British  Museum  in  1844  by  Mr.  Frederick  Latreille,  vol.  iii, 
p.  488,  note. 

'  London  Daily  Pott,  Thursday,  May  7,  1736. 


31ntronuctton  xiiii 

has  been  seen,  was  a  steady  admirer  and  friend  of  Lillo) 
with  his  Peisguin,  a  Dramatick  Satire  on  the  Times. 
Thomas  Davies,  the  dramatist's  future  editor,  as  well 
as  author  of  a  Life  of  Garrick  and  of  Dramatic  Mis- 
cellanies, took  the  part  of  young  Wilmot.  He  says  that 
the  play  was  not  successful  at  first,  but  that  Fielding 
afterwards  tacked  it  to  his  Historical  Register  (which 
had  so  signal,  though  short-lived,  a  succes  de  scandaW) , 
and  that  it  was  then  performed  to  more  advantage  and 
often  repeated.  It  was  reproduced  at  the  Haymarket 
in  1755  with  a  Prologue  by  the  younger  Gibber,' 
which  seems  never  to  have  been  printed  ;  and  again,  at 
the  same  theatre,  by  the  elder  Colman  in  1782.'  Col- 
man,  besides  adding  a  new  Prologue,  introduced  some 
alterations  which,  without  affecting  the  general  course 
or  texture  of  the  piece,  were  considerable  as  well  as,  on 
the  whole,  judicious.  Their  nature  will  be  apparent 
from  the  following  remarks,  which  form  the  earlier  por- 
tion of  the  Postscript  appended  by  Colman,  with  his 
signature  and  the  date  '  Soho-Square,  June  28,  1783,' 
to  his  edition  of  the  play,  published  in  1783:3 

'  Though  the  Fatal  Curiosity  of  LiLLO  has  received  the 
applause    of  many   sound  critics,  and    been   accounted 

'  So  Genest  says,  iv,  425.  The  advertisement  of  the  play  in 
the  daily  papers  of  September  4,  1755,  runs:  'With  original 
Prologue,  spoken  by  Gibber's.* 

*  It  was  the  younger  Colman  who  brought  out,  in  1798,  a 
'dramatic  romance,'   called  Bluebeard,  or  Female  Curioiity. 

3  For  these  changes  see  the  footnotes  to  the  text  in  the  present 
volume.  The  remainder  of  the  Postscript,  with  the  exception  of 
its  concluding  sentence,  is  reprinted  in  Appendix  11 :  The  Source  of 
Fatal  Curiosity. 


xliv  idnttoDuction 

worthy  of  the  Graecian  stage,  and  (what  is,  perhaps,  still 
higher  merit)  worthy  of  Shakespeare !  yet  the  long  ex- 
clusion of  this  drama  from  the  theatre  had  in  some  meas- 
ure obscured  the  fame  of  a  tragedy,  whose  uncommon 
excellence  challenged  more  celebrity.  The  late  Mr.  Har- 
ris, of  Salisbury, '  has  endeavoured,  in  his  Philological 
Inquiries,  to  display  the  beauties,  the  terrible  graces,  of 
the  piece,  and  to  do  justice  to  the  memory  of  Lillo. 
His  comment  is  in  general  just,  yet  he  seems  to  have 
given  a  sketch  of  the  Fable  from  an  imperfect  recollection 
of  the  circumstances,  without  the  book  before  him.  He 
appears  to  have  conceived  that  the  tragedy  derived  its 
title  from  the  curiosity  of  Agnes  to  know  the  contents  of 
the  casket  :  but  that  Lillo  meant  to  mark  by  the  title 
the  Fatal  Curiosity  of  Young  Wilmot,  is  evident 
from  the  whole  scene  between  him  and  Randal,  wherein 
he  arranges  the  plan  of  his  intended  interview  with  his 
parents  ;  which  arrangement  Mr.  Harris  erroneously  at- 
tributes to  his  conference  with  Chariot.  The  principle  of 
Curiosity  is  openly  avowed  and  warmly  sustained  by 
Young  Wilmot,  and  humbly  reprehended  by  Randal. 

'  The  comment  of  Mr.  Harris  is,  however,  on  the 
whole,  most  judicious  and  liberal.  It  concludes  with  a 
note  in  these  words: 

'  "If  any  one  read  this  tragedy,  the  author  of  these 
Inquiries  has  a  request  or  two  to  make,  for  which  he 
hopes  a  candid  reader  will  forgive  him  —  One  is,  not  to 
cavil  at  minute  in-accuracies,  but  [to]  look  to  the  superior 
merit  of  the  tuhole  taken  together.  —  Another  is,  totally 

>  James  Harris,  author  of  Hermes,  and  father  of  the  first  Earl  of 

Malmesbury.  Harris  was  carried  away  by  his  admiration  of  Fatal 
Curiosity,  whicii  he  compares,  on  an  equal  footing,  to  the  (Edipus 
Tyrannus  in  the  conception  and  arrangement  of  the  fable,  and  which 
he  subsequently  extols  for  its  *  insistency  of  manners.  * 


^IntroDuction  xlv 

to  expunge  those  wretched  rhimes,  which  conclude  many 
of  the  scenes  ;  and  which,  't  is  probable,  are  not  from 
Lillo,  but  from  some  other  hand,  willing  to  conform  to 
an  absurd  fashion,  then  practised,  but  now  laid  aside,  the 
fashion  (I  mean)  of  a  rkiming  conclujton."  Philological 
Inquiries,  vol.  I,  p.   1 74. 

'  The  present  Editor  thought  it  his  duty  to  remove,  as 
far  as  he  was  able,  the  blemishes  here  noticed  by  Mr. 
Harris  ;  and  he  therefore  expunged  tJie  rkiming  conclu- 
sions of  acts  and  scenes,  except  in  one  instance,  where  he 
thought  the  couplet  too  beautiful  to  be  displaced.  Some 
minute  inaccuracies  of  language  he  also  hazarded  an  at- 
tempt to  correct ;  and  even  in  some  measure  to  mitigate 
the  horror  of  the  catastrophe,  by  the  omission  of  some 
expressions  rather  too  savage,  and  by  one  or  two  touches 
of  remorse  and  tenderness.  Agnes  is  most  happily  drawn 
after  Lady  Macbeth  ;  in  whose  character  there  is  not  per- 
haps a  finer  trait,  than  her  saying,  during  the  murder  of 
Duncan, 

**  Had  he  not  resembled 
My  father  as  he  slept,  I  had  done't  I  **  *  ' 

The  play  was  reproduced  by  the  elder  Colman  at 
the  same  theatre  in  1782.  In  1784  an  alteration  of 
the  play  by  Henry  Mackenzie,  author  of  The  Man 
of  Feeling,  was  performed  —  once  only  —  at  Covent 
Garden,  under  the  title  of  The  Shipwreck.  This 
version  is  in  five  acts,  and  introduces  a  boy  Charles, 
grandson  to  Agnes,  who  unnecessarily  complicates  the 
action.^    Finally,  it  was  revived  in  181 3  at  Bath  under 

»  The  above  fails  to  exhaust  the  bare-faced  plagiarisms  from 
Macbeth  in  the  murder-scene  in  Lille's  play. 

*  Genest,  viii,  310,  does  not  mention  Charles,  who  appears  in 
Acts  n,  HI,  and  v,  where  tjiere  is  a  good  deal  about  him.    Agnes 


xlvi  31ntroDuction 

the  title  of  The  Cornish  Shipwreck,  or  Fatal  Curiosity, 
when  an  additional  scene  was  performed,  in  which 
young  Wilmot  appears  after  he  has  been  stabbed,  and 
in  a  dying  state.  This  scene,  which  is  said  to  have 
been  by  Lillo's  hand,  although  it  is  not  printed  in  any 
extant  edition,  and  which  had  been  presented  to  the 
less  sensitive  Bristol  public  without  giving  rise  to  any 
dissatisfaction,  now  provoked  so  much  disturbance  that 
the  curtain  had  to  drop. ' 

In  the  Postscript  already  cited  Colman  narrates  the 
episode  which  suggested  to  Lillo  the  plot  of  his  trag- 
edy, and  mentions  his  belief  that  the  story  was  no 
longer  extant  except  in  Frankland's  Annals  of  the  Reigns 
of  King  James  and  King  Charles  the  First.''  He 
adds  a  reference  to  the  Biographia  Dramatica,  in 
which  the  source  of  the  story  is  stated  to  be  a  black- 
letter  pamphlet  of  1 6 1 8  entitled  News  from  Perin  in 
Cornwall,  etc.  But  before  Frankland,  the  story  had 
been  reproduced  from  the  pamphlet  by  W.  Sanderson's 
Compleat  History  of  the  Lives  and  Reigns  of  Mary, 

does  not  reveal  whether  he  is  the  son  of  her  son  or  of  a  daughter, 
though  she  says  that  his  mother  is  dead.  For  an  account  by  Mac- 
kenzie of  the  motives  for  his  changes  see  Biographia  Dramatica,  vol. 
Ill  (ed.  1S12),  under  The  Shipivreck.  They  show,  as  might  be 
expected,  a  higher  degree  of  refinement  than  seems  to  have  been 
thought  necessary  by  the  theatrical  public  ;  but  they  are  neverthe- 
less finely  conceived. 

I   Genest,  vill,  388. 

®  [Dr.  Thomas  Frankland's]  The  Annals  of  King  Jamei  and 
King  Charles  the  First  both  of  happy  memory  {from  1612-1642), 
London,  1 68 1,  fol.  ser.  p.  33,  where  this  *  calamity  of  wondrous 
note  '  is  said  to  have  happened  at  *  Perinin  *  in  Cornwall,  in  Sep- 
tember, 1618,  and  where  the  story  is  told  inmiediately  after  the 
account  of  the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Ralegh. 


31ntrotiucttott  xivii 

^een  of  Scotland,  and  of  her  Son  and  Successor  James, 
(London,  1656,  pp.  463-65.)'  Indeed,  I  find  that 
the  entire  reign  of  James  as  given  in  Franlcland  is,  except 
for  insignificant  changes,  a  mere  reproduction  of  Sander- 
son's account,  and  that  the  story  of  the  murder  is  virtu- 
ally identical  in  the  two  histories.  As  in  Frankland,  the 
story  in  Sanderson  follows  immediately  the  account  of 
the  death  of  Sir  Walter  Ralegh.  A  copy  of  the  pamphlet 
is  preserved  in  the  Bodleian  at  Oxford;  and  I  have  availed 
myself  of  the  kind  permission  of  the  Bodleian  authorities 
and  the  courtesy  of  Mr.  George  Parker  to  reproduce  the 
original  in  extenso  in  an  Appendix  for  comparison  with 
the  Frankland-Sanderson  version  and  the  play  itself.  I 
have  there  also  mentioned  some  of  the  analoga  to  the 
story  which  have  been  noted  by  earlier  and  more  recent 
research.  It  will  not  escape  observation  that  in  the 
pamphlet,  where  the  story  has  a  long  and  elaborate 
exordium,  the  instigator  of  the  crime  is  the  step-mother, 
not  the  mother,  of  its  victim  ;  but  that  Frankland,  or 
rather  his  original,  Sanderson,  — and  one  of  these  ac- 
counts was  probably  that  used  by  Lillo,  —  deepens  the 
horror  of  the  deed  by  ascribing  it  to  the  mother. 

'  Noted  by  Reinhard  Kohler,  XJeher  dm  Siojf  -von  Zachartat 
lyerner  s  Vitrund%'wan-zigittn  Februar  (^Kleinere  Schriften  &c., 
hrsgbn.  von  I.  Bolte,  Berlin,  1900,  vol.  iii,  pp.  185-199)  —  an 
exhaustive  essay  very  kindly  pointed  out  to  me  by  Professor  Erich 
Schmidt — who  cites  G.  C.  Boase  and  W.  P.  Courtney,  Bihlio- 
theca  Carnuiiemis  (1874),  vol.  I,  p.  319.  Frankland's  version  is  also 
to  be  found  in  Baker's  BiograpUa  Dramatka  (ed.  1812),  vol.  11, 
pp.  224-261.  There  are  several  later  references  to  the  story.  See 
also  W.  E.  A.  Axon,  The  Story  of  Fatal  Curiosity  in  Notes  and 
Slueries,  6  ser.  5,  21  f.  (1882). 


xiviii  3lntroi)uctuin 

The  time,  then,  at  which  the  action  of  Fatal  Curiosity 
is  laid,  is  the  latter  part  of  the  reign  of  James  I,  after 
Sir  Walter  Ralegh's  last  return  from  Guiana  in  1618; 
but  the  dramatist  evidently  takes  into  account  the  strong 
feeling  against  Spain  which  prevailed  in  England  about 
the  time  of  the  production  of  this  tragedy.  Two  years 
later  —  in  1738  —  this  state  of  feeling  was  to  be  in- 
creased to  a  pitch  of  frenzy  by  the  story  of  Jenkins's 
ear ;  and  in  the  following  year  Walpole  was  con- 
strained to  declare  war  against  Spain.  The  scene  of 
the  action  is  Penrhyn  (near  Falmouth),  in  Corn- 
wall, which  at  one  time  enjoyed  the  reputation  of 
being  the  smallest  borough  in  England,  but  which 
still  returns  a  member  to  Parliament.  Lillo  seems  to 
have  little  or  no  acquaintance  with  the  place,'  but  to 
have  taken  some  interest  in  the  misdeeds  of  the  Corn- 
ish wreckers,  of  which,  in  the  last  scene  of  the  first  act 
of  this  play,  he  speaks  with  grave  reprobation,  as  a 
scandal  that  ought  to  be  ended.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
an  act  of  great  severity  had  been  passed  against  this  evil 
in  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne,  and  made  perpetual  under 
George  I ;  but  when  Wesley  visited  Cornwall  in  1 776, 
he  found  that  this  '  especial  scandal '  of  the  country,  as 
Mr.  Lecky  calls  it,  was  still  as  common  there  as  ever.' 

'  In  the  first  scene  of  the  play  Randal  says : 

*  I  saw  her  pass  the  High-Street  tVards  the  minster/ 
The  noble  parish-church  of  St.   Gluvias  (with  its  interesting  mon- 
uments of  the  Pendarves  family  and  others)  can  at  no  time  have  been 
called  '  the  minster.'    It  is  about  a  mile  away  from  the  High  Street. 

*  Lecky's  History  of  England  in  the  Eighteenth  Century  (2d  ed.  ) 
489.  Cf.  the  reference  to  the  *  inhospitable  ways  '  of  these  folk 
in  The  London  Merchant,  Act  iv,  ad  Jin. 


31ntroJ)ttction  xlix 

It  should  be  noted  that,  unlike  The  London  Merchant, 
this  play  is  throughout  written  in  blank  verse,  a  circum- 
stance in  accord  with  the  general  characterof  the  diction, 
which  has  a  tendency  to  be  more  ornate  than  that  of 
the  earlier  work.  The  blank  verse  is,  however,  by  no 
means  excellent  of  its  kind,  and,  curiously  enough,  is 
at  times  less  smooth  than  so  much  of  the  prose  of  The 
London  Merchant  as  runs  into  metre.  Lillo  has  a  habit 
of  prefixing  a  redundant  syllable  to  a  six-foot  line  ;  but, 
even  allowing  for  this,  his  lines  do  not  always  run  easily. 
Thus  we  have  in  the  opening  scene  : 

'  Whose  perfection  ends  in  knowing  we  know  nothing." 
*  li  tir'd  or  exhausted  —  curst  condition  !  ' 

His  elisions  too  are  often  harsh,  as  : 

*  By  unjust  suspicion  I  know  the  truth. 

Colman,  in  his  revised  edition,  showed  his  good  taste 
by  '  expunging  the  rhyming  conclusions  of  acts  and 
scenes.' 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that,  as  Colman  pointed  out, 
the  title  of  Fatal  Curiosity  contains  no  reference,  as 
might  be  supposed,  — or,  at  all  events,  that  it  does  not 
refer  primarily,  —  to  the  '  curiosity  '  of  Mrs.  Wilmot 
(Agnes)  in  opening  the  casket  brought  into  his  parents' 
house  by  their  unknown  son.'  It  refers  in  the  first 
instance  to  the  '  curiosity  '  —  a  kind  of  iJySpi?  or  pre- 
sumption on  his  good  fortune  —  displayed  by  Young 
Wilmot,   when   he  tempts  Providence   in  order  to  se- 

1  In  the  opening  speech  of  Act  in,  Agnes  says  ; 

'  why  should  my  curiotity  excite  mc 
To  search  and  pry  into  tb'  affairs  of  others  *  * 


rnmidrrnhlr  rj-rntj  hnvo  (riirrrmjir  rrnnr  of  Schicbals- 
tragidie  -^-  the  tragedy  of  destiny/^his  species  must 


1  iHiitwBuctton 

cure  to  himself  a  certain  heightening  or  raffincment 
of  enjoyment  by  visiting  his  parents  without  having 
first  discovered  himself  to  them.  As  to  this  the  expres- 
sions of  Young  Wilmot  and  the  faithful  Randal  before 
the  commission  of  the  error  ■  and  the  reflexion  of  the 
former  after  he  has  committed  it,'  leave  no  room  for 
doubt. 

The  interest  attaching  to  Fatal  Curiosity  in  connex- 
ion with  the  general  course  of  dramatfc  literature  lies 
in  the  fact  of  its  being  an  early  experiment  in  a  species 
to  which  the  Germans,  who  alone  cultivated  it  to  any 

mjie  name 

.     ^ .„_  ---o--^    -- tiny7~^his  -^-         .     ..- 

be  regarded,  nor  jj  iin>oduLiiig~anew  element  into 
tragic  action,  but  as  exaggerating  in  various  degrees  of 
grotesqueness  (I  here  use  the  word  '  grotesque  '  in  its 
proper,  which  is  also  very  close  to  its  etymological, 
meaning)  an  element  which  in  itself  is  foreign  neither  to 
ancient  nor  to  modern  tragedy.    Professor  Lewis  Camp- 

'  In  the  scene  between  Young  Wilmot  and  Randal  in  Act  u 
the  Jbrmer  asks  : 

'■  Why  may  1  not 
Indulge  my  curiotity  and  try 
If  it  be  possible  by  seeing  first 
My  parents  as  a  stranger,  to  improve 
This  pleasure  by  surprise  i  * 

and  Randal  replies  : 

*  You  grow  luxurious  in  mental  pleasures) 

...  To  say  true,  I  ever  thougnl 
•  Your  boundless  curiotity  a  weakness.* 

'  Act  n,  ad  fin. ,  Young  Wilmot  exclaims  : 

'■  How  has  my  curiosity  betray'd  me 
Into  superfluous  pain  !    1  faint  with  fondneM, 
And  shall,  if  1  stay  longer,  rush  upon  'cm/  etc. 


3Introi)uction  li 

bell,  in  a  work  from  which  I  have  already  quoted,  has 

a  passage  on  this  subject  at  once  so   pertinent  and  so     VJ/*^*- 

judicious  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  giving  it  in  full  :  ,  , 

'  As  Mr.W.  L.  Courtney  puts  it,  "  tragedy  is  always 
a  clash  of  two  powers  —  necessity  without,  freedom 
within  ;  outside,  a  great,  rigid,  arbitrary  law  of  fate  ;  in- 
side, the  moderated  individual  will,  which  can  win  its  ^^ 
spiritual  triumphs  even  when  all  its  material  surroundings 
and  environment  have  crumbled  into  hopeless  ruin.  .  .  . 
Necessity  without,  liberty  within  —  that  is  the  great  theme 
"'which,   however   disguised,    nms  througli  every  tragedy"?" 

"that  has  been  written  in  thyxflikL^T  But  it  is^mmonly  ] 
'assumed  that,  wliprp^<.  irk,_^.<;rhyliis1ani1tSophnrlM  ^t'Fig'  j 
necessity  is  wholly  (^utward,  in  Shal?espeare  it  is  the  direct  ! 

"ouTcoitte  of(J%rsona1ify^  that  while  the  theme  of  ancient 
drama  is,  as  Wordsworth  says, 

"  Poor  humanity's  afflicted  will 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny,*' 

in  Shakespeare  the  tragic  hero  is  encountered  by  the  con- 
sequences of  his  own  errors,  so  that  here,  far  more  than  in 
the  Greek  masterpieces,  we  see  exemplified  the  truth  of 
the  Greek  proverb   "Character  is  destiny";   "no  fate  '■ 
broods  over  the  actions  of  men  and  the  history  of  fami-  j 
lies;  the  only  fatality  is  the  &tality  of  character. "    (Do'W-  j 
den.)  \ 

'  This  is  only  partly  true.  All  ancient  art  and  thought 
is  in  its  form  more  objective,  while  an  ever-growing  sub- 
jectivity is  the  note  of  the  modern  mind  ;  and  the  ancient 
fables  mostly  turned  on  some  predetermined  fatality.  But 
in  his  moulding  of  the  fable  the  Attic  poet  was  guided  by 
his  own  profound  conception  of  human  nature  as  he  saw  j 
it  in  its  freest  working.    The  idea  of  fate  is  thus,  as  it  were,   \ 


lii  iflntroDuttion 

expanded  into  an  outer  framework  for  the  picture  of  life, 
except  in  so  far  as  it  remains  to  symbolize  those  inscrutable 
causes  beyond  human  control,  whose  working  is  likewise 
present  to  the  mind  of  Shakespeare.  Xerxes,  Agamem- 
non, Clytemnestra,  Ajax,  Creon  are  no  less  victims  of 
their  own  passionate  nature  than  Macbeth  or  Lear ;  and 
the  fate  of  Hamlet  almost  equally  with  that  of  Qidipus  is 
due  to  antecedent  and  surrounding  circumstances  with 
which  neither  he  nor  any  man  could  have  power  to  cope  ; 
although  here  also  malign  fortune  is  assisted  by  "the  o'er- 
growth  of  some  complexion.  Oft  breaking  down  the  pale* 
and  forts  of  reason. "  '  ' 

I  have  cited  this  passage  as  it  stands  ;  but  I  cannot 
conceal  my  opinion  that  more  lurks  in  the  reservation 
'  almost  equally '  in  its  concluding  sentence  than  might 
perhaps  be  obvious  at  first  sight.  There  is  a  provoca- 
tion of  character  in  (Edipus  as  in  Hamlet ;  but  Hamlet 
is,  and  CEdipus  is  not,  pitted  on  equal  terms  against  the 
power  of  fate  ;  and  the  mighty  Sophoclean  trilogy  must 
remain,  as  Vischer  puts  it,  the  most  signal  instance  of 
the  inability  of  Greek  tragedy  to  solve  the  problem  of  the 
conflict  between  destiny  and  guilt. ' 

But  in  any  case  Lillo,  whether  consciously  or  not, 
in  his  Fatal  Curiosity  took  a  step  which  may  be  re- 

'  L.  Campbell,  Tragic  Drama  in  AesckyluSy  etc.,  pp.  29-31. 

'  See  the  powerful  passage  in  F.  T.  Vischer's  ^sthetik  oder 
JViaemchaft  des  SchZnen,  part  iii,  section  ii,  p.  141  o  (vol.  iv 
of  1857  ed.).  I  much  regret  to  be  unable  to  refer  to  a  paper  by 
the  late  Professor  H .  T.  Rotscher,  Zufall  und  Noihivendigkeit  im 
Drama  in  JahrbUcher  Jiir  dramatiiche  Kunit  und  Literatur.  (  It 
is  not  in  Jahrgang  184.8,  as  I  have  at  last,  to  my  great  disappoint- 
ment, ascertained.) 


31ntrotuction  J>» 

garded  as  transnormal  :  not  because  in  the  narrow- 
framework  of  his  domestic  tragedy  he  once  more  pic- 
tured la  fuerza  del  destino  —  the  force  of  destiny  — 
which  few  tragic  dramatists,  great  or  small,  have  pre- 
tended to  ignore,  but  because,  in  point  of  fact,  he  ex- 
hibited destiny  as  operating  to  all  intents  and  purposes 
independently  of  character.  The  demoralising  effects 
of  want  and  '  dire  necessity  '  upon  Old  Wilmot  and 
his  wife  are  of  course  quite  insufficient  to  account  for 
the  sophistry  with  which  she  •  seduces  his  will '  and 
'  infects  his  soul '  so  as  to  secure  his  connivance  in  her 
criminal  design.  On  the  other  hand,  the  '  curiosity  ' 
of  their  son  in  taking  them  unawares,  which  the  author 
wishes  us  to  accept  as  the  really  fatal  starting-point  in 
the  series  of  events  that  end  in  the  catastrophe  of  both 
son  and  parents,  is,  if  a  weakness,  a  perfectly  natural 
and  pardonable  one.  The  effect  of  this  tragedy  is 
therefore  as  hollow  as  it  is  horrible  ;  like  Quarles'  Em- 
blem of  the  vacuous  world,  tinnit,  inane  est;  and  it 
appropriately  ends  with  the  twofold  commonplace,  that 
the  ways  of  heaven  are  mysterious,  and  that 

I'  The  ripe  in  virtue  never  die  too  soon.' 
We  know  that  Lillo's  tragedy  found  its  way  to  Ger- 
any,  where,  after,  in  1 78 1 ,  —  the  year  before  that  in 
which  he  started  on  his  well-known  journey  to  Englaiid, 

Karl  Philipp  Moritz  had  produced  a  genuine  imitation 

of  Fatal  Curiosity,'  two  editions  were  published  of  a 
lot  very  happily  named  translation  of  it  by  W.  H. 

'  Blunt  odcr  dcr  Gasl.    Schauspiel  in  einem  Akt.    Berlin,  1781. 


liv  JlntroUuction 

Bromel,  Stolzund  Ver%weijlung  (^Pride nnd  Despair).^ 
In  the  same  country  a  great  dramatic  poet  was  about 
this  time,  with  much  searching  of  soul  and  a  lofty  desire 
to  realise  the  truest  and  most  enduring  conceptions  of 
tragedy  and  her  laws,  seeking  to  apply  the  idea  of  Fate 
exemplified  in  the  Attic  drama  to  his  own  practice.* 
Already  in  his  great  WaUenstein  trilogy,  where  the 
association  of  the  subject  with  a  period  and  a  hero  of 
well-known  astrological  propensities  would  in  any  case 
have  led  to  the  introduction  of  a  fatalistic  element, 
Schiller  endeavoured  to  reconcile  this  with  the  higher 
or  moral  law  to  which  the  universe  is  subject. ^  And 
The  Bride  of  Messina,  the  beautiful  play  which,  per- 
haps not  altogether  successfully,  he  sought  to  model  on 

'   Dessau  and  Leipzig,  1785  j  and  Augsburg,  1791. 

*  For  what  follows  cf.  Professor  Jakob  Minor's  general  and  spe- 
cial Introductions  to  a  selection  of  plays  by  Z.  Werner,  Mullner 
and  Houwald,  published  under  the  tide  Dai  Schkhaisdrama  in  the 
Deutuhe  National-Literatur  series  edited  by  J.  Kurschner  (Berlin 
and  Stuttgart,  W.  Spemann)  and  Dr.  Minor's  larger  work,  Die 
Schickiahtragodie  in  ihrcn  Hauptvertretern  (Frankfort,  1883). 

^  Compare  Wallenstein's  famous  narrative,  justifying  his  con- 
fidence in  Octavio,  in  The  Picco/ominiy  Act  v,  Sc.  4,  beginning 
(in  Coleridge's  Translation), 

*  There  exist  moments  in  the  life  of  man,'  &c., 
and  the  Duke's  comment,  in  reply  to  lUo, 

^  There  's  no  such  thing  as  chance  '  — 
with  the  magnificent  passage  in   TAe  Death  of  WaUenstein ^  Act  i, 
Sc.  9,  when  he  discovers  that  Octavio  has  played  traitor  to  him : 

'  The  stars  lie  not  j  but  we  have  here  a  work 
Wrought  counter  to  the  stars  and  destiny. 
The  science  still  is  honest ;  this  false  heart 
Forces  a  lie  on  the  truth-telling  heaven. 
On  a  divine  law  divination  rests,'  &c. 


3|ntroDuctton  iv 

Attic  examples,  concludes  with  lines  that  in  their  native 
form  have  become  proverbial  : 

*  Of  man's  possessions  life  is  not  the  highest, 
But  of  all  ills  on  earth  the  wont  is  guilt.* 

Far  different  were  the  conceptions  and  the  practice  on 
this  head  of  a  school  of  dramatists  who,  while  striving 
more  or  less  to  imitate  Schiller  both  in  the  treatment 
of  their  themes  and  in  the  outer  form  of  their  plays, 
found  it  expedient  to  fall  back  into  narrower  tracks 
of  their  own.  Their  notion  of  fate  was  an  elaborately 
artificial  system  of  predestination  which,  as  it  were,  set 
out  to  entangle  its  victims,  like  a  mouchard  luring  a 
suspect  step  by  step  to  the  perpetration  of  the  cardinal 
deed.  The  working  of  this  system  depended  on  coin- 
cidences of  time  and  place,  on  recurring  dates  of  day 
and  month,  on  the  occasion  offered  by  inanimate  things, 
on  the  premonition  received  from  inarticulate  sounds, 
on  the  accidents  of  accidents.'  Some  of  these  poets 
were  trained  lawyers,  and  all  seem  to  have  had  a  taste, 
natural  or  acquired,  for  stories  of  parricide  and  incest, 
'  odious  involutions  and  perversions  of  passion,'  to  cite 
an  admirable  expression  of  Sir  Walter  Scott's,  '  —  the 
whole  paraphernalia  of  the  criminal  novel  and  the 
police  newspaper.  Of  course  their  methods  differed  in 
degree  according  to  their  daring,  and  in  effectiveness 
according  to  their  literary  and  theatrical  ability  ;    for 

'  Everything,  says  a  character  in  Milliner's  Schuld  (Act  iv, 
Sc.  4),  in  the  end  depends  on  the  silver  real  which  my  mother 
refused  to  a  beggar-woman. 

^  Letters  and  Recollections  of  Sir  fValter  Scott.  By  Mrs.  Hughes 
(of  UtHngton).    Edited  by  H.  G.  Hutchinson.    London,  1904. 


Ivi  31ntrofiurtton 

there  was  among  them  more  than  one  man  of  genius  and 
more  than  one  born  playwright.  Their  metrical  form, 
preferentially  short  trochaic  lines  with  irregular  rhymes, 
was  happily  chosen  ;  for  it  was  at  once  insinuating  and 
uncomfortable  ;  and  it  was  at  times  managed  with  very 
notable  skill. 

The  same  story  as  that  which  forms  the  subject  of 
Fatal  Curiosity  furnished  the  plot  of  the  one-act  tragedy 
oi  Der  Vierundz.wanz.igite  Februar,  by  Zacharias  Wer- 
ner," a  gifted  writer  of  ephemeral  celebrity,  but  unmis- 
takable talent.  This  play  (1812),  of  which  the  scene 
is  laid  in  a  solitary  inn  in  a  rocky  Alpine  pass,  is  much 
more  firmly  constructed  and  much  more  overpowering 
in  its  effect  than  Fatal  Curiosity ;  nor  can  it  be  denied 
that  the  piece  has  a  certain  passionate  force  which  smacks 
of  genius.  But  after  one  is  relieved  of  the  incubus,  there 
remains  little  to  impress  the  mind  in  connexion  with 
this  play,  except  the  fact  that  Goethe  allowed  it  to  be 
produced  on    the  Weimar    stage.'     While    Werner's 

•  According  to  a  Weimar  tradition,  corroborated  by  Werner's 
account  to  Iffland  that  a  '  well-known '  anecdote  supplied  the  found- 
ation of  his  play,  an  incident,  read  out  at  Goethe's  house  in  1 809, 
was  recommended  by  him  to  Werner  as  a  subject  for  a  one-act  trag- 
edy. The  relations  between  Goethe  and  Werner  have  been  recently 
illustrated  by  their  correspondence  published  with  an  interesting 
introduction  by  MM.  O.  Schiiddekopf  and  O.  Walzel  in  Geahe 
und  die  Romantik,  vol.  n  [ScAriften  der  Goethe  GeselUcbaftj  vol. 
XIV.  Weimar,  1899).  It  may  be  added  that  in  1808  Prince 
Piickler-Muskau  heard  at  Geneva  of  a  similar  occurrence  in  the 
vicinity  ;  and  that  early  in  June,  1880,  there  appeared  in  the  Neui 
Freie  Presse  of  Vienna  a  story  to  the  same  intent  ( the  mother  being, 
however,  the  sole  agent),  which  ran  its  course  through  the  journala 
of  both  hemispheres  (see  Axon,  u.  1.). 


3llntroliuction  ivii 

tragedy  must  in  one  sense  be  called  original,  Adolf  Milli- 
ner's one-act  tragedy,  which  deals  with  a  similar  theme 
and  frankly  calls  itself  Der  Ncununiiz'wanzigste  Februar 
(  February  the  twenty-ninth')  ( also  1 8 1  z  ),  is  a  palpable 
attempt  at  outdoing  the  sensation  excited  by  its  prede- 
cessor. Here,  to  the  accompaniment  of  atmospheric 
effects,  sortes  biblkae,  and  the  actual  grinding  of  the 
knife  destined  to  cut  the  unspeakable  knot,  a  tale  is 
unfolded  which  need  not  fear  the  competition  of  the 
most  complex  of  nightmares.  Yet  so  alive  were  Miill- 
ner's  theatrical  instincts  to  the  public  sentiment,  that 
he  afterwards  skilfully  changed  the  action  of  this  play 
of  horrors  into  one  with  a  '  happy  ending '  (  Der  Wahn 
—  The  Illusion).  The  same  author's  celebrated  four- 
act  tragedy  Die  Schuld  (  Guilt),  produced  in  the  same 
year  1812,  marked  the  height  of  the  vogue  reached  by 
the  '  Tragedy  of  Destiny  '  ;  for  its  popularity  at  Vienna 
and  elsewhere  knew  no  bounds.  The  scene  of  this  play 
is  laid  on  the  North  Sea  coast  of  the  Scandinavian 
peninsula  ;  but  the  chief  characters  in  the  action  are 
Spaniards  —  a  daring  but  felicitous  combination.  The 
comphcated  story  of  crime  and  its  sequel  is  no  doubt 
worked  out  with  the  skill  of  a  virtuoso  ;  and  from  the 
snapping  of  a  chord  of  the  hysterical  Elvira's  harp  dur- 
ing her  opening  speech  onwards  a  continuous  sense  of 
unconquerable  gloom  possesses  the  spectator;  nor  does 
it  release  him  with  the  closing  oracular  announcement, 
that  the  pourquoi  of  the  fourquoi  (to  borrow  the  Elect- 
ress  Sophia's  phrase)  will  not  be  revealed  till  the  day 
of  the  Resurrection. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  eminent  Austrian 


Iviii  3(lntro6uctton 

dramatist,  Franz  Grillparzer,  who  afterward  came  near  to 
greatness  in  more  legitimate  fields  of  tragic  composition, 
was  in  some  measure  inspired  by  Milliner's  Die  SchulJ 
in  the  production  of  his  Die  Ahnfrau  (  The  Ancestress )  in 
1 8 1 7 ;  although  he  seems  justified  in  his  vehement  pro- 
test that  this  play  was  not  properly  speaking  a  tragedy 
of  destiny,  but  one  in  which  wrong  is  visited  where  the 
responsibility  has  been  incurred.  But  the  species  itself 
lingered  on  for  something  like  a  decade  more,  without 
being  killed  either  by  academic  or  farcical  ridicule.'  But 
nothing  of  any  importance  was  produced  in  the  later 
stages  of  this  literary  mode.  The  last  in  any  way  con- 
spicuous production  of  the  kind  was  Baron  C.  E.  von 
Houwald's  Der  Leuchtthurm  (^The  Lighthouse),  a 
rather  mawkish  play,  that  makes  large  use  of  natural 
phenomena  — the  howling  winds  and  the  surging  waves 
—  which  Lillo  had  not  ignored,  but  introduced  with  less 
sentimental  profusion,  when  he  made  a  shipwreck  on 
the  unkind  Cornish  coast  the  pivot  of  the  action  of  his 
Fatal  Curiosity. 

As  a  dramatist  Lillo  was  distinguished  by  no  mean 
constructive  power,  by  a  naturalness  of  diction  capable 
of  becoming  ardent  without  bombast,  and  of  remaining 

'  A  list  of  these  plays  and  of  one  or  two  parodies  upon  the  spe- 
cies will  be  found  in  Goedeke's  Grundriss  der  deutschen  Dichtung, 
vol.  Ill,  pp.  381-84.  It  would  carry  me  too  far  to  discuss  here 
Platen's  memorable  attack  on  the  SchicksalstragZdie^  among  other 
aberrations  of  contemporary  literature  from  his  classical  ideals,  in  Die 
VerhangmiS'volle  Gahel  {J'ke  Fatal  Fork),  1826,  and  Der  roman- 
riscAe  CEdiput  (^The  Romantic  (Edipus)^  1829.  Among  the  flies 
caught  in  the  amber  of  Platen's  verse,  these  at  least  were  not  quite 
e/>iemerae. 


3InttoDuction 


lix 


plain  without  sinking  into  baldness,  and  by  a  gift,  con- 
spicuously exercised  in  the  earlier  of  the  two  plays  here 
presented  and  to  some  extent  also  in  the  later,  of  re- 
producing genuine  types  of  human  nature  alive  with 
emotion  and  passion.  Indramatic  history  he  is  notable  '^ 
rather  because  of  thf'ettects'^of  his  chief  works  than  ^ 
bei-ause  uf  ihuse  -worKS'themselves.     Thi_London  Mer- 

T^'ii",   "vhidT   '^""''  ^n"f1ps2imijr)_an_  endnnn^   fame, 
is  true  to  the  genius  of  the  English  drama.    Thus  while 
our  owirtfagatre,  in  a  period  of  much  artificiality,  owed 
to  him  a  strengthenmg  of  JH  tie   with   real   life   anX~~ 
its  experiences,  Tifs  revjal— a£Homestic  tragedy  both     ■ 
directly~arid  indirectt^'quickened'the  generatronrst  of   '^ 
dramatic  literature,  expanded  its  chgic_e  nfjhRmes.^yn"d      p-*-^ 
suggested  a  manner  dfu-eatment  most  itself  ghen  near- 

est  the  language  of  the  heart. "^ 

~~  A.  W.  Ward. 

Petzkhouse  Lodge,  Cambridge,  ENGtAND, 
November,  1905. 


\ 


THE  TEXT 

The  text  of  The  London  Merchant  is  printed  from  the  first 
edition,  1 7  3 1 .  It  has  been  collated  with  the  second  ( 1 7  3 1 ) ,  fourth 
(  1 7'3  2  J ,  and  seventh  (1740)  octavo  editions,  and  the  two  collect- 
ive editions  by  Davies,  1775  and  18 10.  Oz  is  identically  the  same 
aa  Oi,  except  that  it  has  **  Second  Edition"  on  the  title-page, 
above  **  London,"  and  in  Scene  xii  of  Act  v  corrects  unalter- 
able to  unutterable.  O4  much  improves  on  Oi,  but  O7  is  little 
more  than  a  reprint  of  O4,  with  some  errors  of  its  own.  The  ex- 
ception is  its  addition  of  Scene  xi  of  Act  v,  which  probably  first 
appeared  in  O5.  Prolonged  inquiry  has  not  revealed  any  copy  of 
O3,  O5,  or  06.  In  O4  the  French  division  of  the  scenes  used  in 
Oi  and  O2  is  changed  to  the  English  method.  As  the  1775  edi- 
tion does  little  more  than  reprint  O7,  and  the  1810  edition  closely 
follows  Oi,  in  the  variants  only  departures  of  these  late  editions 
from  their  originals  are  noted. 

In  accordance  with  the  custom  of  the  series,  evident  errors  have 
been  silently  corrected,  and  punctuation  and  capitalization  modern- 
ized. Change  has  been  needed  in  Lillo's  punctuation,  for  his  avoid- 
ance of  the  difficulties  of  punctuation  by  a  very  fi^e  use  of  dashes 
gave  an  unnecessarily  hysterical  efTecc  to  a  play  already  tense 
enough,  and  even  at  times  led  to  confusion  of  the  thought.  When 
any  variation  from  the  reading  of  O  i  has  been  admitted,  the  original 
reading  has  been  noted  in  the  variants  at  the  foot  of  the  page. 
j^sidcj  and  similar  directions,  standing  at  the  end  of  a  line  or  speech, 
have  been  silently  transferred  to  the  beginning.  The  text  of  Scene 
XI,  Act  V,  has  been  taken  from  O7,  the  first  accessible  edition 
containing  it.  Use  of  O4  has  been  possible  through  the  courtesy  of 
the  Library  of  Yale  Univerwty, 


THE 

London  Merchant: 

OR,    THE 

HISTORY 

O   F 

GEORGE  BARUIVELL. 

As  ic  is  Afied  aC  the 

THEATRE-ROYAL 


I  N 


DRURr^LANE. 

By  His  Majbstt's  Servants. 
By   Mr.   LI  L  L  0. 


Learn  to  be  nife  from  otben  Harm, 
And  you  Jhall  do  full  viell. 

Old  Ballad  of  the  Lady's  Fall. 


L    O    li   V)   O   JJ : 

P/iatej  ^  J.  GraT,    u  the  CrtfiKtjt  in  the  teiitlry ;    aa4 
i«ld  b/  J.Roberts,  in  lt'*rvjnk  Laite.    Moccjuubt* 

CP(i« One  Shilling  and  SUpcnct.] 


SOURCES 

The  story  of  The  London  Merchant  was  manifestly  suggested  to 
Lillo  by  the  uld  ballad,  which  is  to  be  found  in  Bishop  Percy's 
Reliques  of  Ancient  English  Poetry  and  in  English  and  Scottish 
Ba/Iads,  selected  and  edited  by  F.  J.  Child.  From  the  latter  it  is 
here  reprinted  as  an  appendix.  While  there  is  a  general  agreement 
between  ballad  and  play,  the  former  contains  nothing  as  to  the  vir- 
tuous attachment  of  the  master's  daughter  for  Barnwell,  or  as  to 
the  friendship  of  his  fellow  apprentice  j  and,  with  regard  to  Barn- 
^  well  himself,  the  story  in  the  ballad  takes  a  different  close,  sending 
^=— shim  out  to  meet  his  fate  '  in  Polonia.'  instead  of  bfig^Jng  him  (o 
,  justice  in_cQaipaiiy  with  his  paramour  at  fifline.^TW)ably  Lillo  had 
'^  ..  ^'  Jj:  access  to  some  source  or  sources  of  information  concerning  the 
^jjj^^^  story  of  George  Barnwell  besides  the  old  ballad  itself.  A  novel, 
\  Barnivelly  circa  1796,  by  T.  S.  Surr,  deviates  from  the  facts  even 

more  than  Lillo's  play.  Possibly  Lillo  made  use  of  the  same  sources 
as  the  author  of  Memoirs  of  George  Barnivelly  the  unhappy  subject 
of  Lillo' s  celebrated  Tragedy ^  dcri-ved  from  the  most  authentic  source^ 
and  intended  for  the  perusal  and  instruction  of  the  Rising  Genera- 
tion. By  a  Descendant  of  the  Barnwell  Family.  Printed  at  Har- 
low [in  Essex]  by  B.  Flower  for  W.Jones  .  .  .  of  No.  5,  New- 
gate Street,  London,  1810.  For  a  discussion  of  the  sources  of  the 
play  see  Introduction^  pp.  xvi— xx. 


J 


TO 

Sir  JOHN   EYLES,    Bar. 

Member  of  Paruament  for,  and  Alder- 
man OF  THE  City  of  London,  and  Sub- 
Governor  OF  THE  South-Sea  Company. 

SIR, 

If  Tragick  Poetry  be,  as  Mr.  Dryden  has  some  where 
said,  the  most  excellent  and  most  useful  kind  of  writing, 
the  more  extensively  useful  the  moral  of  any  tragedy  is,  Y\0TC^-'A 
the  more  excellent  that  piece  must  Be  of  iFs  kind. 

I  hope  I  shall  not  be  thougHTto^msmuate  that  this,  to     5 
which  I  have  presumed  to  prefix  youf  name,  is  such  ; 
that  depends  on  its  fitness  to  answer  thei'end  of  tragedy^/ 
the^  exciting  of  the  passions,  in  order  to  the  correcting  y\' 
such  of  them  as  are  criminal,  either  in  their  nature,  or     V_^ 
through  .thfiir  excess.    Whether  the  following  scenes  do   10^ 
this  in  any  tolerable  degree,  is,  with  the  deference  that 
becomes  one  who  wou'd  not  be  thought  vain,  submitted 
to  your  candid  and  impartial  judgment. 

What  I  wou'd  infer  is  this,   I  think,  evident  truth; 
that  tragedy  is  so  fer  frqnj^Josingjts  dignity,  by  being   15 

To  Sir  John  F.jtet.     The  dedicatory  essay  is  not  given  in  O7,  though  it 
appears  in  all  other  editions  that  have  been  accessible. 


^^^    4^    '  J*^         EPeaicatton 

fy  \  accommodated  to  the  circumstances  of  the  generality  of 
mankind,  that  At  is  more  truly  august  in  proportion  to 
the  extent  of  Its  influence,  and  the  numbers  that  are  pro- 
perly affected  by  it.  As  it  is  more  truly  great  to  be  the 
instrument  of  good  to  many,  who  stand  in  need  of  our 
assistance,' than  to  a  very  small  part  of  that  number. 

It  Fnnces,  fifir.  were  alone  liable  to  misfortunes,  aris- 
ing from  vice,  or  weakness  in  thernselyes  or  otKers^  there 
wou'd  be  good  reason  for  confining  the  characters  in 
tragedy  to  those  of  superior  rank  ;  but,  since  the  contrary 
is  evident,  nothing  can  be  more  reasonable  than  to  pro- 
portion the  remedy  to  the  disease.   / 

I  am  far  from  denying  that  Tragedies,  founded  on  any 
instructive  and  extraordinary  events  in  history,  or  a  well- 
invented  fable,  where  the  persons  introduced  are  of  the 
highest  rank,  are  without  their  use,  even  to  the  bulk  of 
the  audience.  The  strong  contrast  between  a  Tamerlane 
and  a  Bajazet,  may  have  its  weight  with  an  unsteady 
people,  and  contribute  to  the  fixing  of  them  in  the  inter- 
est of  a  Prince  of  the  character  of  the  former,  when, 
thro'  their  own  levity,  or  the  arts  of  designing  men,  they 
are  render'  d  factious  and  uneasy,  tho'  they  have  the  high- 
est reason  to  be  satisfied.  The  sentiments  and  example 
of  a  Cato,  may  inspire  his  spectators  with  a  just  sense  of 
the  value  of  liberty,  when  they  see  that  honest  patriot 
prefer  death  to  an  obligation  from  a  tyrant,  who  wou'd 
sacrifice  the  constitution  of  his  country,  and  the  liberties 
of  mankind,  to  his  ambition  or  revenge.  I  have  attempted, 
29-30  or  a  .  .  .   fable.   O4,  1775,  prints  fables  j  1810  omits  a. 


y 


DfDication  5 

indeed,  to  enlarge  the  province  of  the  graver  kind  of 
poetry,  and  should  be  glad  to  see  it  carried  on  by  some  45 
abler  hand.    Plays  founded  on  moral  tales  in  private  life 
may  be  of  admirable~uS7T)y  carrying  conviction  to  tl>e    Jk 
minSTwitirsuch  irresistible  force  as  to^engage  all  the  fac- ' 
ulties  and  powers  of  the  soulinthe  causeof  virtue,  by 
stTfling-vice  in  its  first  principles.     They  who~im"agine   50 
ithis  to  be  too  much  to  be  attributed  to  tragedy,  must  be 
strangers  to  the  energy  of  that  noble  species  of  poetry. 
Shakespear,  who  has  given  such  amazing  proofs  of  his 
genius,  in  that  as  well  as  in  comedy,  in  his  Hamlet  has 
the  following  lines  :  55 

Had  be  the  motive  and  the  cauiefor  passion 

That  I  have,  he  •wm' d  dro-wn  the  stage  with  tears 

And  clea-ve  the  general  ear  luitb  horrid  speech  ; 

Make  mad  the  gtHiy,  and  appal  the  free. 

Confound  the  ignorant ;   and  ama%e  indeed  60 

The  very  faculty  of  eyes  and  ears. 
And  farther,  in  the  same  speech  : 

.I've  heard  that  guilty  creatures  at  a  plaj 
\  Have,  by  the  very  cunning  of  the  scene. 

Been  so  struck  to  the  soul,  that  presently  65 

I    They  have  proffaim'd  their  malefactions. 

Prodigious  !    yet   strictly   just.     But    I  shan't  take  up 
your   valuable   time   with  my  remarks ;    only   give  me 

6j    rve  heard  .  .  .ptaj.    1810,  more  correctly  : 

,  .  .  i  have  beard, 
.  .  .  That  guilty  creatures  sitting  at  a  play. 
65   JO  struii.    1810,  struck  so. 
67  jAnn'/.    1775,  1810,  shall  not. 


6  EDrtication 

leave  just  to  observe,  that  he  seems  so  firmly  perswaded 
of  the  povper  of  a  well  wrote  piece  to  produce  the  effect   ^ 

Ihere  ascribed  to  it,  as  to  make  Hamlet  venture  his  soul 
on  the  event,  and  rather  trust  that  than  a  messenger 
from  the  other  world,  tho'  it  assumed,  as  he  expresses  it, 
his  noble  father's  form,  and  assured  him  that  it  was  his 
spirit.  "I'll  have,"  says  Hamlet,  "grounds  more  75 
relative  "  ; 

.   .   .    The  Play  's  I  be  thing, 

therein  /'//  calch  the  comcience  of  the  King. 

Such  plays  are  the  best  answers  to  them  who  deny  the 
lawfulness  of  the  stage.  go 

Considering  the  novelty  of  this  attempt,  I  thought  it 
would  be  expected  from  me  to  say  something  in  its  ex- 
cuse ;  and  I  was  unwilling  to  lose  the  opportunity  of 
saying  something  of  the  usefulness^ofLXragedyjn  general, 
and  what  may  be  reasonably  expected  from  the  farther  gc 
improvement  of  this  excenenfkmd  of  poetry. 

Sir,  1 1iope~yOTr~will  not~tHink  I  have  said  too  much 
of  an  art,  a  mean  specimen  of  which  I  am  ambitious 
enough  to  recommend  to  your  favour  and  protection. 
A  mind,  conscious  of  superior  worth,  as  much  despises  90 
flattery,  as  it  is  above  it.  Had  I  found  in  my  self  an  in- 
clination to  so  contemptible  a  vice,  I  should  not  have 
chose  Sir  JOHN  EYLESfor  my  patron.  And  indeed  the 
'  t  best  writ  panegyrick,  tho'  strictly  true,  must  place  you 
fn  a  light  much  inferior  to  that  in  which  you  have  long  55 
been  fix'd  by  the  love  and  esteem  of  your  fellow  citizens  j 


DEjjtcatton  7 

whose  choice  of  you  for  one  of  their  representatives  in 
Parliament  has  sufficiently  declared  their  sense  of  your 
merit.  Nor  hath  the  knowledge  of  your  worth  been 
confined  to  the  City.  The  Proprietors  in  the  South-Sea  loo 
Company,  in  which  are  included  numbers  of  persons  as 
considerable  for  their  rank,  fortune,  and  understanding, 
as  any  in  the  Kingdom,  gave  the  greatest  proof  of  their 
confidence  in  your  capacity  and  probity,  when  they  chose 
you  Sub-Governor  of  their  Company,  at  a  time  when  105 
their  affairs  were  in  the  utmost  confusion,  and  their  pro- 
perties in  the  greatest  danger.  Nor  is  the  Court  insensible 
of  your  importance.  I  shall  not  therefore  attempt  your 
character,  nor  pretend  to  add  any  thing  to  a  reputation 
so  well  established.  "° 

Whatever  others  may  think  of  a  Dedication  wherein 
there  is  so  much  said  of  other  things,  and  so  little  of 
the  person  to  whom  it  is  address' d,  I  have  reason  to  be- 
lieve that  you  will  the  more  easily  pardon  it  on  that  very 
account.  "5 

/  am,  SIR, 

Tour  most  obedient 
bumble  servant, 
GEORGE  LILLO. 

107  tfer.     O4,  Neither. 


,oJ^- 


uJ^: 


PROLOGUE. 

Spoke  by  Mr.  CIBBER,  Jun. 

The  Tragick  Muse,  sublime,  delights  to  show 

Princes  distrest  and  scenes  of  royal  woe  ; 

In  awful'pomp,  majestick,  to  relate 

The  fall  of  nations  or  some  heroe" s  fate  ; 

That  scepter^d  chiefs  may  by  example  know  5 

The  strange  vicissitude  of  things  below  : 

IVhat  dangers  on  security  attend ; 

How  pride  and  cruelty  in  ruin  end ; 

Hence  Providence  supream  to  know,  and  own 

Humanity  aJds  glory  to  a  throne.  «o 

In  ev'ry  former  age  and  foreign  tongue  fJ{j^  ' 
With  native  grandure  thus  the.  Goddess  sung^ 
Upon  our  stage  indeed,  with  wish'd  success, 
'    You've  sometimes  seen  her  in  a  humbler  dress  — 
Great  only  in  distress.    When  she  complains  »5 

/^"Southern's,  Rowe's,  or  Otway's  moving  strains., 
The  brilliant  drops  that  fall  from  each  bright  eye 

yThe  absent  pomp  with  brighter  jems  supply. 
Forgive  us  then^lf^we  attjmjpt  tojhow, 
"tV   "^h  artless  strains,  cTtale  of  private  woe,  *o 

^London  'Prentice  ruin  d  is  our  theme. 
Drawn  from  thefam'doldjongjhafbears  his  name. 
Sfoke.    07,  Spoken.  14  a  humbler.    O7,  an  humbler. 


^prologue  9 

We  hope  your  taste  is  not  so  high  to  scorn 

A  moral  talej  esteem! d  ejr  you  were  born  ; 

IVhich^for  a  cenfury  of  rolling  years,  '  »S 

Has  fill' d  a  thousand-thousand  eyes  with  tears. 

If  thoughtless  youth  to  warn,  and  shame  the  age 

From  vice  destructive,  well  becomes  the  stage ; 

If  this 'example  innocence  secure'^'-''^- 

Prevent  our  guilt^'or'by  refection  cure  ; 

If  Millwood's  dreadful  guilt  and  sad  despair 

Commend  the  virtue  of  the  good  and  fair  ; 

Tho'  art  be  wanting,  and  our  numbers  fail. 

Indulge  thl  attempt  injustice  to  the  tale  I 

IQ  secure.    O4,  O7,  insure. 

30  Prewnt,  O4,  O7,  1 8 10.    Ol,  Prevents. 

31  guill.    O4,  O7,  crimes. 
34  th\    O7,  the. 


30 


DRAMATIS   PERSONAE. 
MEN. 


Thorowgood, 

(Barnwell,  Uncle  to  George, 
George  Barnwell, 
Tnieman, 
Blunt, 
[Jailer. 
John.] 


Mr.  Bridgtvater. 
Mr.  Roberts. 
Mr.  Cibher,  Jun. 
Mr.  IV.  Mills. 
Mr.  R.  IVetherilt. 


WOMEN. 

Maria, Mrs.  Cihber. 

Millwood, Mrs.  Butler. 

I-"cy. Mrs.  Charke. 

Officers  with  their  Attendants,  Keeper,  and  Footmen. 

SCENE,  London,  and  an  adjacent  Village. 


■■'ithirlli.     04,  Witherhilt ;  1775,  Withcrhile  :  both  incorrectly. 
Millwood.    So  all  the  editions,  and  throughout  the  play. 
!unl.    177s  and  1810  add:  Jailer.    John. 


tr,thtrllt. 
Mi 
Blu 


.     .//y   «.iu   .u.u  auu;    jaiici.     JOUII. 

Charki.   177s  and  1810,  incorrectly,  Clarice. 
Lucj.   07,  Lucia. 


tontion  jwetci^ant 

Ott\)t 

of 

dBfeotge  'BamtueU 


Act  I. 

Scene   I.  yi  Room  in  TboromgooJ's  House. 
[^Enter]   ThorowgooJ and  Trueman. 

Trueman.  Sir,  the  packet  from  Genoa  is  ar- 
riv'd.  Gives  letters. 

Thorowgood.  Heav'n  Ije  praised,  the  storm  that 
threaten'd  our  royal  mistrefs^,  piire  religion,  lib- 
erty 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 

Act  I.  Scene  I.    Of  the  editions  examined  (see  Note  on  Texts) 
only  0 1  and  O2  use  the  French  method  of  dividing  the  scenes. 


12  tCljE  JLonDon  spcrcliant        [acti. 

new  world,  to  supply  his  empty  coffers, "e'er  he 
can  execute  his  purpos'd  invasion  of  our  happy  lo 
island;  by  which  means  time  is  gain'd  to  make 
such  preparations  on  our  part  as  may,  Heav'n 
I  concurring,  prevent  his  malice,  or  turn  the  medi- 
tated mischief  on  himself. 

True.  He  must  be  insensible  indeed,  who  is  'S 
not  affected  when  the  safety  of  his  country  is 
concern'd. — Sir,  may  I  know  by  what  means — 
if  I  am  too  bold — 

^  Thor^  Your  curiosity  is  laudable  ;  and  I  grat- 
:  ify  it  with  the  greater  pleasure,  because  from  %o 
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  hap- 
piness ;  that  if  hereafter  you  should  be  tempted 
to'any  action  that  has  the  appearance  of  vice  or  15 
meanness  in  it,  upon  reflecting  on  the  dignity  of 
•y'  our  profession,  you  may  with  honest  scorn  reject 
i^liatever  is  unworthy  of  it. 

True.  Shou'd  Barnwell,  or  I,  who  have  the 
benefit  of  your  example,  by  our    ill    conduct  30 
bring  any  imputation  on  that  honourable  name, 
we  must  be  left  without  excuse. 

Thor.   You  complement,  young  man.    (  True- 
man  bows  respectfully.')     Nny,  I'm  not  offended. 
As  the  name  of  merchant  never  degrades  the  35 
y     gentleman,  so  by  no  means  does  it  exclude  him  ; 


scNEi]     tlTlje  JLonDon  ^erctjant  13 

^nly  take  heed  not  to  purchase  the  character  of 
complaisant  at  the  expence  of  your  sincerity.  — 
But   to   answer  your  question.    tThe    bank  of 
Genoa  had  agreed,  at  excessive  interest  and  on  40 
good  security,  to  advance  the  King  of  Spain  a 
sum    of    money    sufficient  to    equip    his    vast 
Armada^;  > of  which  our  peerless  Elizabeth  (more 
than  in  n^me  the  Mother  of  her  People)  being 
well  informed,  sent  Walsingham,  her  wise  and  45 
faithful  secretary,  to  consult  the  merchants  of 
this  loyal  city,  who  all  agreed  to  direct  their 
several  agents  to  influence,  if  possible,  the  Geno-  • 
ese  to  break  their   contract  with  the  Spanish 
court.  "*Tjls  donfrj  the  state  and  bank  of  Genoa,  5° 
having  maturely  weigh'd  and  rightly  judged  of 
their  true  interest,  prpfer  tl^g^  friendship  of  the  | 
pipr,phanr<i  of  T,nij^9n  to  tl^at  of  a^monarcl\  who  I 
proudly  stiles  himself  King  ot  both  Indies. n 

True.   Happy  success  of   prudent   councils !   55 
What  an  expence  of  blood  and  treasure  is  here 
saved!    Excellent    Queen!    O    how  unlike  to j   /., 
former  princes,  who  made  the  danger  of  foreign/'       f 
enemies  a  pretence  to  oppress  their  subjects  by'/    ,-/  • 
taxes  great  and  grievous  to  be  borne.  60 

Thor.  Not  so    our    gracious   Queen,  whose 

43  Armada.    1810  corrects  to  Armado. 

57-58  uttlike  to  former  princes.    O4,  O7,  unlike  those  princes. 

58  "who  made.    O4,  O7,  who  malce. 


14  ®l)e  Jlonfion  sperc()ant        [act  i. 

richest  exchequer  is  her  people's  love,  as  their 
happiness  her  greatest  glory. 

True.   On    these  terms    to  defend   us,  is   to 
make  our  protection  a  benefit  worthy  her  who  65 
confers  it,  and  well   worth  our  acceptance. — 
Sir,  have  you  any   commands    for   me  at  this 
time. 

Thor.  Only  to  look  carefully  over  the  files  to 
see  whether  there  are  any  trades-mens  bills  un-  70 
paid  ;  and'if  tfi#e  are;  to  sA!B  arid  discharge  'em. 
We  must  not  let  artificers  lose  their  time,  so 
useful  to  the  publick  and  their  families,  in  un- 
necessary attendance.  \Exit  TruemanA 

Scene  II. 

\_Enter  Maria.'\ 

Thorotagood  and  Maria. 

Thorowgood.  Well,  Maria,  have  you  given 
orders  for  the  entertainment  ?  1  would  have  it 
in  some  measure  worthy  the  guests.  Let  there 
be  plenty,  and  of  the  best ;  that  the  courtiers, 
tho'  they  yVi||)d  Hpny  ()<;  rjtjzens  politeness,  may 
at  least  commend  our  hospitality. 

Maria.  Sir,  1  have  endeavoured  not  to  wrong 

66  acceptance.  Oi  inserts  Tr.  making  the  next  sentence  a  sepa- 
rate speech.    Correct  in  O4. 
71/0  send.    O4,  O7,  send. 


scKNEii]     tlTljc  ilonDon  3pecc!)ant  15 

your    well-known    generosity    by    an     ill-tim'd 
parsimony. 

Thor.  Nay,  'twas  a  needless  caution  ;  I  have  lo 
no  cause  to  doubt  your  prudence. 

Ma.  Sir,  I^nd  mvself  unfit  for  conversation 
at  present ;  IshoumTOPincrease  the  number  of 
the  company  without  adding  to  their  satisfac- 
tion.      '--t'^t^Mlk'^*''  'S 

Thor.  Nay,  my  child,  this  melancholy  must 
not  be  indulged.  <||itf  •»«*%  •••W^ 

Ma.  Company  will  but  increase  it.  I  wish 
you  would  dispense  with  my  absence;  solitude 
best  suits  my  presQflt-temper.  20 

Thor.  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  absent,  the  disappointment  may  make 
them  repent  their  condescension,  and  think  their  25 
labour  lost. 

Ma.  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,  i  ne  man  of  quality,  who  chuses  3° 
to  converse  with  a  gentleman  and  merchant  of 
your  worth  and  character  may  confer  honour  by 
so  doing,  but  he  loses  none.    -«^.  w-w, 

13  at  pr Clint.  O4,  O7,  omit  a/ /)r««»i/,  with  (;)  after  coniier- 
tation  ;   1 810  puts  a  period  after  at  present. 


1 6  tlTljc  Jlonuon  sperc^ant       [act  i. 

Thor.  Come,  come,  Maria ;  I  need  not  tell 
you  that  a  young  gentleman  may  prefer  your 
conversation  to  mine,  yet  intend  me  no  disre- 
spect at  all ;  for,  tho'  he  may  lose  no  honour 
in  my  company,  'tis,  very  natural  for  him  to  ex- 
pect more  pleasure  in  yours.  I  remember  the 
time  when  the  company  of  the  greatest  and 
wisest  man  in  the  kingdom  would  have  been  in- 
sipid and  tiresome  to  me,  if  it  had  deprived  me 
of  an  opportunity  of  enjoying  your  mother's. 

Ma.  Your's  no  doubt  was  as  agreeable  to 
her;  for  generous  minds  know  no  pleasure  in 
society  but  where  'tis  niutu^l. 

Thor.  Thou  know'st  I  have  no  heir,  no  child 
but  thee ;  the  fruits  of  manv  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 
^  he  esser^Lai  to  nappmcss  in  ttie  marriage  state. 
I  had  rather  my  approbation  should  confirm  your 
choic^^tnan  direct  iti 

'  ma.  W  hat  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 ; 


scENiii.j     tB^lje  !LonDon  spcrcljant  17 

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-  65 
fess ;  yet  had  you  asserted  your  authority,  and 
insisted  on  a  parent's  right  to  be  obey'd,  I  had 
submitted,  and  to  my  duty  sacrificed  my  peace. 

Thor.  From  your  perfect  obedience  in  every 
other  instance,  I  fear'd  as  much ;  and  therefore  70 
wou'd  leave  you   without  a  byass  in  an  affair 
wherein  your  happiness  is  so  immediately  con- 
cern'd. 

Ma.  Whether  from  a  want  of  that  just  am- 
bition that  wou'd  become  your  daughter,  or  from  75 
some  other  cause,  I  know  not ;  but  _I  find  high 
hi[th  and  fiflpg  (jon'x  recommend  the  man  wh(^f 
owns  them  to  my  afFections.  ^^ 

TEor.  I  wou'd  not  that  they  shou'd,  unless 
his  merit  recommends  him  more.    A  noble  birth  80 
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. 

Ma.  I  cannot  answer  for  my  inclinations, 
but  they  shall  ever  be  submitted  to  your  wisdom  85 
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  permission  to  retire  ? 

Thor.  I'll  see  you  to  your  chamber.    [^Exeunt."]    90 


1 8  S|je  ILonDon  spercljant       [acti. 

Scene  III. 

A  Room  in  Millwood'' s  House. 
Millwood  \at  her  toilet\ .     Lucy,  waiting. 

Millwood.  How  do  I  look  to  day,  Lucy  ? 
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  aim- 
ing at  ? 

Mill.  A  conquest  wou'd  be  new  indeed  ! 
Lucy.  Not  to  you,  who  make  'em  every  day, 
but  to  me. — Well !  'tis  what  I'm  never  to  ex- 
pect, unfortunate  as  I  am.     But  your  wit  and 
beauty —  "  '         » 

,^L    Mill.  First  made  me  a  wretch,  and  still  con- 
.""^tinue  me  so.    Men,  however  generous  or  siQ- 
*2i^  cere  to  one  another,  are  all  selfish  hypocrites 
in  their  afSirs  with  us.    We  are  no  otherwise 
esFeemed  or  regarded  by  them,  but  as  we  con- 
TJLLlUll.  ,      ■■ 


Lucy.  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   20 
we  hav'n't  our  share  of  the  pleasure. 

Mill.   We  are  but  slaves  to  men. 

Lucy,  t^ay,  'tis  they  that  are  slaves  most  cer- 
tainly ;   for  we  lay  them  under  contribution. 

al  her  toilet,  O4,  O7.     1810  as  Ol. 


Scene  HI.]    titlje  iionUoH  S^crcljant  19 

Mill.  Slaves  have  no  property ;  no,  not  even  15 
in  themselves.    All  is  the  victor's. 

Lucy.  You  are  strangely  arbitrary  in  your  prin- 
ciples, madam.  gn 

Mill.  I  would  have  my  conquests  compleat, 
like  those  of  the  Spaniards  in  the  New  World  :|3o  ft 

who  first  plunder'd  the  natives  of  all  the  wealth!  ^'/^  r" 
they  had,  and  then  condemn'd  the  wretches  toJ  t^^ 
the  mines  for  life  to  work  for  more.  f 

Lucy.  Well,  I  shall  never  approve  of  your 
scheme  of  government ;  I  should  think  it  much  35 
more  politick,  as  well  as  just,  to  find  my  sub- 
jects an  easier  imployment. 

Mill,  ilt's  a  general  maxim  among  the  know- 
ing   part    of   mankind,  that  a  woman   without 
virtue,  like  a  man  without  honour-or  honesty,  4° 
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'conteroptibleand  wicked,  everi'in  their 
own  opmions  !     i  hen  is  it  not  justTtHe  villains,  45 
to   their   cost,   should    find   us   so. — But   guilt 
makes  them  suspicious,  and  keeps  them  on  their 
guard  ;  therefore  we  can  take  advantage  only  of 
the  young  and  inhocent  part  of  the  sex^^B^ho, 
hWijlg^_jTevef---ityured    woniea,_^agglehead-«o  5° 
i n j  u.fy  _fronn  thetiT. 

Lucy.  Ay,  they  must  be  young  indeed. 


20  tElje  Jlonfion  Spercljant       [act  i. 

Mill.   Such  a  one,  I   think,  I  have   found. — 
As  I've  passed  thro'  the  City,  I  have  often  ob- 
serv'd   him   receiving  and    paying   considerable  5 
sums  of  money ;  from  thence  I  conclude  he  is 
employed  in  affairs  of  consequence. 

Lucy.  Is  he  handsome  1 

Mill.  Ay,  ay,  the  stripling  is  well  made. 

Lucy.  About —  ~ 

Mill.  Eighteen. 

Lucy.  Innocent,  handsome,  and  about  eight- 
een.— You'll  be  vastly  happy. — Why,  if  you 
manage  well,  you  may  keep  him_to  jour  self 
these  two  or  three  years. 

Mill.  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  bow- 
^ing  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  1  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 
honour  and  reputation,  and  invited  him  to  my 
house  :  he  swallow'd  the  bait,  promis'd  to  come, 

59  ivell  made.    O4,  O7,  well  made,  and  ha«  a  good  face. 

67  iooncr.    Hamng,  i8io.    Ol  interpunctuatcs :  sooner,  having. 


sciNEiv.]    tK^e  iLonUon  aperclpnt  21 

and  this  is  the  time  I  expect  him.    {Knocking  at 
the  door.)  Some  body  knocks— d^ye  hear;  I  am  8° 
at  home  to  no  body  to  day  but  him. 

\_Exit  Lucy.'] 

Scene  IV. 

Mil/wood. 
Millwood.  Less  affairs  must  give  way  to  those 
of  more  consequence  ;   and  I  am  strangely  mis- 
taken if  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     5 

him  ?  Let  me  consider — what  manner  of  per- 
son am  I  to  receive  ?  He  is  young,  innocent, 
and  bashful ;  therefore  I  must  take  care  not  to 
shock  him  at  first^But  then,  ifjjiave  7iny__ 
skillja^^ii^nomyt  heJs_ajXLorpULS,  and,  with_io 
TTittleaSistance,  will  soon  get  the  better  of  his 
7Ji3aesty~— I'll  trust  to  pature>,  who  does  wonders 
in  these  matters. — If  to  seem  what  one  is  not, 
in  order  tgjae  .the  better  likedjpr  what  one 
reallylsl  if  to  speak  gne^tliixig^-aiui.  mean  the 
direct' contrary,  be  art  in  a  woman,  —  I  know 
nothmg  01  nature. 

8-9  care  not  to  ihock  him.    O4,  O7,  care  not  to  put  him  out 
/  countenance, 
'li   /•//  truit.    O4,  O7,  I'll  e'en  trust. 


22  XL^t  JLonDon  £0ttc\)mt       [act  i. 

Scene  V. 

[M/7/wfffl</.]    Ttf  her  Barnwell,  bowing  very  low. 
Lucy  at  a  distance. 

Millwood.  Sir !   the  surprize  and  joy — 

Barnwell.   Madam — 

Mill,  {advancing).  This  is  such  a  favour — 

Barn,  {still  advances).   Pardon  me,  madam — 

Mill.  So  unhop'd  for — (^Barnwell  salutes  her, 
and  retires  in  confusion. )  To  see  you  here. — Ex- 
cuse the  confusion — 

Barn.  I  fear  I  am  too  bold. 

Mill.  Alas,  sir !    All  my  apprehensions  pro- 
ceed from  my  fears  of  your  thinking  me  so. —  ic 
Please,  sir,  to  sit. — I  am  as  much  at  a  loss  how 
to  receive  this  honour  as  I  ought,  as  I  am  sur- 
priz'd  at  your  goodness  in  confering  it. 

Barn.  I  thought  you  had  expected  me — I 
promis'd  to  come.  15 

Mill.  That  is  the  more  surprizing ;  few  men 
are  such  religious  observers  of  their  word. 
""     Barn.  All  who  are  honest  are. 

Mill.  To  one  another. — But  we  silly  women 
are  seldom  thought  of  consequence  enough  to  »o 
i  gain  a  place  in  your  remembrance. 

Laying  her  hand  on  his,  as  iy  accider[t. 

9-10  A//  my  .  .  .  so.  Also  1810.  O4,  O7,  I  may  juitly 
apprehend  you  think  me  so. 

19  ti//y.    Also  iSio.     O4,  O7,  1775,  simple. 


sciNiv]     ®l)c  fionBon  Spertljant  23 

Barn,  (aside).  Her  disorder  is  so  great,  she 
don't  perceive  she  has  laid  her  hand  on  mine. — 
Heaven  !  how  she  trembles  ! — What  can  this 
mean  ?  25 

Mill.  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  30 
particular  affair. 

Barn.  Madam,  you  may  command  my  poor 
thoughts  on  any  subject ;  I  have  none  that  I 
would  conceal. 

Mill.  You'll  think  me  bold.  3S 

Barn.   No,  indeed. 

Mill.  What  then  are  your  thoughts  of  love  ? 

Barn.  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.  4c 
I  But  if  you   mean  the  general  love  we  owe  to 
jnankind.  I  think  no  one  has  more  of  it  Tn  his 
temper  than  my  self. — I  don't  know  that  per- 
son in  the  world  whose  happiness  I  don't  wish, 
and  wou'dn't  promote,  were  it  in  my  power. —  4  '< 
In  an  especial  manner  I  love  my  Uncle,  and  my 
Master,  but,  above  all,  my  friend.  ^^■^-~y 

24  Heaven  !  O7,  Heavens  ! 
31    affair,    O4,  O7,  subject. 


24  ®l)t  ilonfion  ^crcljant        [act  i. 

Mill.  You  have  a  friend  then  whom  you 
love  ? 

Barn.  As  he  does  me,  sincerely.  5c 

Mill.  He  is,  no  doubt,  often  bless'd  with  your 
company  and  conversation  ? 

Barn.  We  live  in  'one  house  together,  and 
both  serve  the  same  worthy  merchant. 

Mill.  Happy,  happy  youth  ! — Who  e'er  thou  S5 
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  in  your  friendship,  as  he  who  now  enjoys  60 
it ;  but,  as  it  is — Oh  ! 

Barn,  (aside).  I  never  observ'd  women  before, 
or  this  is  sure  the  most  beautiful  oFher  sex  ! 
You  seem  disorder'd,  madam  !  May  I  know  the 
cause  ?  *S 

Mill.  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.  73 

Barn,  (aside).  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 

57  kmnv  this  youth.    1 8  lo  absurdly  inserts  [^H./«]. 
69  as  you  arc.    O4,  O7,  omit. 


scENiv.]     tE-^t  ilontion  30ttc\)mt  25 

knew  hefore  ; — I  must   be  gone,  while  I  have 
power  to  go.   Madam,  I  humbly  take  my  leave.   75 

Mill.  You  will  not  sure  leave  me  so  soon  ! 

Barn.  Indeed  I  must. 

Mill.  You  cannot  be  so  cruel ! — I  have  pre- 
par'd  a  poor  supper,  at  which  I  promis'd  my  self 
your  company.  8° 

Barn.  I  am  sorry  I  must  refuse  the  honour 
that  you  design'd  me — but  my  duty  to  my  mas- 
ter 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. 

Mill.  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  90 
"^llld  kr  "^e  ^"^  twire  fnr  fj^^tpr  favniir<i. 

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

Mill.  Yet  do  not,  do  not,  leave  me !    I  wish 
my  sex's    pride  wou'd  meet  your  scorn  : — But  95 
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 

94  /  wish.    O4,  O7,  I  with. 

97-99  blushes  speak  .  .  .  their  ivayy  and  declare.  O4,  blushes 
(this  flood  of  tears  to  that  will  force  its  way)  declare.  O7  has  the 
same  as  O4  except  for  a  ( — )  after  blushes. 


P5 


\ 


26  ®l)e  ilonfion  spcrrljant        [act  i. 

their  way,  and  declare — what  woman's  modesty 
should  hide.  i 

Barn.  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  105 
for  ever,  if  you'd  have  me. 

Lucy  (aside).  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  mv  self,  no 

Aim.  Now  you  are  kind,  mdeed  ;  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. 

Lucy  (aside).  Serve  him   still! — Aye,  or  he'll  115 
have  no  opportunity  of  fingering  his  cash,  and 
then  he'll  not  serve  your  end,  I'll  be  sworn. 

Scene  VI. 
To  them  Blunt. 

Blunt.   Madam,  supper's  on  the  table. 

Mill.  Come,  sir,  you'll  excuse  all  defects. — 
My  thoughts  were  too  much  employ'd  on  my 
guest  to  observe  the  entertainment. 

\^Exeu!it  Millwood  and  Barnwell.'^ 

104  ihoit.    O4,  O7,  your. 


^ 


sciNE  VII.  ]    ®l)e  l^onDon  a^crcljant  27 

Scene  VII.  ^^vr-  J(£/»A, 

S/«n/.  What !  is  all  this  preparation,  this  ele- 
gant supper,  variety  of  wines,  and  musick,  for 
the  entertainment  of  that  young  fellow  ?  ^ 

Lucy.  So  it  seems. 

Blunt.  What !   is  our  mistress  turn'd  fool  at    5 
last  ?    She's  in  love  with  him,  I  suppose. 

Lucy.  I  suppose  not ;  but  she  designs  to  makel 
I  him  in  love  with  her,  if  she  can. 

Blunt.  What  will  she  get  by  that  ?  He  seems 
under  age,  and  can't  be  suppos'd  to  have  much  10 

raaue^. 

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

Blunt.  I  don't  like  this  fooling  with  a  hand- 
some young  fellow ;  vyhile.akiLs^endeavounngto  ij 
•nay  be  caughTher  selE 


ensnare  him,  she  rnay  

"  Lucy.  N"ay,  "were  she  like  me,  tRat  would 
certainly  be  the  consequence;  for,  I  confess, 
there  is  something  in  youth  and  innocence  that 
moves  me  mightily.  *°  (^* 

Blunt.  Yes,    so    does    the    smoothness    and 
plumpness  of  a  partridge  move  a  mighty  desire ^j; 
in  the  hawk  to  be  the  destruction  of  it.  '^-'^ 

Lucy.  Why,  birds  are  their  prey,  as  men  are 

^^k  5  What !  is.    O4,  O7,  What's. 


If 


28  tE^lje  iLonUon  spcrctjant        [act  i. 

ours ;  though,  as  you  observ'd,  we  are   some-  *5 
times  caught  our  selves  ;  but  that  I  dare  say  will 
never  be  the  case  with  our  mistress. 

Blunt.   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  no-  3° 
\  thing  to  be  got  by,  we  mustjlL-starve. 

Lucy.  There's  no  danger  of  that,  for  I  am  sure 
she  has  no  view  in  this  affair  but  interest.^ 

Blunt.  Well,  and  what   hopes  are  there   of 
success  in  that  ?  35 

Lucy.  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  con- 
science. O,  the  lad  is  in  a  hopeful  way,  depend 
upon't.  \_Exeunt.'\    4° 

Scene  VIII. 

Barnwell  and  Milhoood  at  an  entertainment. 

Barnwell.  What  can  I  answer  ?    All  that  I 
know  is,  that  you  are  fair,  and  I  am  miserable. 
(      Millwood.   We  are  both  so,  and  yet  the  fault 
lis  in  ourselves. 

Barn.  To  ease  our  present  anguish,  by  plung-     s 

5cene  Vlll.  O4.,  O7,  have  :   Scene  draws  and  discovers  Bam- 

Jwell  and  Millwood  at  supper.  An  entertainment  of  music  and 
singing.  After  which  they  come  forward.  1 8 10:  Barnwell  and 
MUlwood  with  an  entertainment  and  singing. 


sciNi viii]    tE^ije  JionDon  spmljant  29 

Iing  into  ^^,  is  to  buy  a  moment's  pleasure! 
with  an  age  of  pain.  / 

Mill.  I  should  have  thought  the  joys  of  love 
as  lasting  as  they  are  great.  If  ours  prove  other- 
wise, 'tis  your  inconstancy  must  make  them  so.   '°{q\^ 

Barn.jrhe_^w_ML-S^.2LQD^vA\l^not  he  re-   * 
vers'd;  and  that  requires  us  to  govern  our  pas-  '"   Z& 

Mtil.  To  give  us  sense  of  beauty  and  desires, 
and  yet  forbid  us  to  taste  and  be  happy,  is  cru-  15 

elty  to  nanirp.^— Have  we   pas^inn*;   nqly  to  tor- 
ment  us  ? 

Barn.  To  hear  you  talk,  tho'  in  the  cause  of 
vice — to  gaze  upon  your  beauty — press  your 
— ftand — and  see  your  snow-white  bosom  heave  *o 
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.-^et,  for  a  moment's 
guilty  pleasure,  shall  I  lose  my  innocence,  my 
peace  of  mind,  and  hopes  of  solid  happiness  ?       ^5 

Afill.  ,Chim£i:aL_silJ — Come  on   with  me  and 
prove :  / 

No  joy's  Hie  woman  iind,  nor  Heav'n  like  love./ 

Barn.   I  wou'd  not,  yet  must  on. — 

IB 

I^F       16    Chimeras  all,  &c.,  O7.    Ol,  O4,  drop  Come  on   .    .    .    love 
below  chimeras  all,  which  they  print  in  reman. 

j8  yet  must  on,  O4,  O7.    Oi  and  1810,  yet  I  must  on. 


30  tlTl^e  JlonDon  S^crcljant       [act  i. 

Reluctant  thus,  the  merchant  quits  his  ease. 
And  trusts  to  rocks,  and  sands,  and  stormy  seas ;        30 
In  hopes  some  unknown  golden  coast  to  find. 
Commits  himself,  tho'  doubtful,  to  the  wind ; 
Longs  much  for  joys  to  come,  yet  mourns  those  left 
behind. 


The  End  of  the  First  Act. 


1 

I 


Act  II. 

Scene  I.   A  Room  in  Thorowgood's  House, 

[Enter^  Barnwell. 

Barnwell.   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  aJ3ed  breach  of     s 
trust. — A  thief! — Can    I    know  my  self  that 
wretched  thing,  and  look  my  honest  friend  and 
injured.niaster  in  the  face  ^    Tho'  hypocrisy  may     ' 
a  while  conceal  my  guilt,  at  length  Tt  will  be 
known,  and  publicksbame  and Tum  must  ensue.   lo 
In  the  mean  time,  what  must  be  my  life  ?    Ever 
to  speak  a  ]anguage_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;   15 
like  me,  disconsolate  he  wander'd,  and,  whife  yetfk /■.      ^ 
in  Heaven,  bore  all  his  future  Hell  about  him,  •;     Jf^ 
\_Enter  Trueman.'^  Tft^ 

3  ground.   O4,  O7,  1775,  add  after  this  word  ;   and  fain  wou*d 
lurk  unseen.    This  is  again  omitted  in  1810. 
5  nvai.    O4,  O7,  were. 


32  tlt^e  iUnDon  Spcrcljant      [act  ii. 

Scene  II. 
Barnwell  and  Trueman. 

Trueman.   Barnwell !    O  how  I  rejoice  to  see  ~ 
you  safe !    So  wilL  our  master   and  his  gentle 
daughter,  who  during  your  absence  often  inquir'd 
aftej-  you. 

Barnwell  (aside).  Wou'd  he  were  gone  !   His     s 
officious  love  will  pry  into  the  secrets  of  my  soul. 

True.  Unless  you  knew  the  pain  the  whole 
family  has  felt  on  your  account,  you  can't  con- 
ceive how  much  you  are  belov'd.  But  why  thus 
cold  and  silent  ?  When  my  heart  is  full  of  joy  lo 
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.  15 

Barn,  (aside).    What  have  I  done,  indeed  1 

True.  Not  speak  nor  look  upon  me  ! 

Barn,  (aside).  By  my  face  he  will  discover 
all  I  wou'd  conceal ;  methinks,  already  I  begin 
to  hate  him.  lo 

'  True.  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.  25 


Scene ii]     ^fje  ILoiiDon  ^tu\)mt  33 

Barn,  (^turning  to  hint).  I  am  not  well.  Sleep 
has  been  a  stranger  to  these  eyes  since  you  be- 
held them  last. 

True.   Heavy   they  look  indeed,   and   swoln.i 
with   tears; — now    they  o'erflow.    Rightly  did,  30(«-^  i^^ 
my  sympathizing  heart  forbode  last  night,  when      •'•''''  / 
thou  wast  absent,  something  fatal  to  our  peace,  i   ^^ 

Barn.  Your  friendship  ingages  you  too  far.  r 
My  troubles,  whate'er  they  are,  are  mine  alone  ; 
you  have  no  interest  in  them,  nor  ought  your  35 
concern  for  me  give  you  a  moment's  pain. 

True.  You  speak  as  if  you  knew  of  friend- 
ship nothing  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  40 
sat  alone,  and  spent  the  tedious  night  in  wishes 
for  your  safety  and  return ;  e'en  now,  tho'  ig- 
norant of  the  cause,  your  sorrow  wounds  me  to 
the  heart.  "  kont-er»+-i(.  . 

Barn.  'Twill  not  be  always  thus.    Friendship  45 
and  all  engagements  cease,  as  circumstances  and 
occasions  vary  ;  and,  since  you  once  may  hate 
me,  perhaps  it  might  be  better  for  us  both  that 
now  you  lov'd  me  less. 

True.  Sure,  I  but  dream  !    Without  a  cause  50 
would  Barnwell  use  me  thus  ?    Ungenerous  and 
ungrateful   youth,  farewell  [— "Pshall  endeavour 
to  follow  your  advice.  /{Going.)     \Aside.'\    Yet 


■k  to  follo\^ 

L. 


34  ^Ije  Jlonfion  Spercliant      [act  n. 

stay,  perhaps  I  am  too  rash,  and  angry  when 
the  cause  demands  compassion.    Some  unfore-  55 
seen  calamity  may  have  befaln  him,  too  great  to 
bear. 

Barn,  {aside].  What  part  am  I  reduc'd  to 
act  !  'Tis  vile  and  base  to  move  his  temper 
thus — the  best  of  friends  and  men  !  60 

True.  I  am  to  blame ;  prithee  forgive  me, 
Barnwell  ! — Try  to  compose  your  ruffled  mind  j 
and  let  me  know  the  cause  that  thus  transports 
you  from  your  self:  my  friendly  counsel  may 
restore'y'duf~peace.  -  65 

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

True.  Something    dreadful    is    labouring    in 
your  breast.    O  give  it  vent,  and  let  me  share  70 
your  grief;    'twill    ease    your    pain,    shou'd    it 
admit  no  cure,  and  make  it  lighter  by  the  part 
I  bear. 

Barn.  Vain  supposition  !    My  woes  increase 
by  being  observ'd  ;  shou'd  the  cause  be  known,  75 
they  wou'd  exceed  all  bounds. 

True.  So  well  TTcnow  thy  honest  heart,  guilt 
cannot  harbcmjL  there. 

Barn,  [aside).    O  torture  insupportable  ! 

True.  Then  why  am  I  excluded  ?     Have  I  a  80 
thought  I  would  conceal  from  you. 


Scene  II.]     tKlje  JlottDon  S^trcljant  35 

Barn.  If  still  you  urge  me  on  this  hated  sub- 
ject, I'll  never  enter  more  beneath  this  roof,  nor 
see  your  face  again. 

True.  'Tis    strange — but  I  have  done.    Say  85 
but  you  hate  me  not ! 

Barn.   Hate  you !     I  am   not   that   monster 
■et. 

True.  Shall  our  friendship  still  continue  ? 

Barn.  It's  a  blessing  I  never  was  worthy  of;  90 
yet  now  must  stand  on  terms,  and  but  upon  con- 
ditions can  confirm  it. 

True.   What  are  they  ? 

Barn.  Never  hereafter,  tho'  you  shou'd  won- 
der at  my  conduct,  desire  to  know  more  than  95 
I  am  willing  to  reveal. 

True.  'Tis  hard ;    but^  upon  any  conditions 
must  be  your  friend.  / 

Barn.  Then,  as  much  as  one  lost  to  himself 
£an  be  j.n6ther's,  I  am  yours.  Embracing.  100 

True.  Be  ever  so,  and  may   Heav'n  restore 
'your  peace !  / 

Barn.  yj\\.\  yesterday  return.?/  We  have 
heard  the  glorroussun,  tTiat  till  then  incessant 
roll'd,  once  stopp'd  his  rapid  course,  and  onceio; 
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 


36  tE'^t  LonDon  S^m^ant      [act  n. 

thro'  its  sandy  bosom;  hungry  lions  have  re- no 
fus'd  their  prey,  and  men  unhurt  have  walk'd 
amidst  consuming  flames.    But   never  yet   did 

time,  once  past,  return.  ",. 

True.  Tho'" the"  continued  chain  of  time  has 
never  once  been  broke,  nor  ever  will,  but  unin-ns 
terrupted  must  keep  on  its  course,  till  lost  in 
eternity  it  ends  there  where  it  first  begun  :  yet, 
X/''  as   Heav'n  can  repair  whatever  evils  time  can 

, /y<^.o< .  *     bring  upon  us,_he  who  trusts  Heav'n  ought  never 
-=:nn:rr  _tp   despair.    But   business   requires   our  attend- no 
-     <  ance — -^usineja^^the  ,youth's_  best   preservative 
i'   from  ill,  as  idleness  his  worst  of  snares.    Will 
'  you  go  with  me?  /■     '   va"-  .      ;.'~ 

Barn.  I'll  take  a  little  time  to  reflect  on  what 
has  past,  and  follow  you.  [Exit  Trueman.']  125 

Scene  III. 
Barnwell. 

Barnwell.  I  might  have  trusted  Trueman  to 
have  applied  to  my^uncle  to  have  repaired  the 
wrong  I  have  done  my  master, — but  what  of 
Millwood  ?    Must  I  expose  her  too  ?    Ungener- 

119—120  aj,  he  nvho  .  ,  .  despair.  O4,  O7,  us,  wc  ought 
never  to  despair. 

1—2  Trueman  to  have  applied  to  my  uncle  to  hanit  repaired^  Oi 
and  1810.  O4,  07,  Trueman,  and  ingaged  him  to  apply  to  my 
uncle  to  repair. 


scEN.iv.]    titlje  ilonDon  spercliant  37 

ous  and  base !  X^fen  Heav'n  requires  it  not. —  5 
But  Heaven  requires  that  I  forsake  her.  fw'hat ! 
never  see  her  more  !  Does  Heaven  requii^  that-? 
— I  hope  I  may  see  her,  and  Heav'n  not  be 
offended.  Presumptuous  hope — dearly  already 
have  I  prov'd  my  fra'^'Y  '  should  I  once  more  10 
tempt  Heav'n,  I  may  be  left  to  fall  never  to  rise 
again7>  Yet  shall  F  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  15 
what  1  now  indure.  The  love  of  life  and  fear  of 
shame,  oppos'd  by  inclinatidn  strong  as  death  or 
shame,  like  wind  and  tide  in  raging  conflict  met, 
when  neither  can  prevail,  keep  me  in  doubt, 
ow  then  can  I  determine  ?  ^° 

Scene  IV. 

[^Enter  Thorowg!iod.'\ 

Thorowgood  and  Barnwell. 

Thorowgood.  Without  a  cause  assign'd,  or 
notice  given,  to  absent  your  self  last  night  was 
a  fault,  youhg  man,  and  I  came  to  cmae  you  for 
it,  but  hope  I  am  prevented.  That  modest  blush, 
the  confusion  so  visible  in  your  face,  speak  grief  5 
and  shame.    When  we  have  offended  Heaven, 


20  determine ^  O4,  O7.      Oi,  determines.  \ 


38  XE^\)t  JlonDon  apmliant      [act  ii. 

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.  lo 

Barnwell  {aside).  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  15 
could  not  have  forced  the  guilty  secret  from  my 
breast,  your  kindness  has. 

Thor.  Enough,  enough,  whate'er  it  be,  this 
concern  shows  you're  convinc'd,  and  I  am  satis- 
fied.   \_Aside.'\    How  painful  i^s  the^ense  of  guilt  20 
to    an,  ingenuous    mind — some  youthful    folly 
which  it  "were  prudent  not  to  enquire  into. — 
When  we  consider  the  frail  condition  of  human- 
ity, it  may  raise  our  pity,  not  "our  wotider,  that 
youth  should  go  astray :   when  reason,  weak  at  15 
the  best  when    oppos'd    to   inclination,  scarce 
form'd,  and  wholly  unassisted    by   experience, 
faintly  contends,  or  willingly  becomes  the  slave 
of  sense.    The  state  of  youth  is  much  to_be  de- 
plored ;  and  the   more  so,  because  they  see  it   30 
not":'  they  being  then  to  danger   most  expos'd, 
when  they  are  least  prepar'd  for  their  defence. 

14  receive  'em.      Ol,  1810.     O4,  O7,  receive  it. 

l6   best  •when  oppoi'd.     O4,  O7,  best  opposed. 

31  defence.    After  this  O7,  1775,  1810,  print  \^Aude. 


sc»«  v.]     XE'^t  JLonlJon  S^rrcljant  39 

Barn.  It  will  be  known,  and  you  recall  your 
pardon  and  abhor  me.      0  -  •   '^  V 

Thor.  I  never  will ;  so  Heav'n  confirm  to  35  ll 
me  the  pardon  of  my  offences  !  Yet  be  upon  A\ 
your  guard  in  this"  gay,  thou^tless  season  of  "jl 
your  life ;  now,  when  the  sense  of  pleasure's  ,  fc  \ 
quick,  and  passion  high,  the  voluptuous  appc-  i|^ 
tites  raging  and  fierce  demand  the  strongest  4°;  , 
curb,  take  heed  of  a  relapse:    when  vice  be-  - 

comes  habitual,  the  very  power  of  leaving  it  is  lost.         ; 
Barn.   Hear  me,  then,  on  my  knees  confess —  a  ^'^-  • 
Thor.  I  will  not  hear  a  syllable  more  upon  f    '  <    ( 
this  subject ;  it  were  not  mercy,  but  cruelty,  to  »5  K 
hear  what  must  give  you  such  torment  to  reveal,  iy^ 
Earn.  This  generosity  amazes  and  distracts  me./'   "vf 
Thor.  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  5° 
ou  to  offend  than  me  to  pardon.  [^Exit.']    ' 


If 


Scene  V. 
Barnwell. 


Barnwell.  Villain,  villain,  villain  !  basely  to 
wrong  so  excellent  a  man  !  Shou'd  I  again  re- 
turn to  folly — detested   thought — but  what  of 

35-36   so  Heaven  .  .  .  offences.    O4,  O7,  omit. 

38   life;   now^nvhen.     O7,  life,  when.      43   then.    O4,  O7,  omit. 

44  i  will  not  hear  a.    O4,  O7,  Not  a. 

) 


40  X!^\)t  ILoniJon  spercliant      [act  ii. 

Millwood  then? — Why,  I  renounce  her; — I 
give  her  up  : — the  struggle's  over  and  yirtueJjas 
prgyail'd.  Reason  may  convince,  but  gratitude 
compels.  This  unlook'd  for  generosity  has  sav'd 
me  from  destruction.  >/      Going. 

I    ■■ 
Scene  VI. 

[Barna>e//A     To  him  a  Footman. 

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

Barn,  (aside).  Who  shou'd  they  be  ?  —  Tell 
them  I'll  wait  upon  'em.  \Exit  Footman.'] 

Scene  VII. 
Barnwell. 
Barnwell.    Methinks    I    dread    to    see    'em. 
Guilt,  what  a    coward    hast    thou    made    me ! 
Now  every  thing  alarms  me. 

Scene  VIII. 
-    Another  Room  in  Thorowgood'' s  House. 
Millwood  and  Lucy  ;  and  to  them  a  Footman. 
Footman.  Ladies,  he'll  wait  upon  you  imme- 
diately. 

Millwood.  'Tis  very  well. — I  thank  you. 

\_Exit  Footman.] 

Sctrt  VII.  2  Guilt  .  .  .  made  me  ! — Now  .  .  .  me.  O4,  O7, 
transpose  the  two  sentences. 


Scene  IX.]    tlt^c  ILoitDon  spcwliant         ,   41 

Scene  IX. 
Millwood  and  Lucy. 
V Enter  Barnwell.'^      ^ 

Barnwell.  Confusion  !    Millwood  ! 

Millwood.  That  angry  look  tells  me  that  here 
I'm  an  unwelcome  guest.  I  fear'd  as  much — 
the  unhappy  are  so  everywhere. 

Barn.  Will  notETng  hiTrihy  utter  ruin  con-     s 
tent  you .'  _  .    - 

Mill.  Unkind  and  cruel !  Lost  m)^self,  your 
happiness  is  now  my  only  care. 

Barn.   How  did  you  gain  admission  .' 

Mill.  Saying  we  were  desir'd  by  your  uncle  to  10 
visit  and  deliver  a  message  to  you,  we  were  re- 
ceiv'd  by  the  family  without  suspicion,  and  with 
much  respect  directed  here. 

Barn.   Why  did  you  come  at  all  ^ 

Mill.  I  never  shalL  trouble  you  more ;  I'm  15 
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  ao 
short. 

Barn.  Then  we  are  met  to  part  for  ever .'' 

13  directed,  Oi,  :8io.    O7,  conducted. 
1%  left  me,  Oi,  1810.    O4,  O7,  omit  me. 


42  tirijc  JLonDon  spcrcljant       [act  n. 

Mill.  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  25 
X  leave  you,  yet  condemn  me  not ! 

Barn.  Condemn  you  ?  No,  I  approve  your 
resolution,  and  rejoice  to  hear  it.  'Tis  just ; 
'tis  necessary  ;  I  have  well  weigh'd,  and  found 
it  so.  30 

Ldcy  (aside).  I'm  afraid  the  young  man  has 
more  sense  than  she  thought  he  ha3^ 

Barn.  Before  you  caijie,  I  had  determin'd 
never  to  see  you  more.  '' 

Mill,   (aside).   Confusion  !  35 

Lucy  (aside).  Ay  !  we  are  all  out ;  this  is  a 
turn  so  unexpected,  that  I  shall  make  nothing  of 
my  part ;  they  must  e'en  play  the  scene  betwixt 
themselves. 

Mill.  'Twas  some  relief  to  think,  tho'  absent,  40 
you  would  love  me  still.    But  to  find,  tho'  for- 
tune had  been  kind,  that  you,  more  cruel  and 
inconstant,  had  resolv'd  to  cast  me  off — this,  as 
I  never  cou'd  expect,  I  have  not  learnt  to  bear. 

Barn.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  blame  in  me  a  45 
resolution  that  so  well  becomes  us  both. 

Mill.  I  have  reason  for  what  I  do,  but  you 
have  none.  ..       / 

24  e-ver  shall.    O4,  O7,  sHall  ever. 

41  still.  But.    All  the  editions,  still  ;  but. 

42  kind.    O4,  O7,  indulgent. 


sciNEix]    tlTljc  JLonDon  apcrcljant  43 

Barp.  Can  we  want  a  reason  for  parting,  who 
have.So  many  to  wish  we  never  had  met  ?  5° 

Mill.  Look  on  me,  Barnwell !  Am  I  de- 
form'd  or  old,  that  satiety  so  soon  succeeds  en- 
)  joyment  ?  Nay,  look  again,  am  I  not  she  whom 
yesterday  you  thought  the  fairest  and  the  kindest 
J  of  her  sex  ?  whose  hand,  trembling  with  extacy,  55 
you  prest  and  moulded  thus,  while  on  my  eyes 
you  gazed  with  such  delight,  as  if  desire  in- 
creas'd  b^  being  fed  ? 

Barn/No  more ;  let   me   repent   my  former 
follies,  if  possi^ile,   without   remembring    what  60 
they  were. 

Mill.   Why? 

Barn.  Such  is  my  frailty  that  'tis  dangerous,  j 

Mill.   Where  is  the  danger,  since  we  are  to 
part  ?  65 

Barn.  The  thought   of  that   already   is   too 
painful. 

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

Barn.  No — no — I  never  said  I  did. — O  my  70 
heart  ! — 

Mill.  Perhaps  you  pity  me  ? 

Barn.  I  do — I  do — indeed,  I  do. 

Mill.  You'll  think  upon  me  ? 

Barn.   Doubt  it  not,  while  I  can  think  at  all !  75 
,    Mill.  You  may  judge  an  embrace  at  parting 


44  ^^t  ilonfion  spercliant      [act  n. 

too  great  a  favour,  though  it  would  be  the  last  ? 
(He  draws  bad.)  A'look  shall  then  suffice — 
farewell  for  ever.     /  \^Exit  with  Lucy.'] 

Scene  X. 

Barnwell. 

Barnwell.  If  to  resolve  to  suffer  be  to  con- 
quer, I  have  conquer'd.    Painful  victory  ! 

Scene  XI. 
\Reenter  Millwood  and  Lucy."] 
Barnwell,  Millwood  and  Lucy. 

Millwood.  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 
shou'd  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. 

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

Mill,  {to    Lucy).    My    friend,    your    arm. —  lo 
Now  I  am  gone  for  ever.  Going. 

/  Barn.  One  thing  more :  sure,  there's  no 
danger  in  my  knowing  where  you  go  \-l\i  you 
think  otherwise — 


sciN?  XI.]    ^\)c  JLonDon  spcrcljant  45 

Mill,  (weeping).  Alas!  iS 

Lucy  (aside).  We  are  right,  I  find  ;  that's  my 
cue.  Ah  ;  dear  sir,  she's  going  she  knows  not 
whither ;  but  go  she  mu^. 

Barn.   Humanity  obliges  me  to  wish  you  well ; 
why  will  you  thus  expose  your  self  to  needless  lo 
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  »s 
leave  you. 

Mill.  No   more,   my    friend ;    since    he    for 
whose  dear  sake  alone  I  suffer,  and  am  content  - 
to  suffer,  is  kind  and   pities   me.    Wheree'er  I 
wander  through  wilds  and  desarts,  benighted  and  3° 
forfcrn,  that  thought  shall  give  me  comfort. 

Barn.  For  my  sake  !  O  tell  me  how  ;  which 
way  am/I  so  curs'd  as  to  bring  such  ruin  on 
thee  ?    ' 

Mill.  No  matter,  I  am  contented  with  my  35 
lot. 

Barn.  Leave  me  not  in  this  incertainty  ! 

Mill.   I  have  said  too  much. 

Barn.  How,  how  am  I  the  cause  of  your 
undoing  ?  4° 

1 8  -whither,  O4,  O7.    Oi  only,  whether. 
29   Wheree'er.    O4,  O7,  Whene'er. 
JO  ivildi,  O7.    Oi,  O4,  wiles. 


46  tirijf  iLonfion  spcrcliant      [act  ii. 

Mill.  'Twill  but  increase  your  troubles. 

Barn.  My  troubles  can't  be  greater  than  they 
are. 

Lucy.  Well,  well,  sir ;  if  she  won't  satisfy 
you,  I  will.  i, 

Barn.   I  am  bound  to  you  beyond  expression. 

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

Barn.  Begin,  and  ease  my  racking  expecta- 
tion !  ! 

Lucy.  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  in- 
considerable one,  I  assure  you)  to  the  care  of  21 
gentleman  who  has  a  good  estate  of  his  own.  J   55 

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

Lucy.  For  a  while  he  perform'd  the  office  of 
a  faithful  guardian,  settled  her  in  a  house,  hir'd  60 
her  servants — but  you  have  seen  in  what  man- 
ner she  liv'd,  so  I  need  say  no  more  of  that. 

Mill.  Hpw  I  shall  live  hereafter,  Heaven 
knows ! 

Lucy.  All  things  went  on  as  one  cou'd  wish,  65 
till,  some  time  ago,  his  wife  dying,  he   fell  vio- 
lently in  love  with  his  charge,  and  wou'd  fain 

41  'Til/ill  hut.    O4,  O7,  1775,  1810,  To  know  it  will  but. 


Scene  XI.]      ®])C  JiXUlDOlt  ^ttC\)mt  47 

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  70 
endure  him.  In  short,  her  ill  usage  so  provok'd 
him,  that  he  brought  in  an  account  of  his  execu- 
torship, wherein  he  makes  her  debtor  to  him  — 

Mi/l.  A  trifle  in  it  self,  but  more  than  enough 
to  ruin  me,  whom,  by  this  unjust  account,  he  75 
had  stripp'd  of  all  before. 

Lucy.  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  go 
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  entertain'd  at  her  house,  and._§tay'd 
with  her  all  night,  he  came  this  morning  raving  85 
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  thaf  he  sup- 
poses she  granted  you.  90 

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

Aft//.   He  gave  me  but  an  hour  to  resolve  in. 
That's  happily  spent  with  you — and  now  I  go. — 

75  tiis.    O7,  his. 


-48  tlTlie  ILonDon  S^crc^ant       [actii. 

Barn.  To  be  expos'd  to  all  the  rigours  of  the  95 
various  seasons,  the  summer's  parching  heat, 
and  winter's  cold ;  unhous'd  to  wander  friend- 
less thro'  the  unhospitable  world,  in  misery  and 
want,  attended  with  fear  and  danger,  and  pur- 
su'd  by  malice  and  revenge — woud'st  thou  en- 100 
dure  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.  O  where  are  all  my  resolutions  now  ?  105 
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. 

Lucy.  Now,  I  advis'd  her,  sir,  to  comply  with 
the  gentleman  ;  that  wou'd  not  only  put  an  end  no 
to  her  troubles,  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  my  self  prevent  her  ruin, 
tho'  with  my  ownJ — A  moment's  patience;  I'll "5 
return  immediately.  \Exit.'\ 

Scene  XII. 
Millwood  and  Lucy. 
Lucy.  'Twas  well  you  came ;  or,  by  what  I 
can  perceive,  you  had  lost  him. 

98  world.    Earlier  texts:  world,  in  misery  and  want;  attended. 


scENK  XIII.]  tlTljc  Jlontion  spercljant  49 

Millwood.     That,    I    must    confess,    was    a 

danger  I  did  not  foresee  ;  I  was  only  afraid  he 

should  have  come__without  money.    Youjcnow 

.    a  jiouse  j)f  enteruinment  like  mine  is  not  kept 

*  with  nothing. 

Lucy.  That's  very  true ;  but  then  you  shou'd 
be  reasonable  in  your  demands  ;  'tis  pity  to  dis- 
courage a  young  man. 

Scene  XIII. 
[_Eater]  Barnwell  \with  a  bag  of  money\ . 

'  ■  ■  Millwood  and  Lucy. 

Barnwell  [aside'] .  ( What  am  I  about  to  do  ! — 
Now  you,  who  boast  your  reason  all-sufficient, 
suppose  your  selves  in  my  condition,  and  deter- 
mine for  me  :   whether  it's  right  to  let  her  suffer 
for  my  faults,  or,  by  this  small  addition  ta  my 
guilt,  prevent  the  ill  effects  of  what  is  past.)       \ 
Lucy.  These  young  sinners  think  everything 
, -,,in  the  ways  of  wickedness  so  strange  ^ut  I 
I   ^ou'd  tell  him  that  this  is  nothing  but  what's 
I    very  common  ;   for^ne  vice  as  naturally  begets 
another,  as  a  father  a  son.    But   he'll  /find  out 
that  himself,  if  he  lives  long  enough/'' 

&.  XII,    7  iviih  nothin^y  Oi.    O4,  O7,  without  expence. 
Sc.  XII.     10  discourage  a  young  man.    O4,  O7,  add  :  Mill.  Leave 
that  to  me.  ivith  a  bag  ofmoney.^  O4,  O7. 

&c.  XIII.    II-I2  Bui  .  .  .  enough.    O7  prints  after  this  [Aside. 


I? 


50  ^\)t  iLonfion  spctc^iant       [act  ii. 

Barn.  Here,  take  this,  and  with  it  purchase 
your  deliverance  ;  return  to  your  house,  and  live 
in  peace  and  safetvi 

Mill,  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  ! 

Mill.  Say  but  you'll  come  !  i^p^^i^ 

Barn.  Ycm^are  my_  fate,jnyJieavenjJei;  rpy 
hfill ;  only  leaveAne  now,  dispose  of  me  hereafter 
as  you  please./  [^Exeunt  Millwood  and  Lucy.'\ 


{ 


,"! 


V--  Scene  XIV. 

J>^  ^  /     Barnwell. 

Barnwell.  What  have  I  done  ! — Were  my  re- 

'i^- solutions  founded  on  reason,  and  sincerely  made 

\'  — why  then 'has   Heaven  suffer'd  me  to  fal^?    I 

K^sought  not  the  occasion  ;  and,  if  my  hem  de- 

i:^'B^es  me  not,  Compassion  and  generosity  were     5 

3   my^otives; — Is  virtue  inconsistent  with  it  self, 

or  are  vice  and  virtue  only  empty  names?    Or 

•    do  they  depend  on  accidents,  beyond  our  pcwer 

\  to  produce  or  to  prevent — wherein  we  have  no 

\  part,  and  yet  must  be  determin'd^by_the  event  ?   10 

But,  why  should  I  attempt  to  reasonTv-All  is 

17  lest,  O4,  O7.    Ol  only,  lea3t?\ 

F- 


scENixiv]    tlTlje  JUnfion  S^crcljant  51 

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 —  15 

Such  undistinguish'd  horrors  make  my  brain^ 
Like  Hell,  the  seat  of  darkness  and  of  pain. 


The  End  of  the  Second  Act. 


Act  III. 

Scene    I.    [^  Room  in  Thorowgood^ s  House.'\ 

Tborowgood  and  Trueman  [sitting  at  a  table  with 

accfiunt  books'^. 

Thornvgood.  Methinks,  I  wou'd  not  have  you 
only  learn  the  method  of  merchandize,  and  prac- 
tise 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 
prbrhoted  humanity,  as  it  has  opened  and  yet 
keeps  up  an  intercourse  between  nations,  far  re- 
mote from  one  another  in  situation,  customs  and 
religion ;  promoting  arts,  industry,  peace  and  lo 
plenty  ;  by  mutual  benefits  diffusing  mutual  love 
from  pole  to  pole. 

Trueman.   Something  of  this   I   have  consid- 
er'd,  and  hope,  by  your  assistance,  to  extend  my 
thoughts  much  farther.     L  have  observ'd  those  15 
^  countries,  where  trade  is  promoted  and  encour- 
aged, do  not  make  discoveries  to  destroy,  but  to 

Sitting  at  a  table  luitk  account  books,  1 8 1  o. 
5   science.  See.    O4,  O7,  science,  to  sec. 

6-7  /lOTv  it  has  promoted.    O4,  O7,  how  it  promotes.    1 8 10, 
period  after  things. 


scENii]      tE^fjf  ILonDon  a^mljant  53 

improve, mankind  by  love  and  friendship;  to  tame  ^ 
the  fierce  and  polish  the  most  savage ;  to  teach 
them  the  advantages  of  honest  traiRck,  by  taking  20 
from  them,  with  their  own  consent,  their  useless 
superfluities,  and  giving  them,  in  return,  what, 
from  their  ignorance  in  manual  arts,  their  situ- 
ation, or  some  other  accident,  they  stand  in  need 
of.  25 

y      Thor.  'Tis  justly  observ'd  :  the  populous  East, 
/  luxuriant,  abounds  with  glittering  gems,  bright 
I  pearls,    aromatick    spices,  and   health-restoring 
I  drugs.     The  late   found  Western  World  glows 
with  unnumber'd  veins  of  gold  and   silver  ore.   30 
On  every  climate  and  on  every  country,  Heaven 
has   bestowed    some    good   peculiar  to   it   self. 
It  is  the  industrious  jnercharu's  b_usiness  to  col-   \_,/ 
lect  the  various  blessings  of  each  soil  and  climate, 
and,  with  the  product  of  the  whole,  to  enrich  his  35 
native  country. — Well  !   I  have  examin'd  your 
accounts  :  they  are  not  only  just,  as  I  have  al- 
ways found  them,  but  regularly  kept,  and  fairly 
enter'd.    I  commend  your  diligence.    Method  in 
business  is  the  surest  guide.    He  who  neglects  40 
it  frequently  stumbles,  and  always  wanders  per- 
plex'd,  uncertain,  and  in  danger. — Are  Barnwell's 

18  improve,  mankind  .  .  .  to  tame,  1810.  Ol  punctuates: 
improve  mankind, — by  love  and  friendship  to  tame.  O4,  O7, 
place  (;)  after  mankind,  23   manual  arti,    O7,  mutual  arts. 

19  World  gloius.    04,07,  World's  rich  earth  glows. 


54  t!tl)e  JlonUon  spcrcljant     [act  m. 

accounts  ready  for  my  inspection  ?  He  does  not 
use  to  be  the  last  on  these  occasions. 

True.  Upon  receiving  your  orders  he  retir'd,  45 
I  thought,  in   some  confusion.     If  you  please, 
I'll  go  and  hasten  him. — I  hope  he  hasn't  been 
guilty  of  any  neglect. 

Thor.  I'm  now  going  to  the  Exchange ;  let 
him  know,  at  my  return,  I  expect  to  find  him  50 
ready.  \_Exeunt.'\ 

Scene  II. 
[Enter]  Maria  with  a  book  ;  sits  and  reads,     f 

Maria.  How  forcible  is  truth  !   The  weakest 

mind,  inspir'd  with  love  of  that,  fix'd  and  col- 
lected 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  suf- 
ferings, 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? 


scENi III]    ®i)e  jLonUon  S0ac\)mt  55 

Scene  III. 

\^EnUr  Truemari.^ 

Trueman  and  Maria. 

Trueman.  O,  Barnwell !   O,  my  Friend,  how 
art  thou  fallen ! 

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

True.  'Tis  not  to  be  conceal'd.     I've  news    5 
to  tell  of  him  that  will  afflict   your  generous 
father,  your  self,  and  all  who  knew  him. 

Ma.   Defend  us  Heaven  ! 

^True.  I  cannot  speak  it. — See  there. 
Gives  a  Utter.    Maria  reads. 
rueman,  10 

/  krinv  my  absence  will  surprize  my  honour  d 
master  and  your  self;  and  the  more  ^w  hen  you  shall 
^^understand  that  the  reason  of  my  withdrawing^  is 
V^^y  having  embezzled  part  of  the  cash  with  which 
I  was  entrusted.  After  this,  'tis  needless  to  inform  15 
you  that  I  intend  never  to  return  again.  Though 
this  might  have  been  known  by  examining  my  ac- 
counts, yet,  to  prevent  that  unnecessary  trouble,  and 
to  cut  off  all  fruitless  expectations  of  my  return,  I 
'}ave  left  this  from  the  lost  20 

George  Barnwell. 

7  knew  bim.    O7,  know  him. 


56  tE^lje  LonDon  S^ercljant      [act  m. 

True.  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  understand- 
ing uncommon  at  his  years — an  open,  generous, 
manliness  of  temper — his  manners  easy,  un- 
affected and  engaging. 

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

True.  Since  such  he  was,  and  was  my  friend, 
can  I  support   his  loss? — See!    the  fairest  and  35 i 
happiest  maid  this  wealthy  city  boasts,  kindly 
condescends  to  weep  for  thy  unhappy  fate,  poor 
jcuiold  Barnwell ! 

Ma.  Trueman,  do  you  think  a  soul  so  deli- 
cate as  his,  so  sensible  of  shame,  can  e'er  sub-  4° 
mit  to  live  a  slave  to  vice  ? 

True.  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.  45 

Ma.  Js_lhere  no  means  yet  to  preserve  him  ? 

True.  O,  that  there  were !  But  few  men 
recover  reputation  lost — a  merchant  never. 
Nor  ivou'd  he,  I  fear,  though  I  shou'd  find  him. 


Scene  III]    xi^j^t  ILonOon  S^crcljant  57 

ever  be  brought  to  look  his  injur'd  master  in  the  50 
face. 

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

True.  That's  impossible. 

Ma.  What's  the  sum  ?  55 

True.  'Tis  considerable.  I've  mark'd  it  here, 
to  show  it,  with  the  letter,  to  your  father,  at  his 
return.  . 

Ma.  If  I  shou'd  supply  the  money,  cou'd  you        / 
so  dispose  of  that,  and  the  account,  as  to  conceal  60' 
this  unhappy  mismanagement  from  my  father  ? 

True.  Nothing  more  easy.    But  can  you  in- 
tend 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  65 
my  friend,  inspired  the  generous  thought ! 

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

True.  Trust  to  my  diligence    for    that.    In   70 
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. 

Ma.  In  attempting  to  save  from  shame  one 
whom' we  hope  may  yet    return  to  virtue,  to  75 
Heaven,  and  you,  the  judges  of  this  action,  I 

76  the  judgis,  Ol.    O4,  O7,  the  only  witnesses. 


58  tE^lie  Jlontion  S^crcliant      [act  m. 

appeal,  whether  I  have  done  any  thing  misbe- 
coming my  sex  and  character. 

True.  Earth  must  approve  the  deed,  and 
Heaven,  I  doubt  not,  will  reward  it.  80 

Ma.  If  Heaven  succeed  it,  I  am  well  re- 
warded. 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  Barn- 
well's sake,  for  mine,  let  it  be  so  to  him  !  j  "-»t^  85 

[^Exeunt."^ 
Scene  IV. 

Millwood'' s  House.     \Enter\  Lucy  and  Blunt. 

Lucy.  Well !  what  do  you  think  of  Mill- 
wood's conduct  now  ! 

Blunt.  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  5 
her  avarice  wou'd  discover  her.  But  his  youth 
and  want  of  experience  make  it  the  easier  to 
impose  on  him. 

Lucy.  No,  it  is  his  love.  To  do  him  justice, 
notwithstanding  his  youth,  he  don't  want  under-  10 
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 

77  have  done.    O4,  O7,  do.      81   iuccced.    O4,  O7,  succeeds. 


sciNi  IV.]    tC^e  LonDon  S^ttc\)nnt  59 

Millwood,  and  I'll  engage  to  make  as  great  a  15 
fool  of  him. 

Blunt.  And   all  circumstances  consider'd,  to 
make  as  much  money  of  him  too. 

Lucy.   I   can't  answer  for  that.    Her  artifice 
in  making  him  rob  his  master  at  first,  and  the  20 
various  stratagems  by  which  she  has  obliged  him 
to  continue  in  that  course,  astonish  even  me,  who 
know  her  so  well. 

Blunt.  But  then  you  are  to  consider  that  the 
money  was  his  master's.  25 

Lucy.  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  30 
an  end. 

Blunt.  That's  no  more  than  we  all  expected. 

Lucy.  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  35 
and  entertainment. 

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

Lucy.  As  you  wou'd  expect.    She  wonder'd 
what  he  meant ;  was    astonish'd  at   his   impu-  40 
dence ;  and,  with  an  air  of  modesty  peculiar  to 

22  continue  in.    O4,  O7,  continue. 


6o  tE^lje  LonUon  spmliant      [act  m. 

her  self,  swore  so  heartily  that  she  never  saw     / 
him  before,  that  she  put  me  out  of  countenance./ 

Blunt.  That's  nftuch  indeed !  But  how  did 
Barnwell  behave  ?  45 

Lucy.  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  50 
thence. 

Blunt.  But  then,  Millwood  ? 

Lucy.  Aye,  she,  with  her  usual  address,  re- 
turn'd  to  her  old  arts  of  lying,  swearing  and  dis- 
sembling. Hung  on  his  neck,  and  wept,  and  55 
swore  'twas  meant  in  jest ;  till  the  easy  fool, 
melted  into  tears,  threw  the  money  into  her 
lap,  and  swore  he  had  rather  die  than  think  her 
false. 

Blunt,  Strange  infatuation  !  60 

Lucy.  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  excess- 

48  andy  making,    O4,  O7,  when,  making. 
ihow'd,  Oi.    O4,  O7,  he  show'd. 

49  a  hag.    O4,  O7,  a  sum.  stol'n.    O4,  O7,  brought. 

50  master.    O4,  O7,  master's. 

55  and 'wept.    O7,  wept. 

56  the  easy  fool,  Ol.    64,  O7,  the  amorous  youth. 


sciNK  IV.]    tlTJje  iLonOon  spcrcljant  6i 

ive  fondness,  such  joy,  such   grief,  such  pleas-  65 
are,  and  such  anguish,  that  nature  in  him  seem'd  I 
sinking  with  the  weight",  and  the  charm  d   soul  V 
dispos'd  to  quit  his  breast   for   hers.    Just  then,  I 
when  every  passion  with  lawless  anarchy  pre-  " 
va'ild,  and  reason  was  in  the  ragingTempest  lost,  70 
the   cruel,  artful   Millwood   prevail'd    upon  the 
wretched  youth' to  promise  what  I  tremble  but 
to  think  on. 

Blunt.  I  am  amaz'd  !    What  can  it  be  .' 

Lucy.  You  will  be  more  so,  to  hear  it  is  to  75 
y^  attempt  the  life  of  his  nearest  relation,  and  best 
benefactor. 

Blunt.  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  ?  80 

Lucy.  The  same.  She  was  no  sooner  pos- 
sess'd  of  the  last  dear  purchase  of  his  ruin,  but 
^^  her  avarice,  insatiate  as  the  grave,  demands,  this 
■^horrid  sacrifice — Barnwell's  n^ar  relation.;  and 
unsuspected  virtue  must  give  too  easy  means  to  85 
seize  the  good  man's  treasure,  whose  blood  must 
seal  the  dreadful  secret,  and  prevent  the  terrors 
of  her  guilty  fears. 

Blunt.  Is  it  possible  she  cou'd  p£rs«:ade  him 
to  do  an  act  like  that  ?    He  is,  by  naturfi',  hon-  90 
est,  grateful,  compassionate,  and  generous  ;  and 

83   dtmandi.    O4,  O7,  demanded. 


62  tir^e  ILonDon  S0ttc^mt      [act  hi. 

though  his  love  and  her  artful  perswasions  have 
wrought  him  to  practise  wTiat Tie  "most  abhors  ; 
yet  we  all  can  witness  for  him  with  what  re- 
luctance he  has  still  comply'd  !  So  many  tears  95 
he  shed  o'er  each  offence,  as  might,  if  possible, 
sanctify  theft,  and  make  a  merit  of  a  crime. 

Lucy.  '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  100 
him  with  well   dissembled   love   and   false   en- 
dearments, 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,  but  affected  a  most  passionate  fit  of  105 
grief — rail'd  at  her  fate,  and  curs'd  her  way- 
ward 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  heiio 
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  115 
supply  her  wants,  and  murder'd  him,  to  keep  it 
from  discovery.  , 

Blunt.  I  am  astonish'd  !    What  said  he  ? 

Lucy.  Speechless   he  stood ;  but   in  his  face 


f 


Scene  IV.]    ^\)t  iLonSoit  S0trc\)ant  63 

you  might  have  read  that  various  passions  tore  120 
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  ex- 
press'd,  he  cry'd  :  '  Thou  cursed  Eair !  have  I  not  125 
given  dreadful  proofs  of  love  !  What  drew  me 
from  my  youthful  innocence,  to  stain  my  then  . 

unspotted  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  130 
by  my  self,  and  scorn'd  by  all  the  world,  but 
love  ?    What  fills  my  eyes  with  tears,  my  soul 
with  torture,  never  felt  on  this  side  death  before  i 
Why,  love,  love,  love!    And  why,  above  all,  do 
I  resolve '  (for,  tearing  his  hair,  he  cry'd  '  I  do  re- 1 35 
solve  ')  '  to  kill  my  uncle  ? ' 

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

Lucy.  Yes,  with  joy,  that  she  had  gain'd  her 
point.  She  gave  him  no  time  to  cool,  but  urg'di4o 
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. 

124  his  kriasi.  O4,  O7,  his  troubled  breast. 
129  my  gentle.  O4,  O7,  my  worthy  gentle. 
131    by  my  self.    O7  only,  by  himself. 


64  ©tie  Lonfion  spcrcljant     [act  m. 

Blunt.  'Tis  time  the  world  was  rid  of  such  a  145 
_monster_i.  " ""      "•  ~ 

Lucy.  If  we  don't  do  our  endeavours  to  pre- 
vent this  murder,  we  are  as  bad  as  she. 

Blunt.   I'm  afraid  it  is  too  late. 

Lucy.   Perhaps  not. — Her  barbarity  to  Barn- 150 
well  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. 

Blunt.  'Tis  true,  we  have  all  been  too  much  155 
so.    But  there  is  something  so  horrid  in  murder, 
that  all  other  crimes  seem  nothing  when  com- 
pared to  that.    I  wou'd  not  be  involv'd  in  the 
guilt  of  that  for  all  the  world. 

Lucy.  Nor  I,  Heaven  knows  ;  therefore,  let  us  160 
clear  our  selves  by  doing  all  that  is  in  our  power 
to  prevent  itj  I  have  just  thought  of  a  way  that, 
to  me,  seems  probable.    Will  you  join  with  me 
to  detect  this  curs'd  design  ? 

Blunt.  With  all  my  heart. — How  else  shall  1 165 
clear  my  self  ?    He  who  knows  of  a  murder  in- 
tended to  be  committed  and  does  not  discover 
it,  in  the  eye  of  the  law  and  reason  is  a  mur- 
derer. 

Lucy.   Let  us  lose  no  time;   I'll  acquaint  you  170 
with  the  particulars  as  we  go.  \^Exeunl.'\ 

145   ivas  rid.      O7,  were  rid. 

165-166  Horn  .   .   .   my  ulf.    O4,  O7,  omit. 


sc«.r  v.]     ^l}t  ilonOon  spccc^ant  65 

Scene  V. 
J  Walk  at  iome  dhtance  from  a  Country  Seat. 

\_EKter']  Barnwell. 
Barnwell.  A  dismal  gloom  obscures  the  face 
of  day  ;  either  the  sun  has  slip'd  behind  a  cloud, 
or  journeys  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     5 
this  accursed  design,  where'er  I  tread,  methinks, 
the    solid    earth   trembles   beneath   my   feet. — 
Yonder    limpid   stream,  whose   hoary    fall   has 
made  a  natural  cascade,  as  I  pass'd  by,  in  dole- 
-ful  accents  seem'd  to  murmur  '  Murder.'    The  10 
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  ^ermtts^j^  -■  ■ 
a  good  man's  fall !— Just  Heaven  !    Then  what    \'^, 
shou'd   I  be !    For  him,  that  was  my  father's  15  ' 
--only  brother,  and  since  his  death  has  been  to  me    .\. 
a  father,  who  took  me  up  an  infant,  and  an  or-     v 
phan  ;  rear'd  me  with  tenderest  care,  and  still 
indulged  me  with  most  paternal  fondness — yet 
here  I  stand  avow'd  his  destin'd  murderer. — I  ao 
stiffen  with   horror  at   my  own   impiety. — 'Tis 
yet  unperform'd.    What  if  I  quit  my  bloody  pur- 
pose, and  fly  the  place  !  {Going.,  then  stops.)— But 

II   stem.    O4,  O7,  seem'd.         13   the  shock.    O7,  a  shock. 


66  tClje  ILonDon  spcrcljant     [act  m. 

whither,  O  whither,  shall  I  fly  ?    My  master's 
once  friendly  doors  are  ever  shut  against  me ;  25 
and  without  money  Millwood  will  never  see  me 
more,  and  life  is  not  to  be  endured  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  30 
more  than  love  :   'tis  the  fever  of  the  soul^  ana 
nudness  of  desire.   In  vain  does  nature,  reason, 
'  conscience,  all  opppse  it ;  the  impetuous_gassion 
\  /  bears  down  all  before  it,  and  drives  me  on  to 
^  Tust,  To""  thett    and    miir3er.     Oh^onscience !   35 
),.,  feeble  guide  to  virtue,  who  only"^ows  us  when 
V  '  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 ! 
{^Plucks  out  a  vizor.)    This  is  his  hour  of  private  4° 
meditation.    Thus  daily  he  prepares  his  soul  for 
Heaven,  whilst  I — but  what  have  I  to  do  with 
Heaven  ?    Ha  !    No  struggles,  conscience  ! 
Hence,  hence,  remorse,  and  ev^ry  thought  that's 

good : 
The  storm  that  lust  began  must  end  in  blood. 

Puts    on    the  vizor,    draws   a  pistol   \and 
exit'\ . 

24  •whither,  0  wiither,  O7,  1810.    Ol,  O4,  whether,  O  whether. 

36  "who  only  shoivs  us^  Oi,  O4.    O7,  thou  only  shows't. 

37  'Wants,  Ol,  O4.    O7,  wantest. 
and  exit,  O4,  O7,  1 8 10. 


sciNi  VI.]    tlTfje  ilonDon  £19ercl)ant  67 

Scene  VI. 
A  close  Walk  in  a  Wood. 

[Enter-]   Uncle.  'i^rC^"^ 

[Uncle.]  If  I  was  superstitious,  I  shou'd  fear 
some  danger  lurk'd  unseen,  or  death  were  nigh. 
— A  heavy  melancholy  clouds  my  spirits ;  my 
imagination  is  fill'd  with  gashly  forms  of  dreary 
graves  and  bodies  chang'd  by  death ;  when  the  s 
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  behold  their  future 
selves,  how  does  each  inordinate  passion  and 
desire  cease,  or  sicken  at  the  view  i*/  The  mind 
scarce  moves;  the  blood,  curdling  and  chill'd,  15 
creeps  slowly  thro'  the  veins;  fix'd,  still, and  mo- 
tionless, like  the  solemn  object  of  our  thoughts, 
we  are  almost  at  present  what  we  must  be  here- 
after, 'till  curiosity  awakes  the  soul,  and  sets  it 
on  inquiry.  ^  lo 

I   nvai  superstitioui,     O4,  O7,  were. 
4  gashly,  O4  also.    O7,  1775,  1810,  ghastly. 
6  attracks.    O4,  attacks  ;  O7,  attracts. 

16-17  motionless,  like,  Oi.   O4,  O7,  motionless  we  stand,  so 
like. 


68  tlTlic  iLonUon  9^nc\)mt     [act  m. 

Scene  VII. 

Uncle.    George  Barnwell  at  a  distance. 

Uncle.  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 
worlds  exotick  finds,  or  thinks  it  finds — thy 
thick  clouds  attempts  to  pass  in  vain,  lost  and 
bewilder'd  in  the  horrid  gloom ;  defeated,  she 
returns  more  doubtful  than  before ;  of  nothing 
certain  but  of  labour  lost. 

During  this  speech,  Barnwell  sometimes  pre- 
sents the  pistol  and  draws  it  back  again  ; 
at  last  he  drops  it,  at  which  his  uncle 
starts,  and  draws  his  sword. 

Barnwell.   Oh,  'tis  impossible  ! 

Uncle.  A  man  so  near  me,  arm'd  and  masqu'd ! 

Barn.  Nay,  then  there's  no  retreat. 

Plucks  a  poniard  from  his  bosom,  and  stabs  him. 

Uncle.  Oh  !  I  am  slain  !    All-gracious  Heaven 

regard  the  prayer  of  thy  dying  servant!    Bless, 

7  loorlds,  O7.    Ol,  1775,   1 8 10,  world's.  / 

8  attrmpti,  O4,  O7  also.    1775,  1810,  attempt. 

12  Oh,  'lis  impoitihU.  O4,  O7,  dropping  the  stage-direction 
from  at  last  insert  here  :  '  throwing  down  the  pistol.  Uncle  starts 
and  draws  his  sword.* 


sciNi vii]  tBi)t  LonDon  S^crcljanc  69 

with  thy  choicest  blessings,  my  dearest  nephew ; 
forgive  my  murderer,  and  take  my  fleeting  soul 
to  endless  mercy  ! 

Barna^//  throws  off  bis  mask,  runs  to  him, 
/tnd,  kneeling  by  him,  raises  and  chafes 
y    him. 

Barn,  Expiring  saint !  Oh,  murder'd,  martyr'd  lo 
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,  15 
— tears,  for  blood  !    The  murder'd,  in  the  agon- 
ies of  death,  weeps  for  his  murderer. — Oh,  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  30 
press  my  murdering  hand  ! — What  !    will  you 
kiss  me  !    {Kisses  him.     Uncle  groans  and  dies.) 
He's  gone  for  ever — and  oh  !  I  follow.    (Swoons 
away  upon  his  uncle's  dead  body.)    Do  I  still  live  to 
press  the  suffering  bosom  of  the  earth  ?    Do  I   35 
still  breathe,  and  taint  with  my  infectious  breath 
the  wholesome  air  !    Let  Heaven  from  its  high 

Uncle  groam  and  dies.  After  this  stage-direction,  O4,  1775, 
and  1810  insert  :  *  Life,  that  hover'd  nn  his  lips  but  till  he  had  seal'd 
my  pardon,  in  that  sigh  expired."  O7  substitutes  '  kiss'  for  sigh. 
O I  misprints  :  Uncie.  Groans  and  dies,  —  as  if  the  last  three  words 
were  part  of  the  dialogue. 


70  ®l)c  iUnfion  ^mljant     [act  m. 

throne,  in  justice  or  in  mercy,  now  look  down 
on  that  dear  murder'd  saint,  and  me  the  mur- 
derer. And,  if  his  vengeance  spares,  let  pity  4c 
strike  and  end  my  wretched  being  ! — Muxder 
th£  worst  of  crimes,  and  parricide  the  worst  of 
murders,  and  this  the  worst  of  parricides  !  Cain, 
who  ^ands  on  record  from  the  birth  of  time, 
and  must  to  its  last  final  period,  as  accurs'd,  4; 
slew  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  murder'd  a  brother,  mother,  father, 
and  a  friend,  most  loving  and  belov'd.  This  ex-  5c 
ecrable  act  of  mine's  without  a  parallel.  O  may 
it  ever  stand  alone — the  last  of  murders,  as  it  is 
the  worst ! 

The  rich  man  thus,  in  torment  and  despair. 
Prefer' d  his  vain,  but  charitable  prayer.  5i 

The  fool,  his  own  soul  lost,  wou' d  fain  be  wise 
For  others  good ;  but  Heaven  his  suit  denies. 
By  laws  and  means  well  known  we  stand  or  fall. 
And  one  eternal  rule  remains  for  all. 

The  End  of  the  Third  Act. 


Act  IV. 

Scene  I.     A  Room  in  Thorowgood' s  House. 

Maria. 

Maria.  How  falsely  do  they  judge  who  cen- 
sure 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  5 
Heaven  to  mark  me  out  for  sufferings  so  uncom- 
mon and  severe.  Falsely  to  accuse  our  selves. 
Heaven  must  abhor;  then  it  is  just  and  right 
that  innocence  should  suffefj^or'TTeaven  rriust 
be~just  in  all  its  ways.  Perhaps  by  that  they  are  10 
kept  From  moral  evils  much  worse  than  penal, 
or  more  improv'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  15 
peace  for  thee — 

Thou   dear.,  dear    cause   of  all  my   grief  and 
pain., 

Small  VQere  the  loss,  and  infinite  the  gain ; 

I^_       Tho'  to  the  grave  in  secret  love  Ipine, 
^P      So  life,  and  fame,  dnd  happiness  were  thine.         20 

10,  «i«)i,  O4  also.    O7,  we.  i^,iclbe.    O4,  O 7,  be  made  the. 


^^  W^t  iLonDon  spmljant      [act  iv. 

Scene  II. 

[Enter  Trueman.'\ 

Trueman  and  Maria 

Maria.   What  news  of  Barnwell  ? 

Trueman.  None.  I  have  sought  him  with  the 
greatest  diligence,  but  all  in  vain. 

Ma.  Doth  my  father  yet  suspect  the  cause  of 
his  absenting  himself?  5 

True.  All  appear'd  so  just  and  fair  to  him,  it 
is  not  possible  he  ever  shou'd  ;  but  his  absence 
will  no  longer  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  lo 
afraid,  he  regards  'em  only  as  such,  without  suf- 
fering them  to  influence  his  judgment. 

Ma.  How  does  the  unhappy  youth  defeat  all 
our  designs  to  serve  him  !  Yet  I  can  never  re- 
pent what  we  have  done.  Shou'd  he  return, 'twill  15 
make  his  reconciliation  with  my  father  easier, 
and  preserve  him  from  future  reproach  from  a 
malicious,  unforgiving  world. 

Scene  III. 
To  them  Thorowgood  and  Lucy. 

Thorowgood.  This  woman  here  has  given  me 
a  sad,  and  (bating  some  circumstances)  too  prob- 
able account  of  Barnwell's  defection. 

4  Doth,  O4,  O7,  Does.     5  ahstming  himulf.    O4,  O7,  absence. 


sciN.  IV.]    tClie  iLonfion  S^ercljant  73 

Lucy.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  that  my  frank  confes- 
sion of  my  former  unhappy  course  of  life  shou'd     5 
cause  you  to  suspect  my  truth  on  this  occasion. 

Thor.  It  is  not  that ;  your  confession  has  in 
it  all  the  appearance  of  truth.  {To  them.')  Among 
many  other  particulars,  she  informs  me  that 
Barnwell  has  been  influenc'd  to  break  his  trust,  10 
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. 

Maria.   Sir,  your  pardon;  I  find  my  self  on  a   15 
sudden  so  indispos'd,  that  I  must  retire. — {Aside.') 
Providence  opposes  all   attempts  to  save  him.       ^ 
Poor  ruin'd  Barnwell !    Wretched,  lost  Maria !  ^ 

IiExit.-\ 
Scene  IV. 
Thorowgood,  Trueman  and  Lucy. 

Thorowgood.   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  increases  hourly,  and  gives     5 
me  painful  apprehensions  of  her  loss. — O  True-      \ 
man!  this  person  informs  me  that  your  friend,^      A  J 
at  the  instigation  of  an  impious  woman,  is  gone  ^      , 
:o  rob  and  murder  his  venerable  uncle.  /  iy>0  V"^ 


Ci 


:.y  V 


74  tlTbe  JLonDon  S^crcljant      [act  iv. 

Trueman.  O  execrable  deed  !    I  am  blasted  lo 
with  the  horror  of  the  thought. 

Lucy.  This  delay  may  ruin  all. 

Thor.  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.  15 

True.  Trust  not  to  that ;  rather  suppose  all 
true  than  lose  a  moment's  time.  Even  now  the 
horrid  deed  may  be  a  doing — dreadful  imagin- 
ation !  Or  it  may  be  done,  and  we  are  vainly 
debating  on  the  means  to  prevent  what  is  already  20 
past. 

Thor.  [aside^ .  This  earnestness  convinces  me 
that  he  knows  more  than  he  has  yet  discover'd. 
—  What  ho  !  without  there  !   who  waits  ? 

Scene  V. 
To  them  a  Servant. 

Thorowgood.  Order  the  groom  to  saddle  the 

swiftest  horse,  and  prepare  himself  to  set  out 

with  speed  ! — An  affair  of  life  and  death  demands 

his  diligence.  [^Exit  Servant.'] 

Scene  VI. 

Thorowgood,  Trueman  and  Lucy. 

Thorowgood.  For  you,  whose  behaviour  on  this 
occasion  I  have  no  time  to  commend  as  it  de- 

Sc.  V.    1  himse!/.    O4,  O7,  omit. 


II 


sciNi  IX.]    tirijf  iLonDon  spmljant  75 

serves,  I  must  ingage  your  farther  assistance. 
Return  and  observe  this  Millwood  till  I  come. 
I  have  your  directions,  and  will  follow  you  as 
soon  as  possible.  ^£xit  Lucy.'\ 

Scene  VII. 
Thorowgood  and  Trueman. 
Thorowgood.  Trueman,  you  I  am  sure  wou'd 
not  be  idle  on  this  occasion.  \Exit.'\ 

Scene  VIII. 
Trueman. 
[Trueman.'\   He  only  who  is  a  friend  can  judge 
of  my  distress.  TExit.l 

Scene  IX. 
Mil/wood's  House, 
Millwood. 
Millwood.  I  wish  I  knew  the  event  of  his  de- 
sign ;  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  shou'd  have  thought 
of  that  before. — Suppose  the  deed  done :  then, 
and  then  only,  I  shall  be  secure ;  or  what  if  he 
(returns  without  attempting  it  at  all  ? 

&.  ^//.      I-a  wou'd  not.    O7,  will  not. 


76  Wjt  ILonDon  S^ercljant      [act  iv. 

'    Scene  X. 
Millwood,  and  [enter]  Barnwell,  bloody. 

Millwood.  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 
conceal  it.  '  ''^-r^^ 

Barnwell.  Where  shall  I  hide  me  ?    whither    5 
shall  I  fly  to  avoid  the  swift,  unerring  hand  of 
justice  ? 

Mill.  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  10 
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  dan- 
ger's near.  15 

Barn.  O  hide  me  from  my  self^jf  it  be  pos- 
sible ;  for  while  I  bear  my  conscience  in  my 
bosom,  tho'  I  were  hid,  where  man's  eye  never 
saw,  nor  light  e'er  dawned,  'twere  all  in  vain. 
For  that  inmate, — that  impartial  judge^will  try,  10 
convict  and  sentence  me  for  murder ;,  and  exe- 

enter  Barnwell.    1 8 1  o  makes  Barnwell  enter  at  the  close  of 
Millwood's  speech. 

5  •whither,  O7,  1775,  1810.    Oi,  whether. 
8  those.    O4,  O7,  your. 
20   For  that.    O4,  O7,  For  oh  !  that. 


scinex]     titlje  ilonDon  apercljant  77 

cute  me  with  never  ending  torments.    Behold 
these    hands   all   crimson'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  25 
r  statue. 

Mill.  Ridiculous !  Then,  it  seems  you  are 
afraid  of  your  own  shadow,  or,  what's  less  than 
a  shadow,  your  conscience. 

Barn.  Though  to  man   unknown  I  did  the  3° 
accursed  act,  what  can  we  hide  from   Heav'ns 
omniscient  eye  ? 

Mill.  No  more  of  this  stuff!  What  advan- 
tage have  you  made  of  his  death  ?  or  what  ad- 
vantage may  yet  be  made  of  it  ?  Did  you  secure  35 
the  keys  of  his  treasure — those  no  doubt  were 
about  him.  What  gold,  what  jewels,  or  what 
else  of  value  have  you  brought  me  ? 

Barn.  Think  you  I  added  sacrilege  to  mur- 
der ?  Oh !  had  you  seen  him  as  his  life  flowed  40 
from  him  in  a  crimson  flood,  and  heard  him 
praying  for  me  by  th^-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  thou-  45 
sand  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, 

31  omnisdenl,    O4,  O7,  all-seeing. 


78  tCljf  JlonOon  SPtrcbant      [act  iv. 

nor  cou'd  I,  to  have  gain'd  the  empire  of  the 
world,  have  violated  by  theft  his  sacred  corps.      50 

Mill.   Whining,  preposterous,  canting  villain, 

to  murder  your  uncle,  rob  him  of  life,  natures 

Pi  first,  last,  dear  prerogative,  after  which  there's 

llj  no  injury,  then  fear  to  take  what  he  no  longer 

y  wanted  ;  and  bring  to  me  you/  penury  and  guilt !  55 

Do  you  think  I'll  hazard  my  reputation  ;  nay 

my  life  to  entertain  you  ? 

Barn.  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  60 
sure  my  grief  will  quickly  end  me. 

Mill.  In  his  madness  he  will  discover  all,  and 
involve  me  in  his  ruin.  We  are  on  a  precipice 
from  whence  there's  no  retreat  for  both — then, 
to  preserve  my  self.  (^Pauses.)  There  is  no  65 
other  way,  —  'tis  dreadful ;  but  reflection  comes 
too  late  when  danger's  pressing,  and  there's  no 
room  for  choice.  —  It  must  be  done.     (  Stamps. ) 

^  Scene  XL 

,  To  them  a  Servant. 

Millwood.  Fetch  me  an  officer,  and  seize  this 
villain  :    he  has  confess'd  himself  a  murdere^. 

68   It  must  be  done.    Here,  instead  of  ^rdm/>i  (which  is  also  trie 
stage-direction  in   1810),  O4  has  Rings  a  bell ^  and  O7,    1775 
have  the  direction  :    Aiide.    Rings  a  bell.   Enter  a  Servant. 


Scene  XII.]    ©1)0  iLonDOH  spcrcljattt  79 

Shou'd  Ilet  him  escape,  I  justly  might  be  thought 
as  bad  as  he.  J!^;,^^     Jv    ^l.^:^xi/Serva,a.]  y 

Scene  XIl. 

Millwood  and  Barnwell. 

Barnwell.  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  de- 
liver my  self  into  the  hands  of  justice  ;  indeed  I  5 
will,  for  death  is  all  I  wish.  But  thy  ingratitude  / 
so  tears  my  wounded  soul,  'tis  worse  ten  thou- 
sand times  than  death  with  torture. 

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

Barn.  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  15 
awful  tryal,  and  ignominious  death — justly  to 
fall  unpitied  and  abhorr'd  ;  after  death  to  be  sus- 
pended between  Heaven  and  earth,  a  dreadful 
spectacle,  the  warning  and  horror  of  a  gaping 
croud.  This  I  cou'd  bear,  nay  wish  not  to  10 
avoid,  had  it  come  from  any  hand  but  thine. 

1   thou  doii  not,  Oi.    O4,  O7,  you  do  not. 
3   hegyoUj  call.    O4,  O7,  beg  you'd  call. 
16  and  ignominious.    O7,  and  an  ignominious. 


kJ?' 


n^ 


\  ^   8(fx;        W})t  JLonDon  ^ttt^nt     [act  iv. 

Scene  XIII. 
\~^Cdf^Millwood,    Barnwell.     \^Enter'\    Blunt,    Officer   and 

1^-   ^  J  \Millwood.   Heaven   defend    me !     Conceal   a 
I  murderer!    Here,  sir  ;  take  this  youth  into  your 
custody.    I  accuse  him  of  murder,  and  will  ap- 
\  '^'^  J'^^f  'o  rnake  good  my  charge.        They  seize  him. 
\        ^    Barnwell.  To  whom,  of  what,  or  how  shall     5 
j3^  '\  ^  complain  ?    I'M  jiot  accuse  her :  the  hand  of 
'   "Xj-i  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  40  punislts 
^<.others.'   Tremendous  mercy  !  so  fiends  are  curs'd  10 
with    immortality,  to    be    the  executioners    of 
Heaven. — 
Be  luarn'd,  ye  youths.,  who  see  my  sad  despair, 
Avoid  lewd  women,  false  as  they  are  fair  ; 
By  reason  guided,  honest  joys  pursue  ;  ~|  15 

The  fair,  to  honour  and  to  virtue  true,  \ 

Just  to  her  self,  will  ne'er  be  false  to  you.      )   ^ 
By  my  example  learn  to  shun  my  fate  ;  ■~: 

(How  wretched  is  the  man  who's  wise  too  late .') 
E'er  innocence,  and  fame,  and  life,  he  lost,  20 

Here  purchase  wisdom,  cheaply,  at  my  cost  ! 

i^Exit  with  Officer s.l 

16    The  fair,  to  honour  and.    All  the  editions  interpunctuate  : 
The  fair  to  honour,  and. 


Scene  XVI.]      W)t  MniOn  S0ttCljmt  8 1 

Scene   XIV. 
Millwood  and  Blunt. 

Millwood.  Where's  Lucy  ?  Why  is  she  ab- 
sent at  such  a  time  ? 

Blunt.  Wou'd  I  had  been  so  too,  thou  devil ! 

Mill.  Insolent !   This  to  me  ! 

Blunt.  The  worst  that  we  know  of  the  devil 
is,  that  he  first  seduces  to  sin  and  then  betrays 
to  punishment.  \Exit.'\ 

\  Scene  XV. 


^ 


2i     I  ■•  Millwood. 

[Millwood.l  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,  but  scorn  it  and  them.  I  was  not  born 
to  fall  by  such  weak  instruments.  Going. 

Scene  XVI. 

[^Enter  Thorowgood."] 

Thorowgood  and  Millwood. 

Thorowgood.  Where  is  this  scandal  of  her  own 
sex,  and  curse  of  ours  ? 

&.  XIV.    3  io  too.    Here  O4,  O7,  1775,  1810,  insert  :  Lucy 
will  soon  be  here,  and  I  hope  to  thy  confusion. 
&.  Xy.    I  conduct.    O4,  O7,  add,  then. 
&.   XVI.    I   thii  scandal.    O4,  O7,  the  scandaL 


N 


82  ^\)t  JLonDon  S^mljant      [act  iv. 

Millwood.  What  means  this  insolence  ?  Who 
do  you  seek  ? 

Thor.  Millwood.  S 

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

Thor.  Then  you  are  the  most  impious  wretch 
that  e'er  the  sun  beheld. 

Afill.  From  your  appearance  I  shou'd  have  lo 
expected  wisdom  and  moderation,  but  your  man- 
ners bely  your  aspect. — What  is  your  business 
here  ?    I  know  you  not. 

nor.  Hereafter  you  may  know  me  better;  I 
am  Barnwell's  master.  15 

Mil/.  Then  you  are  master  to  a  villain ; 
which,  I  think,  is  not  much  to  your  credit. 

Thor.  Had  he  been  as  much  above  thy  arts 
as  my  credit  is  superior  to  thy  malice,  I  need 
not  blush  to  own  him.  10 

Mill.  My  arts  ?  I  don't  understand  you,  sir. 
If  he  has  done  amiss,  what's  that  to  me  ?  Was 
he  my  servant,  or  youfs  ?  You  shou'd  have 
taught  him  better. 

Thor.  Why  shou'd    I   wonder  to .  find   such  25 
uncommon  impudence  in  one  arriv'd  to  such  a 
height  of  wickedness  ?     W  hen  innocence  is  ban- 
ish'd,  modesty  soon  follows.    Know,  sorceress, 
I'm  not  ignorant  of  any  of  your  arts,  by  which 

20   not  t/usi.    O4,  O7,  1810,  have  blushed. 
29  your  arts.    O4,  the  arts  j  O7,  thy  arts. 


Scene  XVI.]      ^^t  iLOUDOlt  ^ttCijmXt  83 

you  first  deceiv'd  the  unwary  youth.  I  know  3° 
how,  step  by  step,  you've  led  him  on,  reluctant 
and  unwilling  from  crime  to  crime,  to  this  last 
horrid  act,  which  you  contriv'd,  and,  by  your 
curs'd  wiles,  even  forced  him  to  commit — and 
then  betray'd  him.  35 

Mi/L  (aside).  Ha  !  Lucy  has  got  the  advan- 
tage of  me,  and  accused  me  first.  Unless  I  can 
turn  the  accusation,  and  fix  it  upon  her  and 
Blunt,  I  am  lost. 

Thor.   Had  I  known  your  cruel  design  sooner,  40 
it  had  been  prevented.    To  see  you  punish'd  as 
the  law  directs,  is  all  that  now  remains. — Poor 
satisfaction — for   he,  innocent  as   he    is,  com- 
pared to   you,  must   suffer  too.  .BuLjH^aYep,  j    1 
who  knows   our  frame,  and  ^raciottsly  distin-  45 
guish^  between   frailty  and  presumption, ^ will 
make  a  di^erence,  tho'  man  cannot,  who  sees 
not  the  heart,  but  orilyjudges  by  the  outward 
acribn.— 

Mill.  I  find,  sir,  we  are  both  unhappy  in  our  50 
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 

34-35   and  .    ,    .   him.    O4,  O7,  omit. 
37  of  me.    O4,  O7,  omit. 

52-53  -without  cause.    O4,  O7,  1775,  transpose  these  words  to 
after  ///  treatment. 


84  turtle  ILontion  a^mljant     [act  iv. 

have  been  so  far  impos'd  on  as  to  think  me  55 
engaged  in  a  former  correspondence  with  your 
servant,  and,  some  way  or  other,  accessary  to 
his  undoing. 

Thor.  I   charge  you    as   the  cause,   the  sole 
cause  of  all  his  guilt  and  all  his  suffering  —  of   60 
all  he  now  endures,  and  must  endure,  till  a  vio- 
lent   and    shameful    death  shall   put  a  dreadful 
period  to  his  life  and  miseries  together. 

Mill.  'Tis  very  strange  !  But  who's  secure 
from  scandal  and  detraction  ?  —  So  far  from  65 
contributing  to  his  ruin,  I  never  spoke  to  him 
till  since  that  fataL^cident,  which  I  lament  as 
much  as  you.  '^is  true,  I  have  a  servant,  on 
whose  account  he  has  of  late  frequented  my 
house ;   if  sh,e  has  abus'd   my  good  opinion  of   70 

,r,  am  1  to  blamfe  ?    Hasn't  Barnwell  done  the 
same  by  you  ?  / 

Tho/.  I  hear  you  ;  pray,  go  on  ! 

Mill.  I  have  been  inform'd  he  had  a  violent 
passion  for  her,  and  she  for  him ;  but  I  always  75 
thought  it  innocent ;  I  know  her  poor,  and  given 
to  expensive  pleasures.  Now  who  can  tell  but 
she  may  have  influenced  the  amorous  youth  to 
commitythis  murder,  to  supply  her  extravagan- 
cies ^  It  must  be  so  ;  I  now  recollect  a  thousand  80 
circumstances  that  confirm  it.    I'll  have  her  and 

75  hut.    O4,  O7  insert,  till  now. 


Scene  XVI]      t!^\)t  ILOltDOlt  S0ttC\)mt  85 

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  contrivers  of  this  bloody  85 
deed.  Oferj  to  go. 

Thor.  Madam,  you  pass  not  this  way  !  I  see 
your  design,  but  shall  protect,  them  from  your 
malice. 

Mill.  I  hope  you  will  not  use  your  influence,  9° 
and  the  credit  of  your  name,  to  skreen  such 
guilty  wretches.    Consider,  sir,  the  wickedness 
of  perswading  a  thoughtless  youth  to  such  a 
crime  ! 

Thor.  I  do  —  and  of  betraying  him  when  it  95 
was  done. 

Mill.  That  which  you  call  betraying  him,  mav 
convince  you  of  my  innocence.    She  who  loV-Ji 
him,  tho'  she  contriv'd  the  murder,  would  never 
have  deliver'd  him  into  the  hands  of  justice,  as  1, 100 
struck  with  the  horror  of  his  crimes,  have  done. 

Thor.  S^a5ide\ .   How  shou'd  an^unexgenenc'd 
youth  escape  her  snares  i"   The  powerful  magick 
of  her  wit  and  form  might  betray  the  wisest  to 
simple  dotage,  and  fire  the  blood  that  age  had  105 
froze  lortg  since.   Even  I,  that  with  just  prejudice       / 
came  prepared,  had,  by  her  artful  story,  been  de-    *' 
ceiv'd,  but  that  my  strong  conviction  of  her  guilt 

lOI   •with  the  horror  of.    O4,  O7,  with  horror  at. 


86  ^\)t  JUnfion  ^crc^ant      [act  iv. 

makes  even  »  doubt  impossible. — Those  whom 
subtilly  you  wou'd  accuse,  you  know  are  yourne 
accusers  ;  and,  what  proves  unanswerably  their 
innocence  and  your  guilt,  they  accus'd  you  be- 
fore the  deed  was  done,  and  did  all  that  was  in 
their  power  to  have  prevented  it. 

AfilL   Sir,  you  are  very  hard  to  be  convinc'd  jiij 
but  I  have  such  a  proof,  which,  when  produced, 
will  silence  all  objections.  \_Exit.'\ 

Scene  XVII. 

Tboroxugood.     \_Enter\  Lucy,  Trueman,  Blunt, 
Officers,  etc. 

Lucy.  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 !  {to  Thor- 
owgood)  and  note  her  behaviour.  I  have  ob-  j 
serv'd  her :  she's  driven  to  the  last  extremity, 
and  is  forming  some  desperate  resolution. — I 
guess  at  her  design. — 

Scene  XVIII. 
To  them  Millwood  with  a  pistol. — Trueman 
secures  her. 
Trueman.   Here  thy  power  of  doing  mischief 
ends,  deceitful,  cruel,  bloody  woman  ! 

Ill    aT7d,lvbaty  O4  also.    O7,  and  (which  proves. 
114  bavc  prevented,  O4  also.    O7,  prevent. 


s«Ni  XVIII.]  ^\jt  iLontton  S^eircljant  87 

Millwood.  Fool,  hypocrite,  villain  —  man  ! 
Thou  can'st  not  call  me  that. 

True.   To  calL  thee  woman  were  to  wrong     5 
the  sex,  thou  devij ! 

Mill.  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.  10 

" — True.  Think  not  by  aggravating  the  fault  of     1 
others  to  extenuate  thy  own,  of  which  the  abuse       ■jl 
of  such  uncommon  perfections  of  mind  and  body    I 
is  not  the  least ! 

Mill.  If  such  I  had,  well  may  I  curse  your  15 
barbarous   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,  10 
dependance  and  contempt.     Riches,  no  matter 
by  what  means  obtain'd,  I  saw,  secur'd  the  worst 
of  men  from  both  ;  Ijfpund  it  therefore  necessary 
to  be  rich  ;  and,  to  that  end,  I  summon'd  all  my 
arts^   Ypu  call  'em  wicked  ;  be  it  so !    They  25 
were  ^uch  as  my  conversation  with  your  sex  had      , 
furnish'd  me  withal.  , 

Thorowgood.  Sure,  none  but  the  worst  of  men 
convers'd  with  thee. 

6  the  iex.    O4,  O7,  thy  sex. 


> 


V 


88  W\)t  JLonDon  jpcrcljant      [act  iv. 

Mill.  Men  of  all  degrees  and  all  professions  30 
I   have  known,  yet  found  no  difference,  but   in 
their  several  capacities  •,  all  were  alike  wicked  to 
the  utmost  of  their  power.    In  pride,  contention, 
avarice,  cruelty  and  revenge,  the  reverend  priest- 
hood were   my  unerring  guides.    From  suburb-   35 
magistrates,  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  4° 
scandalous,  when   many  are  suspected,  and  de- 
traction, like  darkness  and  death,  blackens  all 
objects  and  levels  all  distinction.    Such  are  your 
venal  magistrates,  who  favour  none  but  such  as, 
by  their  office,  they  are  sworn  to  punish.    With  45 
them,  not  to  be  guilty  is  the  worst  of  crimes ;  and 
large  fees  privately  paid  is  every  needful  virtue. 

Thor.  Your  practice  has  sufficiently  discover'd 
your  contempt  of  laws,  both  human  and  divine  ; 
no  wonder  then  that  you  shou'd  hate  the  officers   50 
of  both.     X 

itZ/Y/./IJiate-you  all ;  I  know  you,  and  ex- 
pect nojnercy.  Nay,  I  ask  for  none ;  I  have 
done  nothing  that  I  am  sorry  for ;  I  fpllow'djay 

47  is.   O7,  18 10,  are. 

52-53   I  Ante  .   .  .  for  none.    O4,   O7,  I  know  you,  and  I 
hate  you  all ;  1  expect  no  mercy,  and  I  ask  for  none, 
53-54   I  have  .    .    .   sorry  for.    O4,  O7,  omit. 


sciNE  XVIII.]    tE^ije  Lontion  spercljant         89 

inclinations,  and  that  the  best  of  you  does_evLcry  55 
day.    All  action's  are  alike  natural  andlKfifFerent    •      ^x/ 
to  marr^'Wltl  beast,  whp  devour,  or  are  devour'd,    \ 
as  they   meet   witjv'^thers  weaker  or   stronger 
than  themselves. 

Thor.  Whatpity  it  is,  a-mindsgcomprehen.-  6o\ 
sive,  daring  and  inquisitive  shou'd  be  a  stranger       jA'' 
to  religion's  sweet,  but  powerful  charms.  / 

Mill.  I  am  not  fool  enough  to  be  an  atheist, 
tho'  I   have  known  enough  of  mens  hypocrisy 
to  make  a  thousand   simple  women   so.    What-  6j 
ever  religion  is  in  it  self — as  practis'd  by  man-   "   ^ 
kind, "It  has  caus'd  the  evils  you  say  it  was  de- 
sign'd  to  cure^.War,  plague;  aiid' famine,  has   ■ 
not  destroy'd  so  many  of  the  human  race  as  this     \ 
pretended   piety  has  done,  and  with   such  bar-  70  ' 
barous  cruelty — as    if  the   only  way  to   honour 
Heaven,  were  to  turn   the  present   world  into    y 
Hell.  " -— -  >-^ 

Thor.  Truth   is  truth,  tho'  from  an  enemy 
and   spoke  in   malice.    You    bloody,  blind,  and  75 
superstitious  bigots,  how  will  you  answer  this  ? 

Mill.  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  villanies,  by  which  you  punish  in  others  80 

55  doci.    O4,  O7,  do.  56  are.    O4,  O7,  seem. 

62  hut.    O4,  O7,  and.  68-69  ^"J  ""'•    O?,  have  not. 


9°  tlTljc  JlonDon  spcrcljant      [act  iv. 

■what  yo^act  your  selves,  or  wou'd   have  acted, 
had  you^wn  in  their  circumstances.    The  judge 
who  condemns  the  poor  man    for  being  a  thief, 
had  been  a  thief  himself,  had  he  been  poor.  Thus 
you  go   on    deceiving,  and   being  deceiv'd,  har-  85 
rassing,  and   plaguing,  and  destroying   one   an- 
other :   but  women  are  your  universal  prey. 
Women.,  by  whom  you  are.,  the  source  of  joy  ^ 
With  cruel  arts  you  labour  to  destroy  ; 
A  thousand  ways  our  ruin  you  pursue.,  90 

Yet  blame  in  us  those  arts  first  taught  by  you. 
O  may.,  from  hence,  each  violated  maid. 
By  fatt' ring,  faithless,  barh'rous  man  betray' d.. 
When  robh'd  of  innocence,  and  virgin  fame. 
From  your  destruction  raise  a  nobler  name  ;  95 

T'o  right  their  sex's  wrongs  devote  their  mind. 
And  future  Millwoods  prove,  to  plague  mankind! 

88  by  ivhom you  are,  etc.    1775  absurdly  omits  the  comma,  and 
reads  :  by  ivkom  you  are  the  source  of  joy. 

The  End  of  the  Fourth  Act. 


Act  V. 
Scene   I.   A  Room  in  a  Prison. 


ThorazBgood,  Blunt  and  Lucy. 

Thorowgood.  I  have  recommended  to  Barnwell 
a  reverend  divine,  whose  judgment  and  integ- 
rity I  am  well  acquainted  with.  Nor  has  Mill- 
wood been  neglected;  but  she,  unhappy  woman, 
still  obstinate,  refuses  his  assistance.  5 

Lucy.  This  pious  charity  to  the  afflicted  well 
becomes  your  character ;  yet  pardon  me,  sir,  if 
I  wonder  you  were  not  at  their  trial. 

Thor.   I  knew  it  was  impossible  to  save  him, 
and  I  and  my  family  bear  so  great  a  part  in  his   lo 
distress,  that  to  have  been   present  wou'd  have 
aggravated  our  sorrows  without  relieving  his.  uMO^ ' 

Blunt.  It  was  mournful  indeed.    Barnwell's  >*'r«        , 
youth  and  modest  deportment,  as  he  past,  drew     tf^^^  \ 
tears  from  every  eye:  .when   placed  at  the  bar,  15 
and  arraigned  before  the  reverend  judges,  with 
many  tears  and  interrupting  sobs  he  confess'd 
and  aggravated  his  offences,  without  accusing, 
or  once  reflecting  on  Millwood,  the  shameless 
author  of  his  ruin ;  who  dauntless  and  uncon-  20 
cern'd  stood  by  his  side,  viewing  with  visible 

II   ivou^d  have,  O4  also.    O7,  wou'd  but  have. 


X 


92  ^\)t  JLonDon  Sprrcftant      [act  v. 

pride  and  contempt  the  vast  assembly,  who  all 
with  ;tympathizing  sorrow  wept  for  the  wretched 
youth.  Millwood,  when  called  upon  to  answer, 
loudly  insisted  upon  her  innocence,  and  made  »s 
an  artful  and  a  bold  defence ;  but,  finding  all  in 
vain,  the  impartial  jury  and  the  learned  bench 
concurring  to  find  her  guilty,  how  did  she  curse 
her  self,  poor  Barnwell,  us,  her  judges,  all  man- 
kind !  But  what  cou'd  that  avail  ?  She  was  con-  jo 
demn'd,  and  is  this  day  to  suffer  with  him. 

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

Lucy.  We  have  not  wrong'd  her,  yet  I  dread 
this  interview.  She's  proud,  impatient,  wrathful,  35 
and  unforgiving.  To  be  the  branded  instruments 
of  vengeance,  to  sXifFer  in  her  shame,  and  sym- 
pathize with  her  in  all  she  suffers,  is  the  tribute 
_  we  must  pay  for  our  former  ill-spent  lives,  and 
'~4ong  confederacy  with  her  in  wickedness.  40 

Thor.  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.  Prose- 
lytes   t"    virtue    sbn■■''^    >^''    >'n.;;^m:ag'd.     PurSUC   45 

your  proposed  reformation,  and  know  me  here- 
aTt-er  for  voi^r  frie n d . 

' — Lucy,     ihis  is  a  blessing  as  unhop'd  for  as 
unmerited ;   but  Heaven,  that  snatched  us  from 


n 


Scene  II.]     ^i)t  LonDon  ^ffcljant  93 

impending  ruin,_aure,  intends  you  as  its  instru-  50 
ment  to  secure  us  from  apostacy. 

Thor.  With  gratitude  to  impute  your  deliver- 
ance _tp  Heaven   is~just.    Many,  less  virtuously  ^ 
3ispos'd  than  Barnwell  was,  have  never  fallen      l#** 
in  the  manner  he  has  done  ; — -may  not  such  owe  55        (] 
their  safety  rather  tj/rrovidencK  than  to  them-         /^.-'^ 
selves  ?  ,  with  pity  alid'  L'Uilfpassion  let  us  judge   ^y      <y» 
him!     Great   were  his   faults,  but  strong  was  JB"^^— - 
the  temptation.    Let  nis  ruin  learn  us  diffidence,  ^i^^^"^ 
humanity    and    ciixumspection  ;    for^we^^~who  60 
wonder  at   \\\&   t'al^z:^erhaps^ZIiad  '^  ^'-^^  him           I 
been  tryed,  like  him  we  had  fallen  too. 

'  ^■'^ l^Exeunt.'] 

Scene  II. 

A  Dungeon.    A  table  and  lamp. 
Barnwell,  reading.     \_Enter'\    Thorowgood. 

Thorowgood.  See  there  the  bitter  fruits  of  pas- 
sion's detested  reign  and  sensual  appetite  in- 
dulg'd — severe  reflections,  penitence  and  tears. 

Barnwell.    My    honoured,     injured     master, 
whose  goodness  has  covered  me  a  thousand  times     5 
with  shame,  forgive   this   last   unwilling  disre- 
spect !    Indeed,  I  saw  you  not. 

Thor.  'Tis  well ;  I  hope  you  were  better  im- 

I    Set  there,  Oi.    04,07,  add  to  [£»«r]  Thorowgood:   'at  a 
distance.*    O7,  There  see. 


94 


^\)t  !Lontion  £0ttc\)ant      [act  v. 


/ 


t*J 


1i 
1 


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. 

Barn.  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  labour'd  under;  From  thence  I've  learn'd  the 
infinite  extent  of  heavenly  mercy  ;  that  my  of- 
fences,  tho'  great,  are  not  unpardonable T^nd 
that  'tis  not  my'  lllL^iesl  only,  but  my  tfnfyTto 
believe   and 


I 


IS 


gaven  receive  the  glory,  and  future  penitents 
lie  proht  of  my  example.  ~  "" 


Thor.   Go  on  !    How  happy  am  I  who  live  to 
see  this  ! 

Barn.    'Tis    wonderful     j\\^\    yjP'''^'     chr^u'A  25 
charm  despair,  speak    peace  and    pardon   to  a 

miirHp[-f;r'g    rnngripnrp  1      Kiit    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  30 
I  rejoice.  I  feel  my  grief  increase,  even  as  my 
fears  give  way.  Joy  and  gratitude  now  supply 
more  tears  than  the  horror  and  anguish  of  de- 
spair before. 

Thor.  These  are  the    genuine  sip;ns  gf  true  35 

13-24   Go  on  .   .   .   see  this.    O4,  O7,  Proceed. 


scENi  n.]     tEljc  iLonDon  S0m\)mt  95 


a  g9m  torm'd  and  prepar'd  for  Heaven  !    For 
this    the    faithful   minister  devotes    himself   to 
meditation,  abstinence  and  prayer,  shunning  the  40 
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  pain- 
ful search  of  truth.    The  love  of  riches  and  the 
lust  of  power  he  looks  on  with  just  contempt  45 
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  50 
then   rejoice,  and   own   his  little   labours   over 
paid  ! 

Barn.  What  do  I  owe  for  all  your  generous 
kindness  ?  But,  tho'  I  cannot.  Heaven  can  and 
will  reward  you.  55 

Thor.  To  see  thee  thus  is  joy  too  great  for 
words.  Farewell !  Heaven  strengthen  thee ! 
Farewell ! 

Barn.  O,  sir,  there's  something  I  cou'd  say, 
if  my  sad  swelling  heart  would  give  me  leave.       6" 

Thor.  Give  it  vent  a  while,  and  try. 

I         3S  preparatory  certain.    O4,  O7,  preparatory  the  certain. 
'  45  looh  on.    O4,  O7,  looks  upon. 

59  /  cou'd  say.    O4,  O7,  I  would  say. 


96  tlTije  JLonDon  spercljant      [act  v. 

Barn.  I  had  a  friend — 'tis  true  I  am  un- 
worthy, yet  methinks  your  generous  example 
might  perswade — cou'd  I  not  see  him  once  be- 
fore I  go  from  whence  there's  no  return  ?  65 

Thor.   FJe'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  this  contagious       •■ 
ruin. —  [^AsideJ]    This  torrent  of  domesticlc  mis-       * 
ery  bears  too  hard  upon  me  ;    I   must  retire  to  70 
indulge  a  weakness  I  find  impossible  to  over- 
come.— Much  lov'd  and  much  lamented  youth, 
farewell !     Heaven  strengthen  thee  !    Eternally 
farewell  ! 

Barn.  The  best  of  masters  and  of  men,  fare-  75 
well!    While    I    live,    let    me   not  .want,  your 
prayers ! 

Thor.  Thou    shalt    not.     Thy    peace    being 
"  made  with  Heaven,  death's  already  vanquish'd  ; 
KS>  *  bear  a  little   longer  the  pains  that  attend  this  go 
transitory  life,  and  cease  from  pain  for  ever. 

l^  Scene  III. 

Barnwell. 

Barnwell.  I  find  a  power  within  thal-beaK 
my  soul  above  the  fears  of  dpath.  andvspigntof 
conscious  shame  and  guilt,  gives  me  a  taste  of 
pleasure  more  than  mortal. 

68  this  contagious.    Oi,  his  contagious.     O4  corrects. 
I    Ifnd.    O4,  O7,  prefix  :    Perhaps  I  shall. 


Vfi 


.\U 


I 


Scene  V.]        ^\)t  JLOltDOn  S^CtCljant  97 

Scene  IV. 
To  him  Trueman  and  Keeper. 
Keeper.  Sir,  there's  the  prisoner.  \_Exit.'] 


..:^"^ 


I 


Scene  V. 

Barnwell  and  Trueman. 
Barnwell.  Trueman — my  friend,  whom  I  so 
wisht  to  see  !    Yet  now  he's  here  I  dare  not  look 
upon  him.  ^W7eps.\ 

Trueman.   Oh  Barnwell !  Barnwell !  "" 

Barn.     Mercy,    Mercy,    gracious    Heaven  !     5 
For  death,  but  not  for  this,  was  I  prepared. 

True.   What  have  I  sufFer'd  since  I  saw  you  \,V 

last  !    What  pain  has  absence  given  me ! — But 
oh  !   to  see  thee  thus  ! 

Barn.  I  know  it  is  dreadful !    I  feel  the  an-  10 
guish  of  thy  generous  soul — but  I  waaJjQin. to 
murder  all  who  love  me.  ^^•^Jboth~''!veep 

'1  rue.   1  came  not  to  reproach  you  ;   1  tliougnt 
to  bring  you  comfort.    But  I'm  deceiv'd,  for  I 
Ihave  none' to  give.  1  came  to  share  thy  sorrow,  15 
Ibut  cannot  bear  my  own. 
^    Barn.   My  sense  of  ^uil_t  indeed  you  cannot 
f  know — 'tis  what  the  good  and  innocent,  like  you,     wl^W 
I    can  ne'er  conceive.    But  other  griefs  at  present 
I     I  have  none,  but  what  I  feel  for  you!    In  your  20 

1         6  -wai  I,  O4  also.    O7,  I  was.  8  has.    O4,  O7,  hath. 


98  ^\)t  JLonDon  spric Ijant       [act  v. 

\4  sorrow  I  read  you  love  me  still.    But  yet  me- 
•(^^  thinks  'tis  strange,  when  I  consider  what  I  am. 

True.  No  more  of  that !  I  can  remember 
nothing  but  thy  virtues,  thy  honest,  tender  friend- 
ship, our  former  happy  state,  and  present  misery.  i$ 
— O,  had  you  trusted  me  when  first  the  fair 
seducer  tempted  you,  all  might  have  been  pre- 
vented. 

Barn.  Alas,  thou  know'st  not  what  a  wretch 
I've  been  !  Breach  of  friendship  was  my  first  30 
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. 

True.   Prithee,  aggravate  thy  faults  no  more!  35 

Barn.  I  think  I  shou'd !  Thus,  good  and 
generous  as  you  are,  I  shou'd  have  murder'd 
vou ! 

True.  We  have  not  yet  embrac'd,  and  may  be 
interrupted.    Come  to  my  arms  !      ^  40 

^^  Barn.  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  and  to  support  a  murderer  ?  These 
iron  fetters  only  shall  clasp,  and  flinty  pavement  45 
bear  me  (throwing  himself  on  the  ground) — even 
these  too  good  for  such  a  bloody  monster. 

True.  Shall  Ifbrtunq  sever  those  whom  friend- 


X. 


^o*^ 


Scene  V.]     tBift  ILonDoix  ^tTcljant  99 

ship  join'd  ?  Thy  miseries  cannot  lay  thee  so 
low,  but  love  will  find  thee.  (Lies  down  by  him.)  5° 
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  55 
vault.  Our  sighs  shall  number  the  moments  as 
they  pass,  and  mingling  tears  communicate  such 
anguish  as  words  were  never  made  to  express. 

Barti.  Then  be  it  so!    Since  you  propose  an 
intercourse  of  woe,  pour  all  your  griefs  into  my  60 
breast,  and  in  exchange  take  mine  !    (Embracine.) 
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,      y 
and  sorrow  can't  approach  me  while  I'm  here  [.4$ 
This  too  is  the  work  of  Heaven,  who,  having 
before  spoke  peace  and  pardon  fo  me,  now  sends 
tlieti  m  eonflfffl  it.    g  lake.  Like  !JOIIie-Uf-riie 
loy  that  overflows  my  breast !  ». 

True.   1  do,  1  do.  Almighty  Power,  how  have  70 


50  Lies  down  by  him.    O4,  O7,  omit  this  direction  and  the 
sentence  from  upon  to  condition, 
53  this  earth.   O4,  O7,  this  place. 
66   Hca-ven,  -who.    O4,  O7,  Heaven,  which. 
70-71  ho-w  have  you  made,  O4  also.    O7,  how  hast  thou  made. 


loo         tIPtie  JLonfion  apecctjant       [act  v. 

Scene  VI. 
To  them.  Keeper. 
Keeper.  Sir ! 
Trueman.  I  come.  [^Exit  Keeper."] 

Scene  VII. 

Barnwell  and  Trueman. 

Barnwell.  Must  you  leave  me  ?  Death  would 
soon  have  parted  us  for  ever. 

~Trueman.  0  my  carnwell,  there's  yet  another 
task  behind ;  again  your  heart  must  bleed  for 
others  woes.  S 

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

True.  I  dread  to  tell  thee ;  yet  it  must  be 
known  ! — Maria —  lo 

Barn.  Our  master's  fair  and  virtuous  daugh- 
ter ? 

True.  The  same. 

Barn.   No  misfortune,  I  hope,  has  reach'd  that 
lovely  maid  !    Preserve  her.  Heaven,  from  every  15 
ill,  to  show  mankind  that  goodness  is  your  care  ! 

True.  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.  /  xo 


scineviii.]  tK))t  iLonOon  spfrcljant  loi 

Barn,  (aside),  I  know  he  doth  abhor  a  lie, 
and  would  not  trifle  with  his  dying  friend.    This  •€ 
is,  indeed,  the  bitterness  of  death  ! 

True.  You  must  remember,  for  we  all  ob- 
serv'd  it,  for  some  time  past,  a  heavy  melancholy  25 
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  trans-  30 
port  of  her  grief,  discover'd  her  own  lost  state, 
whilst  sne  lamented  yours. 

Barn.  Will  all  the  pain  I  feel  restore  thy 
ease,  lovely  unhappy  maid?  (TVeeping.)  Why 
didn't  you  let  me  die  and  never  know  it  ?  35 

True.   It    was     impossible;     she    makes    no 
secret  of  her  passion  for  you,  and  is  determin'd    / 
to  se^  vou  e'er  you  die.    She  Waits  for  me  to    | 
introduce  her.  [£;»://.]    ' 

Scene  VIII. 
Barmaell. 

Barnwell.  Vain,  busy  thoughts,  be  still  ! 
What  avails  it  to  think  on  what  I  might  have 
been .'    I  now  am  what  I've  made  myself. 

32  ivhilu,  O4  also.    O7,  1810,  while. 
35  dUn't.    O4,  O7,  did  you  not. 


I02  tE'lft  LonUon  ^etc\)Bnt      [act  v. 

Scene  IX. 
To  him,  Trueman  and  Marta. 

Trueman.  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. 

Maria.  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  ipotionless  he  stands, 
as  if  his  soul  had  quitted  her  abode,  and  the 
lifeless  form  alone  was  left  behind — yet  that  so 
perfect  that  beauty  and  death,  ever  at  enmity, 
now  seem  united  there. 

Barnwell.  I  groan,  but  murmur  not.  Just 
Heaven,  I,  am  your  own  j  do  with  me  what  you 
please. 

Mai  Why  are  your  streaming  eyes  still  fix'd 
below,  as  tho'  thoud'st  give  the  greedy  earth  thy 
sorrows,  and  rob  me  of  my  due  ?  Were  happi- 
ness within  your  power,  you  should  bestow  it 
where  you  pleas)d^;  but  in  your  misery  I  must  lo 
and  will  partakg'! 

Barn.  Uh  !  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  J  have  pity  on  your  youth,  your  beauty. 


sciNiix.]   tiriie  ILonDon  SI9crcl)ant  103 

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  30 
be  to  you  as  though  I  had  never  been. 

Ma.   When   I   forget  you,  I  must  be  so  in^ 
deed.    Reason,  choice,  virtue,  all  forbid  it.    Let 
women,  like  Millwood,  if  there  be  more  such 
women,  smile  in    prosperity,  and   in  adversity  35 
forsake  !    Be  it  the  pride  of  virtue  to  r^air.  or 
to  partake,  tffe  rii|n  such  have  made. 

"  V  rue.  Lovely,    iii-tated    maid  !     Was    there 
ever  such  generous  distress  before?    How  must 
this  pierce  his  grateful  heart,  and  aggravate  his  4° 
woes  ? 

Barn.  E'er  I  knew  guilt  or  shame — when  for- 
tune smiled,  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  45 
have  been  pardon'd  :  think  how  much  beneath 
your  self  you  condescend,  to  regard  me  now  ! 

Ma.  Let  her  blush,  who,  professing  love,  in- 
vades  the   freedom  of  your  sex's  choice,  and 
meanly  sues  in  hopes  of  a  return  !    Your  inevit-  50 
Y  able  fate  hath  render'd  hopTTifl^ossible  as  vain.    dt.W^l 
Then,  why  shou'd   I   fear  to  avow  a  passion  so 
just  and  so  disinterested  ? 

34  there  be,  O4  also.    O7,  there  are. 


A 


104  Wit  llonUon  ^ttc\)ant       [act  v. 

True.  If  any  shou'd  take  occasion,  from  Mill- 
wood's crimes,  to  libel  the  best  and  fairest  part  55 
of  the  creation,  here  let  them  see  their  error ! 
The  mosl  distant  hopes  of  such  a  tender  passion 
from  so  bright  a  maid  might  add  to  the  happi- 
ness of  the  most  happy,  and  make  the  greatest 
proud.  Yet  here  'tis  lavish'd  in  vain  :  tho'  by  60 
the  rich  present,  the  generous  donor  is  undone, 
he  on  whom  it  is  bestow'd  receives  no  benefit. 

Barn.  So  the  aromatick  spices  of  the  East, 
which  all  the  living  covet  and  esteem,  are,  with 
unavailing  kindness,  wasted  on  the  dead.  65 

Ma.  Yes,  fruitless  is  my  love,  and  unavailing 
all  my  sighs  and,  tears.  Can  they  save  thee  from 
approaching  d6ath — frr.m  g^|rh  a  dp^[h  ?  O, 
terrible  idea!  \Vhat  is  Tier  misery  and  distress, 
who  sees  the  first  last  object  of  her  love,  for  70 
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  con-  75 
dition.  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. 

True.  Time  and  reflection  cure  all  ills. 

Ma.  All  but  this  ;   his  dreadful  catastrophe  go 

78   I  ask.    O4,  O7,  insert :  for  my  relief. 


s«OT  X.]     '^\)t  JLottfion  spcrcljant  105 

virtue   her  self  abhors.    To  give  a   holiday  to 
suburb  slaves,  and  passing  entertain  the  savage 
herd,  who,  elbowing  each  other  for  a  sight,  pur- 
sue and  press  upon  him  like  his  fate  !    A  mind 
with  piety-  and   resolution  arm'd  may  smile  on  gj 
death.    But  pjiblick  ignominy,  everlasting  shame, 
^shame,  the  death  of  souls — to  die  a  thousand     \ 
times,  anTyet  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  50 
devoted  life,  feel  ^  these  woes  renew'd,  can  I 
endure  this  ?       / 

True.    Grief   has   impair'd   her  spirits;    she 
pants  as  in  the  agonies  of  death. 

Barn.   Preserve  her.  Heaven,  and  restore  her  95 
peace  ;  nor  let  her  death  be  added  to  my  crime  1 
(Bell  tolls.)    1  am  summon'd  to  my  fate^  ~ 


• 


Scene  X. 

To  them.  Keeper. 

Keeper.  The   officers  attend  you,   sir.    Mrs. 
Millwood  is  already  summon'd. 

Barnwell.  Tell  'em,  I'm   ready. — And  now,.^^.,|ejw 
my  friend,  farewell !    (Embracing.)    Support  and 

93  has  impair'd.    O4,  O7,  has  so  impair'd. 
96  crime.    O4,  O7,  1810,  crimes. 
1    The  officers  .   .   .  sir.    O4,  O7,  place  sir  first. 
Mrs.    O4,  O7,  omit. 


I 


io6  XE^c  iLonaon  sprrcljant       [act  v. 

comfort  the   best  you  can  this  mourning  fair.     5 
— No  more !    Forget  not  to   pray   for    me ! — 
(Turning  to  Maria.),'V/ou\d  you,  bright  excel- 
lence, permit  me  the"^  honour  of  a  chaste  embrace, 
the  last  happiness  this  world   cou'd   give  were 
mine.    (^She   enclines  toward  him  ;  they  embrace^  ib 
Exalted  goodness  !    O  turn  your  eyes  from  earth, 
and  me,  to  Heaven,  where  virtue,  like  yours,  is 
ever  heard.    Pray  for  the  peace  of  my  departing 
soul !    Early  my  race  of  wickedness  began,  and 
soon  has  reach'd  the  summet.    E'er  nature  has  15 
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  20 
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  in- 
finite  mercy  vain  and  ineffectual.    Thu^i^^tic^ 
in  compassion  to  mankind^  c\\\^  offTwrcfrh  lilfc  15 
me^by  one  such  example  to  secure  thousands 
from  ruturd  I'Uill. —  ■ 

15  loon  has  reach* d^  O4  also.    O7,  soon  I  reach'd. 

20-1I  Justice  and  mercy  are  in  Heaven  the  same.  In  1775  these 
words  are  transposed  to  the  end  of  Barnwell's  speech,  after  from 
future  ruin.  O4,  O7,  print  "Justice  .  .  .  ineffectual  after  Tbut 
justice  .    .    .   ruin. 


Scene  XI.]    tEift  iloviiion  S0trc\)mt  107 

If  any  youths  like  you^  in  future  times 
Shall  mourn  my  fate,  tho'  he  abhor  my  crimes; 
Or  tender  maid,  like  you,  my  tale  shall  hear,         30 
Jnd  to  my  sorrows  give  a  ptxing  tear; 
To  each  such  melting  eye,  d^throbbing  heart. 
Would  gracious  Heaven  this  benefit  impart 
Never  to  know  my  guilt,  nor  feel  my  pain  :     ") 
Then  must  you  own,  you  ought  not  to  complain  ,-  I    3  j 
i>tnce  you  nor  weep,  nor  shall  I  die,  in  vain.    J 

\^Exeunt.'^ 
[Scene  XI. 
The  Place  of  Execution.    The  gallows  and  ladders  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  stage.    A  crowd  of  spectators. 
Blunt  and  Lucy. 

Lucy.   Heavens  !  what  a  throng  ! 

Blunt.  How  terrible  is  death,  when  thus  pre- 

par  d  !  ^ 

Lucy.  Support  them,  Heaven ;  thou  only  can 
support  them;  all  other T^s  vain.  , 

Ojflcer  {within).  Make  way  there;  make  way, 
and  give  the  prisoners  room  ! 

Ltuy  /They  are  here ;  observe  them  well ! 
How  humble  and  composed  young  Barnwell 
s^'^ms !  But  Millwood  looks  wild,  ruffled  with 
^lassion,  confounded  and  amazed.    / 

1<  .Iktnt  XI  This  Scene  is  not  in  Ol  ( 1 73 1) or  O4 ( 1 752)  Tlie 
K«  of  th,s  Scene  is  given  from  the  seventh  edition,  ,74^'  in  O7 
i)  le  heading  is  '  Scene  the  Last.'  *  " 


io8  tE^lje  llonDon  spmljant      [act  v. 

Enter  Barnwell,  Millwood,  Officers  and  Executioners. 

Barnwell.  See,  Millwood,  see  :  our  journey's 
at  an  end.    Life,  like  a  tale  that's  told,  is  past 
away  ;  that  short  but  dark  and  unknown  passage, 
death,  is  all  the  space  'tween  us  and  endless  joys,  15 
or  woes  eternal. 

Millwood.  Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  flattering 
y   hopes  ?    Were  youth  and  beauty  given  me  for  a 
^  curse,  and  wisdom  only  to  insure  my  ruin  ?  They 
were,  they  were !    Heaven,  thou  hast  done  thy  lo 
worst.    Or,  if  thou  nast  'xn  store  some  untried 
plague — somewhat  that's  worse  than  shame,  de- 
spair and  death,  unpitied  death,  confirm'd  despair 
and  soul  confounding  shame  —  something  that 
men  and  angels  can't  describe,  and  only  fiemfs,  »s 
who  bear  it,  can  conceive  :  now  pour  it  now  on 
.   this  devoted  head,  that  I  may  feel  the  worst  t'lou 
5\    canst  inflict,  and  bid  defiance  to  thy  utmost  power! 

Barn.  Yet,  ere  we  pass  the  dreadful  gulp'.i  of 
death  —  yet,  ere  you're  plunged  in  everlisting  30 
woe :  O  bend  your  stubborn  knees  and  harder 
heart,  humbly  to  deprecate  the  wrath  divine! 
Who  knows  but  Heaven,  in  your  dying  mo- 
ments, may  bestow  that  grace  and  mercy  which 
your  life  despised  !  35 

PliU.   W  hy  name  you  mercy  to  a  wretch  li  i-e 

|[6i.'^  me  ?    Mercy's  beyond  my  hope  —  almost  beyoi '  1 

my  wish,    leant  repent,  nor  ask  to  be  forgivei  .' 

•"■^^"^"^is  can'f.    I !Ho,  cannot. 


scTO.  XI.]    tC^ljc  JLonDon  S^ercljant  109 

Barn.  O  think  what  'tis  to  be  for  ever,  ever 
miserable ;  nor  with  vain  pride  oppose  a  Power,  4° 
that's  at)le  to  destroy  you  ! 

Mill.  That  will  destroy  me ;  I  feel  it  will.  A 
deluge  of  wrath  is  pouring  on  my  soul.    Chains,  ^[^  V" 
darkness,  wheels,  racks,  sharp  stinging  scorpions, 
molten   lean,  and  seas  ot  sulphur,  are  light  to  45 
what  I  feel.,  rr»A 

Barn.   O  !  ^add  not  to  your  vast  account  de-qti/*^ 
spair,  a  sin  more  mjunous  to  lieaven  than  all  ^  A/k' 

yr.ii'v(»  ypf  p{jmmltfprt  -y. 

%lilL  O  !   I  have  sin'd  beyond  the  reach  of   So^j^^ 
merc^  ~  """ 

Barn.   O  say  not  so;  'tis  blasphemy  to  think 

-i^^  As  yon'bnght  I'Mf  is  higher  tnan  the  earth, 

so,  and  much  more,  does  Heaven's  TOodness  pass 

niir  annrehension.    O  !  what  createdbeing  shall  55 

presume  to  circumscribe  mercy,  tiiat  knows  no 

.bounds!'^"'  — 

Mill.ihis  yields  no  hope.    Tho'  mercy  may     . 
be  boundless,  yet  'tis  free ;  and  I  was  doom'd,   »*n*^ 
^cfef?  ^hfi  world  hfgan.,  to  endless  pams,  and  6o  ~~" 
thou  to  iovs  eternal.       '        ~  " 


Barn.  U  gracious  Heaven  !  extend  thy  pity  to 
her !  Let  thy  rich  mercy  flow  in  plenteous  streams, 
to  chase  her  fears  and  heal  her  wounded  soul ! 

Mill.  It  will  not  be.    Your  prayers  are  lost  65 
in   air,  or  else   returned,  perhaps  with   double 
blessing,  to  your  bosom ;  but  me  they  help  not. 


no  tiriie  iLontion  Spercljant      [act  v. 

Barn.  Yet  hear  me,  Millwood  ! 

Mill./k-wzy,  I  will  not  hear  thee.  I  tell  thee, 
youth,  I  am  by  Heaven  devoted  w  dreadful  in-  7° 
stance  of  its  power  to  punish.  (Barnwell  seems 
to  pray.)  It  thou  wilt  pray,  pray  for  thyself,  not 
me  !  How  doth  his  fervent  soul  mount  with  his 
words,  and  both  ascend  to  Heaven  —  that  Hea- 
ven whose  gates  are  shut  with  adamantine  bars  75 
against  my  prayers,  had  I  the  will  to  pray. — I 
cannot  bear  it !  Sure,  'tis  the  worst  of  torments 
to  behold  others  enjoy  that  bliss  that  we  must 
never  taste ! 

Officer.  The  utmost  limit  of  your  time's  ex-  80 
pired. 

Mill.  Incompassed  with  horror,  whither  must 
I  go  ?    I  wou'd  not  live — nor  die.    That  I  cou'd 
cease  to  be,  or  ne'er  had  been  ! 
"   Barn.  Since  peace    and   comfort  are  denied  85 
her  here,  may  she  find   mercy  where  she  least 
expects  it,  and  this  be  all  her  hell  ! — From  our 


proach  of  vice  ;   but,  it  o'ertaken 
^ij  By  strong  temptation.,  weakness.,  or  surprize., 


gxample  may  all  be  taugtit  to  fly  the  hrst  ap 

:  n  o 
^_y  stn-,,  .-    ,  .  .  , 

Q^    Lament  their  guilt  and  by  repentance  rise  ! 

7  b'  impenitent  alone  die  unfor given  ; 
i^     "lo  sins  like  man.,  and  ill _/»} give  Hie  Heaven. 
m  — i^  »    £xeunt.'^ 

.        80  lime's.    1 8 10,  time  is. 
I    il        Exeunt.    Not  in  O7  ;  1810  supplies. 


Scene  XII.  ]     tEC^ie  llOttDOn  ^CWliant  III 

Scene  XII. 
J^Enlerj    Trueman  \to\  Blunt  and  Lucy. 

Lucy.  Heart-breaking  sight  !  O  wretched, 
wretched  Millwood  ! 

Trueman.  You  came  from  her,  then  ;  how  is 
she  disposed  to  meet  her  fate  ? 

Blunt.  Who  can  describe  unalterable  woe  ?       5 

Lucy.  She  ^oes  to  death  encompassed  with 
horror,  loathing  titc,  and  yet  afraid  to  die ;  no 
tongue  can  tell  ner  anguish  and  despair. 

True.   Heaven  oe  better  to  her  thalT her  fears : 
f    may  she  prove  a  warning  to  others,  a  monument  10 
of  mercy  in  her  seltl  """^ 

Lucy.  O  sorrow  insupportable  !  Break,  break, 
my  heart ! 

True.   In  vain 

With  bleeding  hearts  and  weeping  eyes  we  show  1 5 

A  humane  gen' reus  sense  of  others'  woe., 

Unless  we  mark  what  drew  their  ruin  on., 
Jii  And.,  by  avoiding  that,  prevent  our  own. 

Scene  XII.  In  Oi  this  is  Scene  XI.  Enter  ..  .  Lucy.  O7 
has  only  Enter  .  .  .  Trueman^  running  this  into  the  preceding  scene. 
Apparently  the  remaining  lines  are  given  as  Barnwell  and  Mildred 
are  led  to  the  gallows. 

3  Vou  came  from  her,  then,  O4  also,  evidently  placing  the  scene 
near  the  place  of  execution.    O7  omits. 

5  unalterable.  For  this  *  unutterable  *  is  substituted  in  the 
second  edition  of  1731,  and  in  all  the  following  editions. 

FINIS. 


EPILOGUE. 


Written  by  COLLEY  CIBBER,  Esq.,  and  Spoke  by 
Mrs.  CIBBER. 


Since  fate  has  robb'd  me  of  the  hopeless  youth 
For  whom  my  heart  had  hoarded  up  its  truth^ 
By  all  the  laws  of  love  and  honour,  now 
I'm  free  again  to  chuse  —  and  one  of  you. 


But  soft  —  with  caution  first  Irl  round  me  peep ; 
Adjiiiii^in  my  case,  sljou'd  look  before  they  leap. 
Here's  choice  enough,  of  various  sorts  and  hue,    \ 
The  cit,  the  wit,  the  rake  cock' d  up  in  cue,         > 
The  fair,  spruce  mercer,  and  the  tawney  few.  ) 

J^^^      Suppose  I  search  the  sober  gallery  ?  —  No,        \ 
There's  none  but  prentices,  anacuckolds  all  a  row  ;  > 
yfnd  these,  I  doubt,  are  those  that  make  'em  so.     ) 
O     "»  f**\\{.\M*^    (Pointing  to  the  Boxes. ) 

Written  by  Collty  Ghher^  Eitj.  Qj  adds  :  Poet  Laureate,  and 
omits  and  ipoke  by  Mrs.  Other.  The  Yale  copy  of  O4  lacks  the 
last  seven  lines  of  the  play  and  the  Epilogue,  but  they  probably  fol- 
lowed Oi. 

Spoke.    O7,  spoken.  1   hofieUis.    O7,  hapless. 


CSpilogue  113 

'  Tis  very  well,  enjoy  the  jest  !  But  you,  \ 
Fine,  powder' d  sparks — nay,  I'm  told  'tis  true —  > 
Your  happy  spouses  can  make  cuckolds  too.  )     '5 

"Twixt  you  and  them,  the  diff'rence  this  perhaps^ 
The  cit's  asham'd  whene'er  his  duck  he  traps; 
But  you,  when  Madam's  tripping,  let  her  fall. 
Cock  up  your  hats,  and  take  no  shame  at  all. 

What,  if  some  favour' d  poet  I  cou'd  meet,  ^° 

Whose  love  wou'd  lay  his  lawrels  at  my  feet  ? 
No  ;  painted  passion  real  love  abhors  : 
His  fame  wou'd  prove  the  suit  of  creditors. 


Not  to  detain  you,  then,  with  longer  pause,    \ 
In  short,  my  heart  to  this  conclusion  draws  :        >       ^S 
I  yield  it  to  the  hand  that's  loudest  in  applause.  ) 


l^otesJ  to  Ci^e  lonDon  jHercl^ant 

Dedication.   Sir  John  Eyles,  Baronet.  This  worthy 

was  a  most  suitable  choice  for  the  dedication  of  The  London 
Merchant.  His  uncle,  John,  was  Lord  Mayor  of  London  in  the 
last  year  of  James  II,  and  was  knighted  by  that  sovereign.  His 
father,  Francis,  was  created  a  baronet  by  George  I,  and  was  an 
East  India  Director.  Sir  John,  the  second  baronet,  was  a  member 
of  the  last  Parliament  of  ^ueen  Anne,  and  of  the  first  and  second 
Parliaments  of  George  I  ;  in  the  first  and  second  of  George  II  he 
represented  the  City  of  London.  In  1727  he  was  Lord  Mayor, 
and  afterwards  became  Alderman  of  Bridge-ward  Without,  '  com- 
monly called  Father  of  the  city.*  In  1739  he  was  appointed  Post- 
master-General. His  youngest  brother,  Joseph,  knighted  by 
George  I,  was  likewise  an  Alderman  and  a  member  of  the  House 
of  Commons.    {The  English  Baronetage^  vol.  iv,  1741.) 

3,  I.  as  Mr.  Dryden  has  some  where  said.   It  may 

be  taken  as  improbable  that  Dryden  anywhere  makes  use  of  precisely 
this  expression.  But  in  his  Discourse  concerning  the  Original  and 
Progress  of  Satire  (1693)  he  quotes  '  our  master  Aristotle'  as  say- 
ing that  *  the  most  perfect  work  of  Poetry  is  Tragedy  *  j  and  he 
argues  in  the  same  sense  in  the  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy. 

3»  7-  the  end  of  tragedy.  The  reference  of  course  is  to 
the  Aristotelian  theory  of  the  catharsis^  or  purging  of  the  passions, 
—  though  it  may  be  doubted  whether  Lillo  understood  the  nature 
of  the  purification  of  the  passions  —  pity  and  terror  —  which  Aristotle 
had  in  view, 

4.  3^-33-  The  strong  contrast  between  a  Tamer- 
lane and  a  Bajazet.  Probably  Lillo  was  thinking  less  of 
Marlowe's  Tamburlaine  the  Great,  than  of  Rowe's  Tamerlane 
(  1 702 ) ,  in  which  the  contrast  in  question  was  intended  to  illustrate 
that  between  William  III  and  Louis  XIV. 

4»  38-39.  The  sentiments  and  examples  of  a  Cato, 
Addison's  Cato  had  been  produced  in  1713,  and  still  held  the 
stage. 


0otts  to  ^})t  ILonDon  spcrc^ant     115 

5,  54.  in  his  Hamlet.  Act  ii,  Sc.  i. 

7,  105-106.  at  a  time  when  their  aSairs  were  in 
the  utmost  confusion.  This  must  have  been  shortly  after  the 
bursting  of  the  *  South-Sea  Bubble'  in  1720. 

7,  108-109.  attempt  your  character  :  attempt  to  draw 
a  character  of  you. 

Prologue,  spoke  by  Mr.  Cibber,  Jun.  See  Introduc- 
tion. 

8,  16.  In  Southern's,  Rowe's  or  Otway's  moving 

strains.     Sec  Introduction. 

9,  i6.  a  thousand-thousand  eyes.  Cf.  Elmerict,  Act 
II,  ad  Jin. :  *  A  thousand  thousand  deaths  are  in  the  thought.*  Sec 
also  The  Tempat^  Act  iii,  Sc.  i,  ad  Jin. 

11,7.  the  loan  on  which  he  depended  from  Genoa. 
See  Introduction. 

12,  35-36.  the  name  of  merchant  never  degrades 
the  gentleman.  This  was  the  feeling  of  Englishmen  in  the 
sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  when  the  younger  sons  of  good 
houses  often  went  into  trade. 

15,  19.  dispense  with  my  absence.   The  young  lady 

means  :    *  dispense  with  my  presence. ' 

18,  2-3.  A  little  more  red.  The  practice  of  'rouging,' 
though  less  common  in  the  Eliiabethan  age  than  in  that  of  George 
II,  was  not  unknown  to  the  former.  See  Hamlet's  taunt  to  Ophelia 
^Ham/eiy  Act  in,  Sc.  2)  :  *  I  have  heard  of  your  paintings  too, 
well  enough  ' ;  where  Steevens  compares  the  satire  on  these  aids  to 
beauty  in  Drayton's  Mooncalf. 

19,  30.  the  Spaniards  in  the  New  World.  See  Pres- 
cott's  History  of  tie  Conquest  of  Peru,  bk.  iv,  chap.  6  :  '  Pizarro 
delivered  up  the  conquered  races  to  his  brutal  soldiery  .  .  .  the 
towns  and  villages  were  given  up  to  pillage  ;  the  wretched  natives 
were  parcelled  out  like  slaves,  to  toil  for  their  conquerors  in  the 
mines,'  etc. 

31,  16-17.  while  yet  in  Heaven,  bore  all  his  future 
Hell  about  him.  An  apparently  original,  and  a  profoundly  con- 
ceived, refinement  upon  the  thought  which  in  IVlarlowe's  Doctof- 
fauitui,  Sc.  3,  in  reply  to  the  question  of  Faustus  : 

*  How  comes  it  then  that  you  arc  out  of  bell  \ ' 


1 16    ^tts  to  ®l)E  iLontion  ^crcljant 

Mephistophilis    expresses  in   the  line,   of  which  there  are  many 
analoga : 

^  Why  this  i»  bell,  nor  am  I  out  of  it/ 

35,  91.  now  must  stand  on  terms:  now  I  must  stand 
on  terms. 

35,  104-105.  the  glorious  sun  .  .  .  once  stopp'd 
his  rapid  course,  and  once  went  back.  Joshua,  %,  13, 

and  haiah,  xxxvlll,  8. 

35,  io8.  the  sea  divided.     Exodus,  xiv,  21. 

36,  iii-iiz.  men  unhurt  have  walk'd  amidst  con- 
suming flames.   Daniel,  in,  25. 

36,  1 12-1 1 3.  never  yet  did  time,  once  past,  return. 
This  commonplace  recalls  the  ocular  demonstration  furnished  by 
Friar  Bacon's  Brazen  Head  in  Friar  Bacon  and  Friar  Bungay, 
Sc.  XI,  that  *  Time  is,*  *  Time  was,'  and  *  Time  is  past,*  arc  as 
three  tickings  of  a  watch,  or  three  beats  of  a  pulse. 

37,  4  (Sc.  IV).  prevented  :  anticipated. 

^Ss  ^S-    For  him  :   For  he  (elliptically). 

67,  II.  When  strong  reflections  hold  the  mirror 
near.  The  ill-chosen  word  '  reflections '  can  here  only  mean 
*  thoughts.' 

70,  54.  The  rich  man  thus,  etc.  St.  Luke,  xvi,  27-28. 

70,  56.  The  fool,  his  own  soul  lost,  etc.  St.  Luke, 
III,  20. 

71,  7.  Falsely  to  accuse  ourselves:  that  we  thoald 

Wisely  accuse  ourselves, 

76,  5.  Where  shall  I  hide  me?  whither  shall  I 
fly,  etc.  Cf.  Fsalm  cxxxix,  7  sqq.;  and  also  Revelation,  vi,  16, 
and  Hosea,  x,  8.  All  these  passages  were  possibly  in  Marlowe's 
mind  when  he  wrote  the  first  part  of  Faustus'  final  speech  in  DoC' 
tor  Faustus. 

79,  2  (Sc.  XII).  Cannot :  canst  not.  Cf.  at  the  beginning 
of  Sc.  XI,  Act  V  (1.  4),  of  this  play  ;  '  Thou  only  can  support  them.' 

80,  7.  this  :  this  is.  Several  Shakespearean  illustrations  of 
this  common  Elizabethan  contraction  are  cited  in  Abbott's  Shake- 
spearean Grammar, 

80,  13.  Be  warn'd,  ye  youths,  etc.  This  is  an  ex- 
pansion of  the  tag  at  the  end  of  the  old  Ballad.     See  Appendix  A. 


iPotest  to  Wi}t  LonDon  S^ercliant    1 1 7 

82,  19.  credit.  In  the  wider  sense  of  'honour,  reputa- 
tion.' 

88,  35-36.  suburb-magistrates.  See  Sir  J.  Fitzjames 
Stephen's  History  of  the  Criminal  Laiv  of  Engiandy  vol.  1  (ch.  vii), 
pp.  229-31: 

*  Throughout  a  great  part  of  the  eighteenth  century  the  business 
of  magistrates  in  that  part  of  London  which  was  not  included  in  the 
City  waa  carried  on  by  magistrates  who  were  paid  almost  entirely 
by  fees.  What  the  fees  precisely  were,  and  by  what  law  their 
exaction  was  justified,  I  am  not  able  to  say,  nor  is  it  worth  while 
to  enquire.    .   .    . 

*  Writing  in  1754  (in  the  Introduction  to  Ym  youmal  of  a 
yoyage  to  Li  short)  ^  Henry  Fielding  says  of  his  career  as  a  magis- 
trate :  "By  composing  instead  of  inflaming  the  quarrels  of  porters 
and  beggars  {which  I  blush  when  I  say  has  not  beeii  universally 
practised),  and  by  refusing  to  take  a  shilling  from  a  man  who  most 
undoubtedly  would  not  have  had  another  left,  I  reduced  an  income 
of  about  ;^5oo  a  year  of  the  dirtiest  money  upon  earth  to  little 
more  than  ^300,  a  considerable  proportion  of  which  remained 
with  my  clerk  ;  and  indeed,  if  the  whole  had  done  so,  as  it  ought, 
he  would  be  but  ill  paid  for  sitting  almost  sixteen  hours  in  the 
twenty-four  in  the  most  unwholesome  as  well  as  nauseous  air  in  the 
universe,  and  which  has  in  his  case  corrupted  a  good  constitution 
without  contaminating  his  morals." 

*  He  observes  in  a  foot-note  :  *'  A  predecessor  of  mine  used  to 
boast  that  he  made  ;^i,ooo  a  year  in  hia  office,  but  how  he  did 
this  (if  indeed  he  did  it)  is  to  me  a  secret.**   .    .    . 

*  .  .  ,  Men  of  genius  are  exceptions  everywhere,  but  a  magis- 
trate ought  at  least  to  be,  as  in  these  days  he  is,  a  gentleman  and 
a  man  of  honour.  It  was  not  so  in  the  last  century  in  London. 
A  characteristic  account  of  the  "trading  justices"  was  given  to 
the  Committee  (of  the  House  of  Commons)  of  1816,  by  Towns- 
end,  a  well-known  Bow  Street  runner,  who  at  that  time  had  been 
in  the  police  thirty-four  years  or  more,  /.  e.  since  1782  :  **  At  that 
time,  before  the  Police  Bill  took  place  at  all,  it  was  a  trading  busi- 
ness. .  .  .  The  plan  used  to  be  to  issue  out  warrants,  and  take  up 
all  the  poor  devils  in  the  street,  and  then  there  was  the  bailing  of 
them  .    .    .   which   the    magistrates    had  j    and  taking    up  .   .   . 


1 18    /potcfi  to  ®l)c  iLonDon  spercljant 

gtrU.  .  .  .  They  sent  none  to  gaol  ;  the  bailing  of  them  was  so 
much  better." 

*  These  scandals  led  to  the  statute,  32  Geo.  3,  c.  53,  which 
authorised  the  establishment  of  seven  public  offices  in  Middlesex 
and  one  in  Surrey,  to  each  of  which  three  justices  were  attached. 
The  fees  were  to  be  paid  by  a  receiver.  .  .  .  The  justices  were 
to  be  paid  by  a  salary  of  ;^400  apiece.  This  experiment  proved 
highly  successful.*   .    .    . 

As  to  the  generally  opprc^rious  force  attaching  to  the  epithet 
'suburb,'  cf.  tnfra,  p.  216. 

88,  37-38.  as  the  unhospitable  natives  of  Corn- 
wall do  by  shipwreck.     Cf.   Fatal  Curiosity^  Act  1  (Sc.  Ill, 

11.  2-13): 

^ .  .  ,  savage  men,  who,  more  remorsclcBs, 
Prey  on  ahipwrcck'd  wretches,  and  spoil  and  murder  tbote 
Whom  fatal  tempests  and  devouring  waves,"  etc.  .  .  . 

See  also  Introduction  to  Fatal  Curiosity. 

90»  95-  From    your    destruction    raise    a    nobler 

name.     Gain   a  higher  glory  (for  their  sex)   by  destroying    you 
(men). 
93,  59.  learn  us  :  teach  us. 

95,  41.    daily  dies,    /  Corinthiam^  XV,  31. 

96,  65.  from  whence  there's  no  return.  Cf.  Hamlet^ 

Act  in,  Sc.  I  : 

'  The  undiscover'd  country,  from  whose  bourn 
No  traveller  returns.' 

98,  39.  We  have  not  yet  embrac'd*  etc.  This  an- 
swer, says  Diderot  (^La  Lettre  de  Barncvelt^  —  see  Introduction), 
*  is  to  me  of  incomparable  beauty.  ...  I  advise  anyone  who  is 
not  deeply  affected  by  these  words  to  let  Deucalion  or  Pyrrha  cast 
him  behind  them  —  for  he  is  made  of  stone.' 

102.  Trueman  and  Maria.  Diderot  comments  on  this 
scene  as  ioWovi^i^Entretien  sur  Le  Fi/s  Naturel):  *  Propriety  !  Pro- 
priety !  I  am  tired  of  the  word.  The  woman  whom  Barnwell 
loves  enters,  distracted,  into  his  prison.  The  two  lovers  embrace, 
and  fall  to  the  ground.'  And  he  continues  that  here,  as  in  the 
agony  of  Philoctetes,  sympathy  is  assured  by  absolute  truth  to 
nature. 


jl5otr0  to  ^l)t  ILonUon  spcrcliant    119 

102,  3.  reserves;  detains.  The  *  press-yard'  in  New- 
gate, with  the  press-room  below  for  cases  which  it  was  deemed 
necessary  to  separate  from  the  rest,  became  a  thing  of  the  past 
soon  after  the  description  of  it  In  the  Sketches  by  Bo^i  in  a  paper 
{^A  Visit  to  Ne'wgate)  of  extraordinary  graphic  power. 

103,  29-30.  improve  the  English  court,  that  justly 
claims  such  merit.  This  supplication  is  hardly  less  odd  if 
applied  to  the  court  of  Queen  Caroline,  than  if  supposed  to  refer 
to  that  of  5^ueen  Elizabeth. 

103,  47.    condescend  to.    Descend  in  order  to. 

104,  63-64.  So  the  aromatic  spices  ofthe  East,  etc. 
The  simile  may  possibly  have  been  suggested  by  St.   "John^  xix,  39. 

lO^j  82.    suburb-slaves.     It    must   be    remembered    that 

*  suburban  respectability  '  Is  a  conception  of  modern  growth.  In 
the  Elizabethan  age,  and  for  some  time  afterwards,  the  suburbs  of 
London  were,  like  those  of  fortified  towns,  regarded  as  the  abode 
of  the  lowest  classes  and  the  haunts  of  the  dissolute.  See  Nares, 
s.  1/. 

106,  20-21.  Justice  and  mercy  are  in  Heaven  the 

same.    Cf.   The  Merchant  of  Venice^  Act  iv,  Sc.  i  : 

*■  —  Earthly  power  doth  then  show  llkest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.' 

109,  44-45.  Chains,  darkness,  wheels,  racks, 
sharp  stinging  scorpions,  etc.  Cf.  again  the  final  scene 
in  Doctor  Faustus,  and  the  doomed  sinner's  cry  ; 

*  Adders  and  serpents,  let  me  breathe  a  while  !  * 

110,  78.  Sure,   'tis   the  worst   of  torments,  etc. 

*  And  in  hell  he  lift  up  his  eyes,  being  in  torments,  and  seeth 
Abraham  afar  off,  and  Lazarus  in  his  bosom.'    St.  Luke^xvij  23. 

Epilogue.  Written  by  CoUey  Gibber,  Esq.,  and 
Spoke  by  Mrs.  Gibber.  The  first  Mrs.  Theophilus  Clbber 
was,  as  has  been  noted  in  the  Introductioriy  the  original  representa- 
tive of  Maria. 

112,  8.  cockM  up  in  cue:  with  his  hat  cocked  over 
his  pigtail  (^queue).  Mr.  Ashton  quotes  from  the  Spectator^  No. 
319:  'I  observed  afterwards  that  the  Variety  of  Cocks  into 
which  he  moulded  his  Hat,  not  a  little  contributed  to  his  Impo- 
sitions upoo  me.* 


120    jptotes  to  ®l)e  ilonDon  spcrcljant 

112,9.  the  tawney  Jew.  'Tawney'  (yellow),  as  an 
epithet  of  derision,  referring  to  the  yellow  cap  or  bonnet,  the  piece 
of  costume  obligatory  upon  Jews.  In  Barton  Booth's  acting  copy 
of  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  there  is  appended  to  the  line  — 

'  For  Buffcrance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe  '  — 
the  stage-direction  ;   *  Showing  his  yellow  cap.' 

113,  23.  His  flame  would  prove  the  suit  of  cred- 
itors :  his  passion  would  prove  to  be  not  more  distntereited  than 
the  suit  of  a  creditor. 


appenDijc 


THE   BALLAD    OF   GEORGE   BARNWELL' 
THE    FIRST    PART 

All  youths  of  feir  England 
That  dwell  both  far  and  near, 

Regard  my  story  that  I  tell, 
And  to  my  song  give  ear. 

A  London  lad  I  was, 

A  merchant's  prentice  bound  ; 

My  name  George  Barnwell ;  that  did  spend 
My  master  many  a  pound. 

Take  heed  of  harlots  then, 

And  their  enticing  trains  ; 
For  by  that  means  I  have  been  brought 

To  hang  alive  in  chains. 

As  I  upon  a  day 

Was  walking  through  the  street. 
About  my  master's  business, 

A  wanton  I  did  meet. 

I  Reprinted,  slightly  re-punctuated,  and  corrected,  from  vol.  vm  < 
EngUih  and  Sotlhh  Balladi,  by  F.  J.  Child,  Boston,  1859. 


122  0ppfnDtr 

A  gallant  dainty  dame, 

And  sumptuous  in  attire  ; 
With  smiling  look  she  greeted  mc, 

And  did  my  name  require. 

Which  when  I  had  declar'd, 

She  gave  me  then  a  kiss, 
And  said,  if  1  would  come  to  her, 

I  should  have  more  than  this. 

•*  Fair  Mistress,"  then  quoth  I, 
**  If  I  the  place  may  know, 
This  evening  I  will  be  with  you. 
For  I  abroad  must  go, 

To  gather  monies  in, 

That  are  my  master's  due  : 
And  ere  that  I  do  home  return, 

ril  come  and  visit  you.** 

*'  Good  Barnwell,"  then  quoth  she, 
**  Do  thou  to  Shoreditch  come, 
And  ask  for  Mistress  Millwood's  house^ 
Next  door  unto  the  Gun.* 

I  Through  the  kindness  of  Lieut.  Col.  W.  Evans,  who  commands  the 
Hon.  Artillery  Company,  I  am  able  to  state  that  the  Gun  Tavern  was  in 
Gun  Street,  but  now  fronts  into  Brushfield  Street,  a  new  street  running 
across  part  of  the  old  Artillery  Ground,  near  Bishopsgate  Street  Without. 
The  house,  which  could  not  have  stood  on  its  present  site  till  after  the 
Ground  was  built  over  in  1689,  is  no  longer  a  tavern,  and  the  sign  is 
disused.  There  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  an  older  Gun  Tavern 
looked  on  the  Artillery  Ground. 


Sipptniix  123 

And  trust  me  on  my  truth, 

If  thou  keep  touch  with  me, 
My  dearest  friend,  as  my  own  heart 

Thou  shalt  right  welcome  be." 

Thus  parted  we  in  peace. 

And  home  I  passed  right ; 
Then  went  abroad,  and  gather'd  in, 

By  six  o'clock  at  night, 

An  hundred  pound  and  one  j 

With  bag  under  my  arm 
I  went  to  Mrs.  Millwood's  house, 
And  thought  on  little  harm. 

And,  knocking  at  the  door. 

Straightway  herself  came  down  ; 
Rustling  in  most  brave  attire, 

With  hood  and  silken  gown. 

Who,  through  her  beauty  bright. 

So  gloriously  did  shine. 
That  she  amaz'd  my  dazzling  eyes. 

She  seemed  so  divine. 

She  took  me  by  the  hand. 
And,  with  a  modest  grace, 
«'  Welcome,  sweet  Barnwell,"  then  quoth  she, 
"  Unto  this  homely  place. 

And  since  I  have  thee  found 

As  good  as  thy  word  to  be, 
A  homely  supper,  ere  we  part. 

Thou  shalt  take  here  with  me." 


124  0pprniitr 


••  O  pardon  me,"  quoth  I, 
"  Fair  Mistress,  I  you  pray ; 
For  why,  out  of  my  master's  houte 
So  long  I  dare  not  stay." 

"  Alas,  good  sir,"  she  said, 
**  Are  you  so  strictly  ty'd. 
You  may  not  with  your  dearest  Mend 
One  hour  or  two  abide  ? 

Faith,  then  the  caje  u  hard, 
If  it  be  so,"  quoth  she  ; 
**  I  would  I  were  a  prentice  bound, 
To  live  along  with  thee ; 

Therefore,  my  dearest  George, 
List  well  what  I  shall  say. 

And  do  not  blame  a  woman  much, 
Her  fancy  to  bewray.' 

Let  not  affection's  force 
Be  counted  lewd  desire  ; 

Nor  think  it  not  unmodesty, 
I  should  thy  love  require." 

With  that  she  tum'd  aside. 
And,  with  a  blushing  red, 

A  mournful  motion  she  bewray'd 
By  hanging  down  her  head. 

A  handkerchief  she  had. 

All  wrought  with  silk  and  gold, 
I  Because  she  betrays  her  fancy. 


appenUtr  125 

Which  she,  to  stay  her  trickling  tears, 
Before  her  eyes  did  hold. 

This  thing  unto  my  sight 

Was  wondrous  rare  and  strange, 
And  in  my  soul  and  inward  thought 

It  wrought  a  sudden  change  ; 

That  I  so  hardy  grew 

To  take  her  by  the  hand. 
Saying,  "  Sweet  mistress,  why  do  you 

So  dull  and  pensive  stand  ?** 

'  Call  me  no[t]  mistress  now, 
But  Sarah,  thy  true  friend, 
Thy  servant,  Millwood,  honouring  thee, 
Until  her  life  hath  end. 

If  thou  would' St  here  alledge 

Thou  art  in  years  a  boy. 
So  was  Adonis,  yet  was  he 

Fair  Venus'  only  joy." 

Thus  I,  who  ne'er  before 

Of  woman  found  such  grace. 
But  seeing  now  so  feir  a  dame 

Give  me  a  kind  embrace, 

I  lupt  with  her  that  night. 

With  joys  that  did  abound  ; 
And  for  the  same  paid  presently 

In  mony  twice  three  pound. 


126  aippmDtr 


An  hundred  kisses  then 

For  my  farewel  she  gave, 
Crying,  '*  Sweet  Barnwell,  when  shall  I 
Again  thy  company  have  ? 

O  stay  not  hence  too  long  ; 

Sweet  George,  have  me  In  mind"  • 
Her  words  bewitcht  my  childishness, 

She  utter'd  them  so  kind. 

So  that  I  made  a  vow, 

Next  Sunday,  without  feil. 
With  my  sweet  Sarah  once  again 

To  tell  some  pleasant  tale. 

When  she  heard  me  say  so. 
The  teara  fell  from  her  eye  ; 
**  O  George,'*  quoth  she,  **  if  thou  dost  fell, 
Thy  Sarah  sure  will  dye." 

Though  long,  yet  loe  !   at  last, 
The  appointed  day  was  come, 

That  I  must  with  my  Sarah  meet ; 
Having  a  mighty  sum  * 

Of  money  in  my  hand. 

Unto  her  house  went  I, 
Whereas  my  Love  upon  her  bed 

In  saddest  sort  did  lye. 

*  having  a  mlghtj  sum.  The  having  ft  sum  of  money  with  him  on  Sun- 
day, &c.^  shows  this  narrative  to  have  been  penned  before  the  Civil  Wan  t 
the  strict  observance  of  the  Sabbath  was  owing  to  the  change  of  mannen 
at  that  period.  —  Percy. 


^ppcnUiic  127 

*•  What  ails  my  heart's  delight, 

My  Sarah  dear  ?  "  quoth  I ; 
**  Let  not  my  love  lament  and  grieve, 

Nor  sighing  pine  and  die. 

But  tell  me,  dearest  friend, 

What  may  thy  woes  amend. 
And  thou  shalt  lack  no  means  of  help, 

Though  forty  pound  I  spend." 

With  that  she  turn'd  her  head. 
And  sickly  thus  did  say  : 
**  Oh  me,  sweet  George,  my  grief  is  great  5 
Ten  pound  I  have  to  pay 

Unto  a  cruet  wretch  j 

And  God  he  knows,"  quoth  she, 
**I  have  it  not."      "Tush,  rise,"  I  said, 
"  And  take  it  here  of  me. 

Ten  pounds,  nor  ten  times  ten. 

Shall  make  my  love  decay  "  j 
Then  from  my  bag  into  her  lap 

I  cast  ten  pound  straightway. 

All  blithe  and  pleasant  then, 

To  banqueting  we  go  j 
She  proffered  me  to  lye  with  her, 

And  said  it  should  be  so. 

And  after  that  same  time 

I  gave  her  store  of  coyn, 
Yea,  sometimes  fifty  pound  at  once  ; 

Ail  which  I  did  purloyn. 


*2*  SLppmnix 

And  thus  I  did  pass  on  ; 

Until  my  master  then 
Did  call  to  have  his  reckoning  in 

Cast  up  among  his  men. 

The  which  when  as  I  heard, 
I  knew  not  what  to  say  ; 

For  well  I  knew  that  I  was  out 
Two  hundred  pound  that  day. 

Then  from  my  master  straight 
I  ran  in  secret  sort ; 

And  unto  Sarah  Millwood  there 
My  case  I  did  report. 

But  hoiv  sie  us' J  this  youth. 
In  this  his  care  and  •woe, 

jind  all  a  strumpet'' s  iviley  ivays, 
The  second  part  may  shotve. 


THE    SECOND    PART 

"  YoUNO  Barnwell  comes  to  thee, 
Sweet  Sarah,  my  delight  j 
I  am  undone,  unless  thou  stand 
My  faithful  friend  this  night. 

Our  master  to  accompts 
Hath  just  occasion  found  ; 

And  I  am  caught  behind  the  hand 
Above  two  hundred  pound. 


atppenDiic  129 

And  now  his  wrath  to  'scape, 

My  love,  I  fly  to  thee. 
Hoping  some  time  I  may  remaine 

In  safety  here  with  thee." 

With  that  she  knit  her  brows, 

And,  looking  all  aquoy,' 
Quoth  she,  *'  What  should  I  have  to  do 

With  any  prentice  boy  ? 

And  seeing  you  have  purloyn'd 

Your  master*8  goods  away, 
The  case  is  bad,  and  therefore  here 
You  shall  no  longer  stay.** 

**  My  dear,  thou  know*8t,"  I  said, 

**  How  all  which  I  could  get, 

I  gave  it,  and  did  spend  it  all 

Upon  thee  every  whit.'* 

Quoth  she,  **Thou  art  a  knave, 

To  charge  me  in  this  sort, 
Being  a  woman  of  credit  feir, 

And  known  of  good  report 

Therefore  I  tell  thee  flat. 

Be  packing  with  good  speed  ; 

«  Aqmy^  or  acoy.  This  rare  word,  of  which  the  latter  form  occars  in 
Turberville's  Complaint  of  the  Long  Absence  of  bit  Love  upan  First 
Acquaintance  (Chalmers^  11,  640)  ; 

*  Why  did'st  thou  show  a  smiling  checre 

That  shouldst  have  looked  acoy, —  ' 

and  which  is  connected  with  the  verb  d^fo/,  to  still,  calm,  ^«j>f,  appease 

(see  New  English  Dictionary),  rmy  here.  Professor  Skeat  thinks,  be  held 

to  mean  ^  unconcerned.' 


13°  0ppcnDi]t: 

I  do  defie  thee  from  my  heart, 
And  scorn  thy  filthy  deed." 

"  Is  this  the  friendship  that 
You  did  to  me  protest  ? 
Is  this  the  great  affection  which 
You  80  to  me  exprest  ? 

Now  fie  on  subtle  shrews  ! 

The  best  is,  I  may  speed 
To  get  a  lodging  any  where 

For  money  in  my  need. 

False  woman,  now  farewell  ; 

Whilst  twenty  pound  doth  last, 
My  anchor  in  some  other  haven 

With  freedom  I  will  cast." 

When  she  perceived  by  this, 
I  had  store  of  money  there, 
•'  Stay  George,"  quoth  she,  "  thou  art  too  quick  ; 
Why  man,  I  did  but  jeer  : 

Dost  think  for  all  my  speech, 

That  I  would  let  thee  go  } 
Faith,  no,"  said  she,  "  my  love  to  thee 

I-wiss  is  more  than  so." 

"  You  scome  a  prentice  boy, 

I  heard  you  just  now  swear ; 
Wherefore  I  will  not  trouble  you  "  ; 
"  Nay,  George,  hark  in  thine  ear  j 


Slppmniv 

Thou  ahalt  not  go  to-night, 
What  chance  soe're  befall ; 

But,  man,  we'll  have  a  bed  for  thee, 
Or  else  the  devil  take  all." 


131 


So  I,  by  wiles  bewitcht 

And  snar'd  with  fancy  still. 

Had  then  no  power  to  get '  away, 
Or  to  withstand  her  will. 

For  wine  on  wine  I  call'd. 
And  cheer  upon  good  cheer ; 

And  nothing  in  the  world  I  thought 
For  Sarah's  love  too  dear. 

Whilst  in  her  company, 

I  had  such  merriment, 
All,  all  too  little  I  did  think. 

That  I  upon  her  spent. 

f  A  fig  for  care  and  thought ! 
When  all  my  gold  is  gone, 
In  feith,  my  girl,  we  will  have  more. 
Whoever  I  light  upon. 

My  father  's  rich  ;  why  then 
Should  I  want  store  of  gold  ?  ** 
•'  Nay,  with  a  father,  sure,"  quoth  she, 
"A  son  maywell  make  bold." 

"  I've  a  sister  richly  wed  ; 

I'll  rob  her  ere  I'll  want." 
"  Nay  then,"  quoth  Sarah,  "  they  may  well 

Consider  of  your  scant.'* 
I  gtt.  This  is  Child's  emeadatioa  for '  put,* 


132  SLppmHif 

"  Nay,  I  an  uncle  have  ; 

At  Ludlow  he  doth  dwell  ; 
He  is  a  grazier,  which  in  wealtk 
Doth  all  the  rest  eicell. 

Ere  I  will  live  in  lack, 

And  have  no  coyn  for  thee, 

1*11  rob  his  house,  and  murder  him." 
"  Why  should  you  not  ?  "  quoth  she. 

**  Was  I  a  man,  ere  I 

Would  live  in  poor  estate, 
On  fether,  friends  and  all  my  kin, 
I  would  my  talons  grate. 

For  without  money,  George, 

A  man  is  but  a  beast ; 
But  bringing  money,  thou  shalt  be 

Always  my  welcome  guest. 

For  should' St  thou  be  pursued, 
With  twenty  hues  and  cryes, 

And  with  a  warrant  searched  for 
With  Argus'  hundred  eyes, 

Yet  here  thou  shalt  be  safe  ; 

Such  privy  wayes  there  be, 
That  if  they  sought  an  hundred  years. 

They  could  not  find  out  thee." 

And  so  carousing  both, 

Their  pleasures  to  content, 

George  Barnwell  had  in  little  space 
His  money  wholly  spent. 


appenfltj;  «33 

Which  done,  to  Ludlow  straight 
~\  He  did  provide  to  go, 

To  rob  his  wealthy  uncle  there  j 
His  minion  would  it  so. 

And  once  he  thought  to  take 

His  fether  by  the  way, 
But  that  he  fear'd  his  master  had 

Took  order  for  his  stay.  ' 

Unto  his  uncle  then 

He  rode  with  might  and  main. 

Who  with  a  welcome  and  good  cheer 
Did  Barnwell  entertain. 

One  fortnight's  space  he  stayed, 

Until  it  chanced  so. 
His  uncle  with  his  cattle  did 

Unto  a  market  go. 

His  kinsman  rode  with  him, 
Where  he  did  see  right  plain. 

Great  store  of  money  he  had  took  ; 
When,  coming  home  again, 

Sudden  within  a  wood, 

He  struck  his  uncle  down, 
And  beat  his  brains  out  of  his  head  ; 

So  sore  he  crackt  his  crown. 

Then,  seizing  fourscore  pound, 
To  London  straight  he  hyed, 
I  For  flopping  »nd  apprehending  him  a<  his  father't.  —  Percy. 


134  ^ppenDir 


And  unto  Sarah  Millwood  all 
The  cruell  fact  descrycd. ' 

**  Tush,  'tis  no  matter,  George, 
So  we  the  money  have 
To  have  good  cheer  in  jolly  sort. 
And  deck  us  fine  and  brave.'* 

Thus  lived  in  filthy  sort, 
Until  their  store  was  gone  : 

When  means  to  get  them  any  more, 
I-wis  poor  George  had  none. 

Therefore  in  railing  sort, 
She  thrust  him  out  of  door  : 

Which  k  the  just  reward  of  those, 
Who  spend  upon  a  whore. 

**  O  do  me  not  disgrace 

In  this  my  need,"  quoth  he  ; 

She  called  him  thief  and  murderer, 

With  all  the  spight  might  be. 

To  the  constable  she  sent, 
To  have  him  apprehended  ; 

And  shewed  how  far,  in  each  degree, 
He  had  the  laws  offended. 

When  Barnwell  saw  her  drift. 
To  sea  he  got  straightway  ; 

Where  fear  and  sting  of  conscience 
Continually  on  him  lay. 

t  Dttcrjudy  for  the  rhyme's  take,  instead  of  ^  described.* 


appcnuir  135 


Unto  the  lord  mayor  then, 

He  did  a  letter  write  ; 
In  which  his  own  and  Sarah's  fault 

He  did  at  large  recite. 

Whereby  she  seized  was, 

And  then  to  Ludlow  sent  : 
Where  she  was  judg'd,  condemn'd  and  hang'd, 

For  murder  incontinent. 

There  dyed  this  gallant  quean, 

Such  was  her  greatest  gains  ; 
For  murder  in  Polonia  ^ 

Was  Barnwell  hang'd  in  chains. 

Lo  !   here's  the  end  of  youth 

That  after  harlots  haunt, 
Who  in  the  spoil  of  other  men 

About  the  streets  do  flaunt. 

1  Thii  is  a  ftrange  variation  of  the  ordinary  termination  of  the  story; 
nor  was  Poland  at  the  time  to  which  the  ballad  belongs  a  ipecially  appro- 
priate locality  to  which  to  assign  the  commission  of  a  melodramatic  crime. 


THE  TEXT 

The  text  of  Fatal  Curiosity  is  printed  from  the  first  and  only 
octavo  edition,  1737.  The  British  Museum  contains  a  copy  of  this 
octavo  with  MS.  annotations,  but  they  are  largely  arbitrary,  some- 
times worthless,  and  may  as  a  group  be  disregarded.  The  princi- 
ples explained  as  guiding  the  preparation  of  The  London  Merchant 
have  been  followed  with  this  text.  The  variants  are  those  of  George 
Colman's  revision  of  1783,  and  of  the  two  collective  editions  of 
Davies,  in  1775  and  1810. 


ifatal  €mioMtv 


FATAL  CURIOSITY. 


A    T  RU  E 


TRAGEDY 

OF 

THREE    ACTS. 

At  it  u  AAed  at  tie 

NEW    THEATRE 

I  N    T  H  E 

HJT-MJRKET. 

By  Mr.  LILLO. 


LONDON: 

Primed  for  John  Gray  at  the  Crofs-Keys  in  the 
Poultry  near  Cheaffide.    Mdccxxxvii. 

[Price  One  Shilling.] 


SOURCES 

The  story  on  which  Fatal  Curiosity  is  founded  appeared  in  a 

black-letter  quarto  of  i6l8,  entitled  Ncwa  from  Perin  in  Corn' 
•wall  of  a  most  Bloody  and  un-exampled  Murther  'very  lately  com- 
mitted by  a  Father  on  his  oivne  Sonne  [ivho  ivas  lately  returned  from 
the  Indyes)  at  the  Instigation  of  a  mercilesse  Step-mother.  Together 
•with  their  Several  most  'wretched  endeSy  being  all  performed  in  the 
Month  of  September  last.  Anno  i6i8.  The  story  reappeared  in 
W.  Sanderson's  Compleat  History  of  the  Lives  and  Reigns  of  Alary 
S^een  of  Scotland,  and  of  her  Son  and  Successor  James,  London, 
1656,  and  was  reprinted  from  this  book  in  a  folio  of  1681  entitled 
Annals  of  the  Reigns  of  King  James  and  King  Charles  the  First. 
Both  of  happy  memory.  Though  published  anonymously,  the  Annals 
are  usually  known  as  Frankland^s  Annals.  George  Colman  cites  the 
story  from  the  Annals  in  his  Postscript  to  his  version  of  the  play, 
1782.  For  the  original,  Frankland's  account,  and  a  list  of  analoga, 
see  Appendix,  p.  219. 


PROLOGUE 

Written  by  Henry  Feilding,  Esq. ; 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Roberts 

The  Tragic  Muse  has  long  forgot  to  please 

With  Shakespear's   nature,  or  with  Fletcher's 


ease. 


No  passion  mov'd,  thro"  five  long  acts  you  sit. 
Charm' d  with  the  poet's  language,  or  his  wit ; 
Fine  things  are  said,  no  matter  whence  they  fall :       5 
Each  single  character  might  speak  them  all. 

But  from  this  modern  fashionable  way. 
To-night,  our  author  begs  your  leave  to  stray. 
No  fustian  hero  rages  here  to-night ; 
No  armies  fall,  to  fix  a  tyrant's  right  :  ,0 

From  lower  life  we  draw  our  scene's  distress 

Let  not  your  equals  move  your  pity  less  ! 
Virtue  distrest  in  humble  state  support ; 
Nor  think  she  never  lives  without  the  court. 

Tho'  to  our  scenes  no  royal  robes  belong,  15 

And  tho'  our  little  stage  as  yet  be  young 

Throw  both  your  scorn  and  prejudice  aside  ; 
Let  us  with  favour,  not  contempt  be  try'd; 


142  prologue 

Thro'  the  first  acts  a  kind  attention  lend — 

The  growing  scene  shall  force  you  to  attend;  ao 

Shall  catch  the  eyes  of  every  tender  fair. 

And  make  them  charm  their  lovers  with  a  tear. 

The  lover,  too,  by  pity  shall  impart 

His  tender  passion  to  his  fair  one's  heart : 

The  breast  which  others'  anguish  cannot  move,  25 

Was  ne'er  the  seat  of  friendship,  or  of  love. 


[PROLOGUE 

Written  by  George  Colman 

1782 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Palmer 

Long  since,  beneath  this  humble  roof,  this  play, 
Wrought  by  true  English  genius,  saw  the  day ; 
Forth    from    this    humble    roof   it    scarce   has 

stray'd  ; 
In  prouder  theatres  'twas  never  play'd. 
There  you  have  gap'd  and  doz'd  o'er  many  a  ^ 

piece 
Patch'd  up  from  France^  or  stol'n  from  Rome 

or  Greece, 
Or  made  of  shreds  from  Shaiespear's  golden 

fleece. 

There  scholars,  simple  nature  cast  aside. 
Have  trick'd  their  heroes  out  in  classic  pride ; 
No  scenes  where  genuine  passion  runs  to  waste,  10 
But  all  hedg'd  in  by  shrubs  of  modern  taste ; 
Each  tragedy  laid  out  like  garden  grounds  : 
One  circling  gravel  marks  its  narrow  bounds. 
Lillo's  plantations  were  of  forest  growth, 
Shakespear's  the  same,  great  Nature's  hand  in 

both !  IS 


144  prologue 

Give  me  a  tale  the  passions  to  controul, 
Whose  hghtest  word  may  harrow  up  the  soul ; 
A  magic  potion,  of  charm'd  drugs  commixt, 
Where  pleasure  courts,  and  horror  comes  be- 
twixt ! 

Such  are  the  scenes  that  we  this  night  re- 
new — 

Scenes  that  your  fathers  were  well  pleas'd  to 
view. 

Once  we  half  paus'd,  and,  while  cold  fears  pre- 
vail, 

Strove  with  faint  strokes  to  soften  down  the 
tale ; 

But  soon,  attir'd  in  all  its  native  woes. 

The  Shade  of  Lillo  to  our  fancy  rose. 

'  Check  thy  weak  Hand,'  it  said,  or  seem'd  to 
say, 

'  Nor  of  its  manly  vigour  rob  my  play ! 

'  From  British  annals  I  the  story  drew, 

'  And  British  hearts  shall  feel,  and  hear  it  too. 

'  Pity  shall  move  their  souls,  in  spite  of  rules, 

'  And  terror  takes  no  lesson  from  the  schools. 

'  Speak  to  their  bosoms  ;  to  their  feelings  trust : 

'  You'll  find  their  sentence  generous  and  just  !  '] 


DRAMATIS    PERSONS 


MEN 


Old  Wilmot, 
Young  IVilmoty 
Eustace, 
Randal, 


Mr.  Roberts. 
Mr.  Davies. 
Mr.  Woodhurn. 
Mr.  Blakes. 


WOMEN 


Agnes,  wife  to  Old  Wilmot,     Mrs.  Charke. 
Chariot,  Miss  fones. 

Maria,  Miss  Karver. 

Visiters,  Men  and  Women. 
Scene,  Penryn  in  Cornwall. 


fatal  Cutfojjiti? 


Act  I. 

Scene   i.    A  Room  in  ffilmot's  House. 

Old  Wilmot  alone. 

\Old  Wilmot^    The  day  is  far  advanced;  the 

chearful  sun 
Pursues  with  vigour  his  repeated  course ; 
No  labour  less'ning,  nor  no  time  decaying 
His  strength  or  splendor.    Evermore  the  same, 
From  age  to  age  his  influence  sustains 
Dependent  worlds,  bestows  both  life  and  motion 
On  the  dull  mass  that  form  their  dusky  orbs, 
Chears  them  with  heat,  and  gilds  them  with  his 

brightness. 
Yet  man,  of  jarring  elements  composed, 
Who  posts  from  change  to   change,  from  the 

first  hour 
Of  his  frail  being  till  his  dissolution, 
Enjoys  the  sad  prerogative  above  him, 
To  think,  and  to  be  wretched  in.    What  is  life 
To  him  that's  born  to  die,  or  what  that  wisdom 

3  Unning.     178 3, ^lessens.  decaying.     1783,  decays. 


148  ifatal  Curtosfit^  [act  i. 

Whose  perfection  ends  in  knowing  we  know 

nothing ! 
Meer  contradiction  all  —  a  tragick  farce, 
Tedious  tho'  short,  and  without  art  elab'rate ; 
Ridiculously  sad  — 

Enter  Randal. 

Where  hast  been,  Randal  ? 
Randal.  Not  out  of  Penryn,  sir;  but  to  the 
strand. 
To  hear  what  news  from  Falmouth  since  the 

storm 
Of  wind  last  night. 

O.  Wilm.  It  was  a  dreadful  one. 

Rand.  Some  found  it  so.    A  noble  ship  from 
India 
Ent'ring  in  the  harbour,  run  upon  a  rock, 
And  there  was  lost. 

O.  fVilm,  What  came   of  those  on 

board  her  ? 
Rand.  Some  few  are  saved,  but   much  the 
greater  part, 
'Tis  thought,  are  perished. 

O.  Wilm.  They  are  past  the  fear 

Of  future  tempests,  or  a  wreck  on  shore ; 
Those  who  escaped  are  still  exposed  to  both. 
Rand.    But  I've  heard  news,  much  stranger 
than  this  ship-wrack 

29—50  But  Vve  heard  neivi  .  .  .  1  undtntand  no  riddlei.    1783 
omits. 


sciNi  I.]  iFatal  Cuciosftt^  149 

Here    in    Cornwall,    The    brave    Sir    Walter 

Raleigh,  3° 

Being  arrived  at  Plymouth  from  Guiana  — 
A  most  unhappy  voyage  —  has  been  betray'd 
By  base  Sir  Lewis  Stukeley,  his  own  kinsman, 
And  seiz'd  on  by  an  order  from  the  court ; 
And  'tis  reported  he  must  lose  his  head,  35 

To  satisfy  the  Spaniards. 

O.  Wilm.  Not  unlikely : 

His  martial  genius  does  not  suit  the  times. 
There's  now  no  insolence  that  Spain  can  offer 
But,  to  the  shame  of  this  pacifick  reign, 
Poor  England  must  submit  to  ! — Gallant  man  !  40 
Posterity  perhaps  may  do  thee  justice, 
And  praise  thy  courage,  learning  and  integrity. 
When  thou'rt  past  hearing ;  thy  successful  ene- 
mies, 
Much  sooner  paid,  have  their  reward  in  hand. 
And  know  for  what  they  labour'd. — Such  events  4S 
Must,  questionless,  excite  all  thinking  men. 
To  love  and  practise  virtue  ! 

Rand.  Nay,  'tis  certain, 

That  virtue  ne'er  appears  so  like  itself. 
So  truly  bright  and  great,  as  when  opprest. 
O.  Wilm.   I  understand  no  riddles.— Where's 

your  mistress  ?  5° 

Rand.  I  saw  her  pass  the  High-street  t' wards 
the  minster. 


15°  ifatal  Cutiogit^  [acti. 

O.  Wilm.  She's  gone  to  visit  Chariot.  —  She 
doth  well. 
In  the  soft  bosom  of  that  gentle  maid 
There  dwells  more  goodness  than  the  rigid  race 
Of  moral  pedants  e'er  believ'd  or  taught.  55 

With  what  amazing  constancy  and  truth 
Doth  she  sustain  the  absence  of  our  son, 
Whom  more  than  life  she  loves  ;  how  shun  for 

him, 
Whom  we  shall  ne'er  see  more,  the  rich  and  great. 
Who  own  her  charms  more  than  supply  the  want  60 
Of  shining  heaps,  and  sigh  to  make  her  happy  ! 
Since  our  misfortunes  we  have  found  no  friend, 
None  who  regarded  our  distress,  but  her ; 
And  she,  by  what  I  have  observed  of  late. 
Is  tired,  or  exhausted  —  curst  condition,  65 

To  live  a  burden  to  one  only  friend. 
And  blast  her  youth  with  our  contagious  woe  ! 
Who  that   had  reason,  soul,  or   sense,  would 

bear  it 
A  moment  longer!  —  \^Aside.'\   Then,  this  hon- 
est wretch  !  — 
I  must  dismiss  him  ;  why  should  I  detain,  70 

A  grateful,  gen'rous  youth  to  perish  with  me  ? 
His  service  may  procure  him  bread  elsewhere, 
Tho'  I  have  none  to  give  him.  —  Prithee,  Ran- 
dal ! 
How  long  hast  thou  been  with  me  ? 


Ill 


iciNii.]  iFatal  Curiosity  15^ 


Rand.  Fifteen  years. 

I  was  a  very  child,  when  first  you  took  me,  75 

To  wait  upon  your  son,  my  dear  young  master. 
I  oft  have  wish'd  I'd  gone  to  India  with  him; 
Tho'  you,  desponding,  give  him  o'er  for  lost. 

Old  Wilmot  wipes  his  eyes. 
I  am  to  blame  —  this  talk  revives  your  sorrow 
For  his  absence. 

O.  Wilm.  How  can  that  be  reviv'd  80 

Which  never  died  ? 

Rand.  The  whole  of  my  intent 

Was  to  confess  your  bounty,  that  supplied 
The  loss  of  both  my  parents ;   I  was  long 
The  object  of  your  charitable  care. 
K  O,  Wilm.  No  more  of  that !  Thou'st  served 
*  me  longer  since  85 

Without  reward ;  so  that  account  is  balanced, 
Or  rather  I'm  thy  debtor  :   I  remember  — 
When  poverty  began  to  show  her  face 
Within  these  walls,  and  all  my  other  servants, 
Like  pamper'd  vermin  from  a  falling  house,         90 
Retreated  with  the  plunder  they  had  gain'd. 
And  left  me,  too  indulgent  and  remiss 
For  such  ungrateful  wretches  to  be  crush'd 
Beneath  the  ruin  they  had  helped  to  make  — 
That    you,   more   good   than    wise,  refused  to 

leave  me.  95 

80  Ho-w  can  that.    1 78 3,  That  cannot. 


152  ifatal  Curiosity  [acti. 

Rand.  Nay,  I  beseech  you,  sir ! 

O.  Wilm.  With  my  distress. 

In  perfect  contradiction  to  the  world, 
Thy  love,  respect,  and  diligence  increased. 
Now,  all  the  recompence  within  my  power 
Is  to  discharge  thee,  Randal,  from  my  hard,       loo 
Unprofitable  service. 

Rand.  Heaven  forbid ! 

Shall  I  forsake  you  in  your  worst  necessity  ? 
Believe  me,  sir,  my  honest  soul  abhors 
The  barb'rous  thought. 

O.  Wilm.       What !  can'st  thou  feed  on  air  ? 
I  have  not  left  wherewith  to  purchase  food         'oS 
For  one  meal  more. 

Rand.  Rather  than  leave  you  thus, 

I'll  beg  my  bread  and  live  on  others  bounty, 
While  I  serve  you. 

O.  Wilm.  \aside'\ .      Down,  down  my  swell- 
ing heart. 
Or  burst  in  silence  !    'Tis  thy  cruel  fate 
Insults  thee  by  his  kindness.    He  is  innocent      no 
Of  all  the  pain  it  gives  thee.  —  Go  thy  ways  ! 
I  will  no  more  suppress  thy  youthful  hopes 
Of  rising  in  the  world. 

Rand.  'Tis  true  ;   I'm  young, 

And  never  tried  my  fortune,  or  my  genius. 
Which  may  perhaps  find  out  some  happy  means,  "S 
As  yet  unthought  of,  to  supply  your  wants. 


sciNii.]  iFatal  CurioBitt^  153 

O.  IVibn.  Thou  tortur'st  me :   I  hate  all  ob- 
ligations 
Which  I  can  ne'er  return  —  and  who  art  thou, 
That  I  shou'd  stoop  to  take  'em  from  thy  hand? 
Care  for  thy  self,  but  take  no  thought  for  me !   120 
I  will  not  want  thee ;  trouble  me  no  more  ! 
Rand.  Be  not  offended,  sir,  and  I  will  go. 
I  ne'er  repined  at  your  commands  before  j 
But,  heaven's  my  witness,  I  obey  you  now 
With  strong  reluctance  and  a  heavy  heart.  125 

Farewel,  my  worthy  master  !  Going. 

O.  IVilm.  Farewel  —  stay  ! 

As  thou  art  yet  a  stranger  to  the  world. 
Of  which,  alas  !    I've   had  too  much   experi- 
ence, 
I  shou'd,  methinks,  before  we  part,  bestow 
A  little  counsel  on  thee.    Dry  thy  eyes. —  130 

If  thou  weep'st  thus,  I  shall   proceed  no  far- 
ther. 
Dost  thou  aspire  to  greatness  or  to  wealth, 
Quit  books  and  the  unprofitable  search 
Of  wisdom  there,  and  study  human-kind  ! 
No  science  will  avail  thee  without  that ;  '35 

But,  that  obtain'd,  thou  need'st  not  any  other. 
This  will  instruct  thee  to  conceal  thy  views. 
And  wear  the  face  of  probity  and  honour, 
'Till  thou  hast  gain'd  thy  end,  which  must  be 
ever 


154  iFatal  Curio0tt^  [acti. 

Thy  own  advantage,  at  that  man's  expense         140 
Who  shall  be  weak  enough  to  think  thee  hon- 
est. 
Rand.  You  mock  me,  sure  ! 
O.  Wilm.  I  never  was  more  serious. 

Rand.   Why  should  you  counsel  what   you 

scorned  to  practise  ? 
O.  Wilm.   Because  that  foolish  scorn  has  been 
my  ruin. 
I've  been  an  idiot,  but  would  have  thee  wiser,    145 
And   treat    mankind  as   they  would  treat  thee, 

Randal  — 
As  they  deserve,  and  I've  been  treated  by  'em. 
Thou'st  seen  by  me  and  those  who  now  despise 

me. 
How  men  of  fortune  fall  and  beggars  rise  : 
Shun  my  example,  treasure  up  my  precepts ;       150 
The  world's  before  thee  —  be  a  knave  and  pros- 
per !  — 
{After  a  long  pause. )   What,  art  thou  dumb  ? 

Rand.  Amazement  ties  my  tongue. 

Where  are  your  former  principles  } 

O.  Wilm.  No  matter  ; 

Suppose  I   have   renounced  'em  !    I  have   pas- 
sions. 
And  love  thee  still ;  therefore  would  have  thee 

think,  155 

I  The  world  is  all  a  scene  of  deep  deceit, 


sciNEn.i  ifatal  Curio0it?  15s 

And  he  who  deals  with  mankind  on  the  square 
Is  his  own  bubble,  and  undoes  himself.        Exit. 
Rand.   Is  this  the  man  I  thought  so  wise  and 
just  ? 
What,  teach  and  counsel  me  to  be  a  villain  !      i6o 
Sure,  grief  has  made  him  frantick,  or  some  fiend 
Assum'd  his  shape  —  I  shall  suspect  my  senses! 
High-minded  he  was  ever,  and  improvident. 
But  pitiful  and  generous  to  a  fault : 
Pleasure  he  loved,  but  honour  was  his  idol.         165 
O  fatal  change  !    O  horrid  transformation ! 
So  a  majestic  temple  sunk  to  ruin. 
Becomes  the  loathsome  shelter  and  abode  ;  / 

Of  lurking  serpents,  toads,  and  beasts  of  prey ;         / 
And  scaly  dragons  hiss,  and  lions  roar,  170 

I  Where  wisdom  taught  and  musick  charm'd  be- 
\  fore.  Exit. 

i  Scene  II. 

I  A  Parlour  in  Chariot's  House. 

Enter  Chariot  and  Maria. 

Chariot.  What  terror  and  amazement  must 
they  feel 
Who  die  by  ship-wrack  ! 

Maria.  'Tis  a  dreadful  thought ! 

158  undoes  himself.     1783  adds  : 

Farewell,  and  mark  my  counsel,  boy  I 
Rand.         Amazement ! 


15^  iFatal  Curiosity  (Acrt 

Char.  Ay  ;  is  it  not,  Maria  ?    To  descend, 
Living  and  conscious,  to  that  watry  tomb ! 
Alas  !  had  we  no  sorrows  of  our  own,  s 

The  frequent  instances  of  others  woe 
Must  give  a  gen'rous  mind  a  world  of  pain. 
But,  you  forget,  you  promised  me  to  sing. 
The*  chearfulness  and  I  have  long  been  strang- 
ers. 
Harmonious  sounds  are  still  delightful  to  me.       lo 
There  is  in  melody  a  secret  charm 
That  flatters,  while  it  adds  to,  my  disquiet. 
And  makes  the  deepest  sadness  the  most  pleasing. 
There's,  sure,  no  passion  in  the  human  soul 
But  finds  its  food  in  musick.  —  I  wou'd  hear       15 
The  song  composed  by  that  unhappy  maid. 
Whose  faithful  lover  scaped  a  thousand  perils 
From  rocks,  and  sands,  and  the  devouring  deep, 
And,  after  all,  being  arrived  at  home. 
Passing  a  narrow  brook,  was  drowned  there,        »o 
And  perished  in  her  sight. 

SONG. 

Alar.  Cease,  cease,  heart-easing  tears } 

Adieu,  you  flatt  ring  fears. 
Which  se'ven  long  tedious  years 

Taught  me  to  bear  I  *S 

Tears  are  for  lighter  luoes  ; 

Fear  no  such  danger  knotxis. 

As  fate  remorseless  shonjus — 

Endless  despair. 

II-I3    There  i$  in  melody  .   .   .  mutt  pleating.    1783  omitl. 


scineu.]  iFatal  Curtofitit^  157 

Dear  cause  of  all  my  pain,  30 

On  the  ivide,  stormy  main 
Thou  luast  presernjed  in  'vain, 

Tho''  still  adored  j 
Had"  St  thou  died  there,  unseen. 
My  blasted  eyes  had  been  35 

Sa'vedfrom  the  horrid" st  scene 

Maid  e'er  deplored! 

Chariot  finds  a  letter. 
Char.  What's  this? — A  letter  superscribed 
to  me  ? 
None  could  convey  it  here  but  you,  Maria. 
Ungen'rous,  cruel  maid,  to  use  me  thus ;  40 

To  join  with  flatt'ring  men  to  break  my  peace, 
And  persecute  me  to  the  last  retreat ! 

Mar.  Why  should  it  break  your  peace  to  hear 
the  sighs 
Of  honourable  love,  and  know  th'  effects 
Of  your  resistless  charms  ?    This  letter  is  —       45 
Char.  No  matter  whence  —  return   it  back 
unopen'd ! 
I  have  no  love,  no  charms  but  for  my  Wilmot, 
Nor  would  have  any. 

Mar.  Strange  infatuation ! 

Why  should  you  waste  the  flower  of  your  days 
In  fruitless  expectation?    Wilmot's  dead —         50 
Or,  living,  dead  to  you. 

48-50  Strange   infatuation  .   .   .  fruitleit   txptcttaien.     1783 
omits ;  adding  after  -would  have  any :  '  Alaa  I ' 


is8  iFatal  Curiosity  [acti. 

Char.  I'll  not  despair. 

Patience    shall    cherish    hope,    nor    wrong    his 

honour 
By  unjust  suspicion.    I  know  his  truth. 
And  will  preserve  my  own.    But,  to  prevent 
All  future  vain,  officious  importunity. 
Know,  thou  incessant  foe  of  my  repose : 
Whether  he  sleeps,  secure  from  mortal  cares. 
In  the  deep  bosom  of  the  boist'rous  main. 
Or,  tost  with  tempests,  still  endures  its  rage; 
Whether  his  weary  pilgrimage  by  land 
Has  found  an  end,  and  he  now  rests  in  peace 
In  earth's  cold  womb,  or  wanders  o'er  her  face  ; 
Be  it  my  lot  to  waste  in  pining  grief 
The  remnant  of  my  days  for  his  known  loss. 
Or  live,  as  now,  uncertain  and  in  doubt  — 
No  second  choice  shall  violate  my  vows. 
High   heaven,  which   heard  thenfi,  and  abhors 

the  perjured. 
Can  witness,  they  were  made  without  reserve. 
Never  to  be  retracted,  ne'er  dissolved 
By  accidents  or  absence,  time  or  death. 

Mar.    I    know,  and  long  have  known,  my 

honest  zeal 

58-65   In  the  deip  bosom  .   .   .   and  in  doubt.    1783  omits. 
71-73    I  tnotv,  and  long  .    .    .  for  flatfry.     17830111113,   and 
readfi  the  ensuing  passage  as  follows  : 

And  did  your  vows  oblige  you  to  support 
His  haughty  parents,  to  your  utter  ruin. 
Well  may  you  weep  to  think  on  what  you  Ve  done. 


Scene  h.]  jfatal  Curiogit?  1 59 

To  serve  you  gives  offence.    But  be  offended : 
This  is  no  time  for  flatt'ry.    Did  your  vows 
Oblige  you  to  support  his  gloomy,  proud. 
Impatient  parents,  to  your  utter  ruin,  75 

I^_  You  well  may  weep  to  think  on  what  you've 
^m  done. 

Char.  I  weep  to  think  that  I  can  do  no  more 
For  their  support.    What  will  become  of  'em. 
The  hoary,  helpless,  miserable  pair ! 

I_^      Mar.  Then  all  these  tears,  this  sorrow  is  for 
IP  them  ?  go 

Char.  Taught  by  afflictions,  I  have  learn'd  to 
bear 
Much  greater  ills  than  poverty  with  patience. 
When  luxury  and  ostentation's  banish'd. 
The  calls  of  nature  are  but  few  ;  and  those 
These  hands,  not  used  to  labour,  may  supply,      is 
But  when  I  think  on  what  my  friends  must  suffer. 
My  spirits  fail,  and  I'm  o'erwhelm'd  with  grief. 
kmt      Mar.  What  I  wou'd  blame  you  force  me  to 
If  admire. 

And  mourn  for  you,  as  you  lament  for  them. 
Your  patience,  constancy,  and  resignation  90 

Merit  a  better  fate. 

Char.  So  pride  would  tell  me, 

76  Tou  loell  may.     1783,  Well  may  you. 

80-87    Then  all  ihae  tears  .   .   .   •with  grief .     17830111113. 

88    I  •wou  d  blame.    1783,  I  can't  praise. 


I 


i6o  ifatal  Curiostt^  [acti. 

And  vain  self-love ;  but  I  believe  them  not ; 
And,  if  by  wanting  pleasure  I  have  gained 
Humility,  I'm  richer  for  my  loss. 

Mar.  You   have   the    heavenly   art,   still   to 
improve  95 

Your  mind  by  all  events. — But  here  comes  one, 
Whose  pride  seems  to  increase  with  her  mis- 
fortunes. 

Enter  Agnes. 
Her  faded  dress,  unfashionably  fine, 
As  ill  conceals  her  poverty  as  that 
Strain'd    complaisance    her    haughty,    swelling 

heart.  loc 

Tho'  perishing  with  want,  so  far  from  asking. 
She  ne'er  receives  a  favour  unconpelled, 
And,  while  she  ruins,  scorns  to  be  obliged. 
She  wants  me  gone,  and  I  abhor  her  sight. 

Ex\it\  Mar\_ui\. 
Char,  This  visit's  kind. 

Agnes.  Y&^  else  would  think  it  so.  lo; 

Those  who   would   once   have   thought  them- 
selves much  honoured 
By  the  least  favour,  tho'  'twere  but  a  look, 
I  could  have  shown  them,  now  refuse  to  see  me. 

104  She  ivanti  me  gone^  and  I  abhor  her  sight.  1 783  reads, 
instead  of  this  line  :  Let  me  depart,  I  know  slie  loves  me  not. 
In  1783  Enter  Agnes  is  placed  after  Exit  Maria;  instead  of  before 
Her  faded.  In  1810  the  stage-direction  after  /  abhor  her  sight  is  : 
[Aside.    Exit. 


sciNiiL]         iFatal  Curiosity  i6i 

'Tis  misery  enough  to  be  reduced 

To  the  low  level  of  the  common  herd,  "o 

Who,  born  to  begg'ry,  envy  all  above  them ; 

But  'tis  the  curse  of  curses  to  endure 

The  insolent  contempt  of  those  we  scorn. 

Char.  By  scorning,  we  provoke  them  to  con- 
tempt. 
And  thus  offend,  and  suffer  in  our  turns.  "s 

We  must  have  patience. 

Jgn.  No,  I  scorn  them  yet. 

But  there's  no  end  of  suff 'ring ;  who  can  say 
Their  sorrows  are  compleat  ?   My  wretched  hus- 
band. 
Tired  with  our  woes  and  hopeless  of  relief. 
Grows  sick  of  life  — 

Char.         May  gracious  Heaven  support  him  !  120 

Agn.  And,  urged  by  indignation  and  despair, 
Would  plunge  into  eternity  at  once 
By  foul  self-murder.    His  fixed  love  for  me. 
Whom  he  would  fain  persuade  to  share  his  fate, 
And  take  the  same,  uncertain,  dreadful  course,  115 
Alone  withholds  his  hand  — 

Char.  And  may  it  ever ! 

Jgn.  I've  known  with  him  the  two  extremes 
of  life, 

120  May  .    .   .   him.    jig".    1783  omits. 
123   By  foul  self-murder.    1783  inserts  between  this  and  His 
fixed:   Char.   Gracious  Heav'n  support  him. 


1 62  iFatal  Curiogit^  [acii. 

The  highest  happiness  and  deepest  woe, 
With  all  the  sharp  and  bitter  aggravations 
Of  such  a  vast  transition.    Such  a  fall  13c 

In  the  decline  of  life  !    I  have  as  quick, 
As  exquisite  a  sense  of  pain  as  he, 
And  wou'd  do  any  thing  but  die,  to  end  it  — 
But  there  my  courage  fails.    Death  is  the  worst 
That  fate  can  bring,  and  cuts  ofFev'ry  hope.      »3S 
Char.  We  must  not  chuse,  but  strive  to  bear 

our  lot 
Without  reproach  or  guilt.    But  by  one  act 
Of  desperation,  we  may  overthrow 
The  merit  we've  been  raising  all  our  days ; 
And   lose   our  whole   reward.    And  now,  me- 

thinks,  «4o 

Now  more  than  ever,  we  have  cause  to  fear. 
And  be  upon  our  guard.    The  hand  of  Heaven 
Spreads   clouds   on   clouds   o'er  our   benighted 

heads, 
And,  wrapt  in  darkness,  doubles  our  distress. 
I  had,  the  night  last  past,  repeated  twice,  «45 

A  strange  and  awful  dream.    I  would  not  yield 
To  fearful  superstition,  nor  despise 
The  admonition  of  a  friendly  power 
That  wished  my  good. 

137  one  act.    1783,  one  rash  act. 

142—144   The  hand  of  Hea'ven  .    .    .   doubki  our  diitress.    1783 
omits. 


Scene  II.]  i?atal  CUHOStt^  163 

Agn.  I've  certain  plagues  enough. 

Without    the    help    of    dreams,    to    make    me 

wretched.  '5° 

Char.  I   wou'd   not   stake    my  happiness  or 
duty 
On  their  uncertain  credit,  nor  on  aught 
But  reason,  and  the  known  decrees  of  Heaven. 
Yet  dreams   have  sometimes   shewn   events  to 

come, 
And  may  excite  to  vigilance  and  care,  '55 

In  some  important  hour,  when  all  our  weakness 
Shall  be  attacked,  and  all  our  strength  be  need- 
ful, 
To  shun  the  gulph  that  gapes  for  our  destruction. 
And  fly  from  guilt  and  everlasting  ruin. 
My  vision  may  be  such,  and  sent  to  warn  us,     160 
Now  we  are  tried  by  multiplied  afflictions. 
To  mark  each  motion  of  our  swelling  hearts. 
And  not  attempt  to  extricate  ourselves, 
And  seek  deliverance  by  forbidden  ways; 
But  keep  our  hopes  and  innocence  entire,  165 

'Till  we're  dismist,  to  join  the  happy  dead 
In  that  bless'd  world,  where  transitory  pain, 
And  frail,  imperfect  virtue,  is  rewarded 
With  endless  pleasure  and  consummate  joy — 
Or  heaven  relieves  us  here. 

156—159    In  some  important  .  .  .  everlasting  ruin.   1783  omits. 

165   But  keep.     1783,  To  keep. 

167-170  In  that  hless'd  .  .  .  relieves  us  here.    1783  omits. 


y 


1 64  i?atal  Curiosfitp  Iacti. 

Agn.  Well ;   pray,  proceed  !  i 

You've  rais'd  my  curiosity  at  least. 

Char.   Methought,  I  sate,  in  a  dark  winter's 
night. 
My  garments  thin,  my  head  and  bosom  bare. 
On  the  wide  summit  of  a  barren  mountain. 
Defenceless  and  exposed,  in  that  high  region,     i 
To  all  the  cruel  rigors  of  the  season. 
The  sharp  bleak  winds  pierced  thro'  my  shiv'r- 

ing  frame. 
And  storms  of  hail,  and  sleet,  and  driving  rains 
Beat  with  impetuous  fury  on  my  head, 
Drench'd  my  chill'd  limbs,  and  pour'd  a  deluge 

round  me.  i: 

On  one  hand,  ever  gentle  patience  sate. 
On  whose  calm  bosom  I  reclin'd  my  head, 
And  on  the  other,  silent  contemplation. 
At  length,  to  my  unclosed  and  watchful  eyes. 
That  long  had  roll'd  in  darkness,  and  oft  raised  il 
Their  chearless  orbs  towards  the  starless  sky. 
And    sought    for  light   in   vain,  the   dawn  ap- 
peared ; 
And  I  beheld  a  man,  an  utter  stranger. 
But  of  a  graceful  and  exalted  mein, 

170  pray,  proceed !    For  thU  1783  reads  :  To  your  dream  ! 

171  You've  rais'd  .  .  .  at  least.    1783  omits. 
173    My  garments  .  .  .  hosom  hare.    1783  omits. 
I7ij-I76  Defenceless  .  .  .  season.     1783  omits. 
185—187  and  oft  raised  ■  .  .  in  -vain,  the.    1783  omits. 


Scene  II.]  ifatal  Cudostts  165 

Who  press'd  with  eager  transport  to  embrace  me.  190 

—  I  shunn'd  his   arms ;   but,  at  some  words  he 
spoke, 

Which  I  have  now  forgot,  I  turn'd  again  ; 

But    he    was    gone ;    and  —  oh,    transporting 
sight !  — 

Your  son,  my  dearest  Wilmot,  fill'd  his  place. 
Jgn.   If  I  regarded  dreams,  I  should  expect     195 

Some  fair  event  from  yours ;  I  have  heard  no- 
thing 

That  should  alarm  you  yet. 

Char.  But  what's  to  come, 

Tho'  more  obscure,  is  terrible  indeed. 

Methought,  we  parted  soon,  and,  when  I  sought 
him. 

You  and  his  father — yes,  you  both  were  there — 200 

Strove  to  conceal  him  from  me  ;   I  pursued 

You  with  my  cries,  and  call'd  on  Heaven  and 
earth 

To  judge  my  wrongs,  and  force  you  to  reveal 

Where  you  had  hid  my  love,  my  life,  my  Wil- 
mot !  — 
Agn,   Unless   you   mean   t'affront   me,  spare 
the  rest !  105 

'Tis  just  as  likely  Wilmot  should  return, 

As  we  become  your  foes. 

196-197   I  have  heard  .  .  .  you  yet,     1783  omits. 
102  Tou  wiih  my  cries.     1783  inserts  '  both  '  after  Tou. 


i66  iFatal  Cuciofiiit^  [actl 

Char.  Far  be  such  rudeness 

From   Chariot's   thoughts  !    But,  when  I  heard 

you  name 
"  Self-murder,"  it  reviv'd  the  frightful  image 
Of  such  a  dreadful  scene. 

Jgn.  You  will  persist !  — 21 

Char,  Excuse   me ;  I   have  done.     Being  a 
dream, 
I  thought,  indeed,  it  cou'd  not  give  ofFence. 
Jgn.  Not,  when  the  matter  of  it   is   offen- 
sive !  — 
You  cou'd  not  think  so,  had  you  thought  at  all ; 
But  I  take  nothing  ill  from  thee  —  adieu;  21 

I've  tarried  longer  than  I  first  intended. 
And  my  poor  husband  mourns  the  while  alone. 

Exit  Agnes. 
Char.  She's   gone  abruptly,  and,  I  fear,  dis- 
pleas'd. 
The  least  appearance  of  advice  or  caution 
Sets  her  impatient  temper  in  a  flame.  ii 

When  grief,  that  well  might  humble,  swells  our 

pride. 
And  pride  increasing,  aggravates  our  grief. 
The  tempest  must  prevail  'till  we  are  lost. 

208   From  Chariot' i  thought!  !    1783,  From  Chariot's  breast ! 
209-210  the  frightful  image  Of  such  a  dreadful  icene.     1737 
and  1 8 10  run  this  into  one  line. 

213  Noty  ivhen.    The  editions  interpunctuate  Not  ivhen. 


Scene  HI.]  jfatal  CUtiOglt^  167 

I ^^  When  Heaven,  incensed,  proclaims  unequal 
^P  war 

With  guilty  earth,  and  sends  its  shafts  from 

far,  2*5 

No  bolt  descends  to  strike,  no  flame  to  burn 
The    humble    shrubs    that    in    low    valleys 

mourn  ; 
While  mountain  pines,  whose  lofty  heads  as- 
pire 
To  fan  the  storm,  and  wave  in  fields  of  fire, 
And  stubborn  oaks  that  yield  not  to  its  force,  130 
Are    burnt,    o'erthrown,    or    shiver'd  in    its 
course. 

Scene  III. 

The  Town  and  Port  of  Penryn. 

Voung  Wilmot  and  Eustace  in  Indian  habits. 

Young  Wilmot.  Welcome,  my  friend,  to  Pen- 
ryn ;  here  we're  safe. 
Eustace.   Then,  we're  deliver'd  twice :    first 
from  the  sea. 
And    then    from   savage   men,   who,   more   re- 
morseless, 

11\  IVhen  Heaven^  etc.  The  remainder  of  this  speech,  given 
in  1775  and  1810,  is  omitted  in  1783  j  but  after  'till  we  are  lost, 
the  line  13  tllere  added  : 

Heaven  grant  a  fairer  issue  to  her  sorrows  ! 


i68  ifatal  Curiosity  [acti. 

Prey  on    shipwreclc'd   wretches,  and  spoil  and 

murder  those 
Whom  fatal  tempests  and  devouring  waves. 
In  all  their  fury  spar'd. 

T.  fVilm.  It  is  a  scandal, 

Tho'  malice  must  acquit  the  better  sort, 
The  rude  unpolisht  people  here  in  Cornwall 
Have  long  laid  under,  and  with  too  much  jus- 
tice. 
Cou'd  our  superiors  find  some  happy  means 
To  mend  it,  they  would  gain  immortal  honour ; 
For  'tis  an  evil  grown  almost  invet'rate. 
And  asks  a  bold  and  skilful  hand  to  cure. 

Eust.  Your  treasure's  safe,  I  hope. 

T.  Wilm.  'Tis  here,  thank  Heaven  ! 

Being  in  jewels,  when  I  saw  our  danger, 
I  hid  it  in  my  bosom. 

Eust.  I  observed  you. 

And   wonder   how   you   could   command   your 

thoughts. 
In  such  a  time  of  terror  and  confusion. 

Y.  Wilm.   My  thoughts  were  then  at  home — 
O  England  !    England  ! 
Thou  seat  of  plenty,  liberty  and  health. 
With  transport  I  behold  thy  verdant  fields, 

e,  fatal.     1783,  feU. 

lo-ii    Cou' d  our  .    ,   .   honour.    1783  omit9. 

12  invet'rate.      1737,  inv'teratc. 


scinehi.]         iFatal  Curiosity  169 

Thy  lofty  mountains  rich  with  useful  ore, 
Thy  numerous  herds,  thy  flocks,  and  winding 

streams ! 
After  a  long  and  tedious  absence,  Eustace, 
With  what  delight  we  breathe  our  native  air,       25 
And  tread  the  genial  soil  that  bore  us  first ! 
'Tis  said,  the  world  is  ev'ry  wise  man's  country  ; 
Yet,  after  having  view'd  its  various  nations, 
I'm  weak  enough  still  to  prefer  my  own 
To  all  I've  seen  beside.    You  smile,  my  friend,  30 
And  think,  perhaps,  'tis  instinct  more  than  rea- 
son? 
Why,  be  it  so !    Instinct  preceded  reason 
In  the  wisest  of  us  all,  and  may  sometimes 
Be  much  the  better  guide.    But,  be  it  either, 
I  must  confess  that  even  death  itself  35 

Appeared  to  me  with  twice  its  native  horrors, 
When  apprehended  in  a  foreign  land. 
Death  is,  no  doubt,  in  ev'ry  place  the  same ; 
Yet  observation  must  convince  us,  most  men. 
Who  have  it  in  their  power,  chuse  to  expire        40 
Where  they  first  drew  their  breath. 

Eust.  Believe  me,  Wilmot ! 

Your  grave  reflections  were  not  what  I  smil'd  at ; 
I  own  their  truth.    That  we're  return'd  to  Eng- 
land 

33    In  the  iviiest  of  us  all.    1783,  Ev'n  in  the  wisest  men. 
39    Yet  obiervation  must  convince  us^  most   men.     1783,   Yet 
nature  casts  a  look  towards  home,  and  most. 


17°  iFatal  Curiosity  (acti. 

Affords  me  all  the  pleasure  you  can  feel 
Merely  on  that  account ;  yet  I  must  think 
A  warmer  passion  gives  you  all  this  transport. 
You  have  not  wander'd,  anxious  and  impatient, 
From  clime  to  clime,  and  compast  sea  and  land 
To  purchase  wealth,  only  to  spend  your  days 
In  idle  pomp  and  luxury  at  home. 
I  know  thee  better :  thou  art  brave  and  wise, 
And  must  have  nobler  aims. 

T.  IVilm.  O  Eustace  !  Eustace  ! 

Thou  knowest,  for  I've  confest  to  thee,  I  love; 
But,  having  never  seen  the  charming  maid. 
Thou  canst  not  know  the  fierceness  of  my  flame. 
My  hopes  and  fears,  like  the  tempestuous  seas 
That  we  have  past,  now  mount  me  to  the  skies. 
Now  hurl  me  down  from  that  stupendous  height, 
And  drive  me  to  the  center.    Did  you  know 
How  much  depends  on  this  inportant  hour, 
You  wou'd  not  be  surprized  to  see  me  thus. 
The  sinking  fortune  of  our  ancient  house. 
Which  time  and  various  accidents  had  wasted. 
Compelled  me  young  to  leave  my  native  country. 
My  weeping  parents,  and  my  lovely  Chariot, 
Who  ruled,  and  must  for  ever  rule  my  fate. 

45  yet  I  must  think,  1783  begins  a  line  with  these  words,  and 
continues  :  a  warmer  passion  moves  you  ;  Thinking  of  that  I 
smiled. 

45-52  Merely  on  that  .    .   .   nobler  aims.     1783  omits. 

53  knowest,  1737,  1775.     1783,  1810,  know'st. 


sciNEin.]         ifatal  Curiosity  171 

How  I've   improv'd,  by  care  and  honest  com- 
merce, 
My  little  stock,  you  are  in  part  a  witness. 
'Tis  now  seven  tedious  years,  since  I  set  forth : 
And  as  th'uncertain  course  of  my  affairs  7° 

Bore  me  from  place  to  place,  I  quickly  lost 
The  means  of  corresponding  with  my  friends. 

O  !   shou'd  my  Chariot,  doubtful  of  my 

truth. 
Or  in  despair  ever  to  see  me  more, 
Have  given  herself  to  some  more  happy  lover —  75 
Distraction's  in  the   thought  !  —  or  shou'd  my 

parents, 
Grieved  for  my  absence  and  opprest  with  want. 
Have  sunk  beneath  their  burden,  and  expired, 
While  I  too  late  was  flying  to  relieve  them : 
The  end  of  all  my  long  and  weary  travels,  8° 

The  hope,  that  made  success  itself  a  blessing, 
Being  defeated  and  for  ever  lost. 
What  were  the  riches  of  the  world  to  me  ? 

Eust.  The  wretch  who  fears  all  that  is  possible. 
Must  suffer  more  than  he  who  feels  the  worst     8$ 
A  man  can  feel  who  lives  exempt  from  fear. 
A  woman  may  be  false,  and  friends  are  mortal ; 
And  yet,  your  aged  parents  may  be  living. 
And  your  fair  mistress  constant. 

67-71   H<rw    r-ve    improved   .   .   .    •with    my  friends.    1783 
omiu. 


172  iFatal  CuriositiJ  [acti. 

T.  JVilm.  True,  they  may ; 

I  doubt,  but  I  despair  not.    No,  my  friend  !  90 

My  hopes  are  strong  and  lively  as  my  fears, 
And  give  me  such  a  prospect  of  my  happiness 
As  nothing  but  fruition  can  exceed. 
They  tell  me.  Chariot  is  as  true  as  fair. 
As  good  as  wise,  as  passionate  as  chaste ;  95 

That  she  with  fierce  impatience,  like  my  own, 
Laments  our  long  and  painful  separation ; 
That  we  shall  meet,  never  to  part  again ; 
That  I  shall  see  my  parents,  kiss  the  tears 
From  their  pale  hollow  cheeks,  chear  their  sad 

hearts,  100 

And  drive  that  gaping  phantom,  meagre  want. 
For  ever  from  their  board ;  crown  all  their  days 
To  come  with  peace,  with  pleasure  and  abund- 
ance; 
Receive  their  fond  embraces  and  their  blessings, 
And  be  a  blessing  to  'em. 

Eust.  'Tis  our  weakness :  105 

Blind  to  events,  we  reason  in  the  dark, 
And  fondly  apprehend  what  none  e'er  found, 
Or  ever  shall  —  pleasure  and  pain  unmixt ; 
And  flatter  and  torment  ourselves  by  turns. 
With  what  shall  never  be. 

92—9  3  And  give  me  such  .   .   .   can  exceed.    1783  omits. 
95-97  Ai  good  as  ivise  .    .    .   separation.    17830111113. 
102-103  croiiin  all  their  days  To  come.   1783,  their  days  ro  come 
Crown  all. 


scxNtin.!         ifatal  Curiogit^  173 

IBr     ^-  ff^il'^-  ^'■'^  S°  ^'^'^  instant    "o 

To  seek  my  Chariot,  and  explore  my  fate. 

Eust.  What,  in  that  foreign  habit  ? 
Wt     T.  Wilm.  That's  a  trifle. 

Not  worth  my  thoughts. 

Eust.  The  hardships  you've  endured. 

And  your  long  stay  beneath  the  burning  zone, 
Where  one  eternal  sultry  summer  reigns,  "S 

Have  marr'd  the  native  hueof  your  complexion. 
Methinks,  you  look  more  like  a  sun-burnt  Indian, 
Than  a  Briton. 

T.  IFilm.  Well,  'tis  no  matter,  Eustace ! 

I  hope  my  mind's  not  alter'd  for  the  w^orse ; 
And,  for  my  outside  —  but  inform  me,  friend,   120 
When  I  may  hope  to  see  you  ? 

Eust.  When  you  please; 

You'll  find  me  at  the  inn. 

T.  JVilm.  When   I   have    learnt    my   doom, 
expect  me  there ! 
'Till  then,  farewel ! 

Eust.  Farewel !    Success  attend  you  !  125 

£;«■[/;]  Eustace. 

T.  Wilm.    "We    flatter,    and    torment    our- 
selves, by  turns, 
"  With  what  shall  never  be."    Amazing  folly  ! 
We  stand  exposed  to  many  unavoidable 

115  Succes!  attend  you  !  1783  after  this  has  the  stage-direction  : 
Exeunt  severally. 


174  ifatal  Curiosiit^  [acti. 

Calamities,  and  therefore  fondly  labour 
T'increase    their    number,    and    inforce    their 

weight,  130 

By  our  fantastic  hopes  and  groundless  fears. 
For  one  severe  distress  imposed  by  fate. 

What  numbers  doth  tormenting  fear  create ! 
Deceiv'd  by  hope,  Ixion-like,  we  prove 
Immortal  joys,  and  seem  to  rival  Jove;  135 

The  cloud  dissolv'd,  impatient  we  complain. 
And  pay  for  fancied  bliss  substantial  pain. 

130-137  Fcr  ,  ,  ,  fain.    1783  omits. 


Act  II. 

Scene  I.     Chariot's  House. 

Enter  Chariot,  thoughtful;  and  soon  after  Maria 
from  the  other  side. 

Maria.  Madam,  a  stranger  in  a  foreign  habit 
Desires  to  see  you. 

Chariot.  In  a  foreign  habit  ? 

'Tis  strange,  and  unexpected  —  but  admit  him. 

Exit  Maria. 
Who  can  this  stranger  be  ?  I  know  no  foreigner, 

Enter  Young  Wilmot, 
—  Nor  any  man  lilce  this. 

I"  HL     Y.  Wilmot.  Ten  thousand  joys  ! 

^r  Going  to  embrace  her. 

Char.  You  are  rude,  sir  —  pray,  forbear,  and 
let  me  know 
What  business  brought  you  here,  or  leave  the 
place ! 
Y.  Wilm.  (aside).    She  knows  me  not,  or  will 
not  seem  to  know  me. 
Perfidious  maid  !    Am  I  forgot  or  scorned  ? 
Char.   Strange  questions  from  a  man  I  never 
knew! 

I   Maria.    1783,  Serv.         6  pray,  forbear .    1783,  forbear. 
8  aside.     1783  omits  the  direction. 


176  i?atal  Curiosity  [actu. 

y.  Wilm.  (aside).    With    what    aversion    and 
contempt  she  views  me  ! 
My  fears  are  true;   some  other  has  her  heart; 
She's  lost ;  my  fatal  absence  has  undone  me.  — 
Oh,  cou'd  thy  Wilmot  have  forgot  thee,  Char- 
lot  ? 
Char.   Ha!    "Wilmot!"    Say,  what  do  your 
words  import  ?  15 

O  gentle  stranger,  ease  my  swelling  heart. 
That  else  will  burst !    Canst  thou  inform  me 

ought  ? 
What  dost  thou  know  of  Wilmot  ? 

T.  Wilm.  This  I  know. 

When  all  the  winds  of  heaven  seem'd  to  con- 
spire 
Against  the  stormy  main,  and  dreadful  peals         20 
Of  rattling  thunder  deafen'd  ev'ry  ear. 
And  drown'd  th'affrighten'd  mariners  loud  cries ; 
While  livid  lightning  spread  its  sulphurous  flames 
Thro'  all  the  dark  horizon,  and  disclos'd 
The  raging  seas  incensed  to  his  destruction ;        15 
When  the  good  ship  in  which  he  was  embark'd. 
Unable  longer  to  support  the  tempest. 
Broke  and,  o'erwhelm'd  by  the  impetuous  surge, 
Sunk  to  the  oozy  bottom  of  the  deep. 
And  left  him  struggling  with  the  warring  waves: —  30 

17   Cantt  thou  inform  me  ought?    1783  omits. 
27    Unable  .   .   .   tempest.    1783  omits. 


Scene  I.]  ifatsl  Cttrwsfit^  177 

In  that  dread  moment,  in  the  jaws  of  death, 
When  his  strength  fail'd  and  ev'ry  hope  forsook 

him, 
And  his  last  breath  press'd  t' wards  his  trembling 

lips, 
The    neighbouring   rocks,   that    echoed   to   his 

moan. 
Returned  no  sound  articulate  but  "  Chariot !  "      35 
Char.  The  fatal  tempest,  whose  description 
strikes 
The  hearer  with  astonishment,  is  ceased ; 
And  Wilmot  is  at  rest.    The  fiercer  storm 
Of  swelling  passions,  that  o'erwhelms  the  soul 
And  rages  worse  than  the  mad  foaming  seas         40 
In  which  he  perish'd,  ne'er  shall  vex  him  more. 
■     T.  IVilm.  Thou  seem'st  to  think,  he's  dead. 
*  Enjoy  that  thought; 

Persuade  yourself  that  what  you  wish  is  true. 
And  triumph  in  your  falshood  !    Yes,  he's  dead  ; 
You  were  his  fate.    The  cruel  winds  and  waves,  45 
That  cast  him  pale  and  breathless  on  the  shore, 
Spared  him  for  greater  woes  :  to  know,  his  Char- 
lot, 
Forgetting  all  her  vows  to  him  and  Heaven, 
Had  cast  him   from  her  thoughts.    Then,  then 

he  died  ; 
But  never  must  have  rest.    Ev'n  now  he  wanders,  50 

50  But  never  must  have  rest,    1783,  But  never  can  have  rest. 


178  i?atal  Curiosity  [actii. 

A  sad,  repining,  discontented  ghost, 

The  unsubstantial  shadow  of  himself. 

And  pours  his  plaintive  groans  in  thy  deaf  ears. 

And  stalks,  unseen,  before  thee. 

Char.  'Tis  enough  ! 

Detested  falshood  now  has  done  its  worst.  — 
And  art  thou  dead,  and  wou'd'st  thou  die,  my 

Wilmot, 
For  one  thou  thought'st  unjust,  thou  soul  of 

truth ! 
What  must  be  done  ?    Which  way  shall  I  ex- 
press 
Unutterable  woe,  or  how  convince 
Thy  dear  departed  spirit  of  the  love, 
Th'eternal  love  and  never-failing  faith 
Of  thy  much  injur'd,  lost,  despairing  Chariot .' 

T.  fVilm.  (aside).   Be  still,  my  flutt'ring  heart; 
hope  not  too  soon  ! 
Perhaps  I  dream,  and  this  is  all  illusion. 

Char.  If,  as  some  teach,  the  mind  intuitive. 
Free  from  the  narrow  bounds  and  slavish  ties 
Of  sordid  earth,  that  circumscribe  its  power 
While  it  remains  below,  roving  at  large, 

56  And  art  thou  dead,  and  •wou''d'st.    The  editions  interpunc- 
tuate,  j4nd  art  thou  dead  f    And  tuou'd* it. 

^T  unjust,  thou.    The  editions  interpunctuate,  an/W  ?    Thou. 

66  Free  from  .   .   .   ties.    1783,  Free  from  the  bounds  and  ties 
of  sordid  earth. 

67  Of  sordid  earth,  that  circunticribe  iti  pmver.    1783001118. 

68  ffhile  .  .  .  large.    1783  omits. 


Scene  I.]  jfatHl  CuriOSlt^  179 

Can  trace  us  to  our  most  concealed  retreat, 
See  all  we  act,  and  read  our  very  thoughts  :  7° 

To  thee,  O  Wilmot,  kneeling  I  appeal : 
If  e'er  I  swerv'd  in  action,  word,  or  thought 
From  the  severest  constancy  and  truth, 
Or  ever  wish'd  to  taste  a  joy  on  earth 
That  center'd  not   in  thee,  since  last  we  part- 
ed:  75 
May  we  ne'er  meet  again,  but  thy  loud  wrongs 
So  close  the  ear  of  mercy  to  my  cries. 
That  I  may  never  see  those  bright  abodes 
Where  truth  and  virtue  only  have  admission. 
And  thou  inhabit'st  now  ! 

y.  Wilm.  Assist  me,  Heaven  !  8o 

Preserve  my  reason,  memory  and  sense ! 
O  moderate  my  fierce  tumultuous  joys. 
Or  their  excess  will  drive  me  to  distraction  ! 
O  Chariot !  Chariot !  lovely,  virtuous  maid  ! 
Can   thy  firm  mind,  in   spite  of  time  and  ab- 
sence, 85 
Remain  unshaken,  and  support  its  truth. 
And  yet  thy  frailer  memory  retain 
No  image,  no  idea  of  thy  lover  ? 
Why  dost  thou  gaze  so  wildly  ?     Look  on  me ; 
Turn  thy  dear  eyes  this  way  ;  observe  me  well !   90 
Have  scorching  climates,  time,  and  this  strange 
habit 

73   From  the  .  .  .  and  truth.     1783  omits. 


i8o  IFatal  Ctttiogit^  [actii. 

So  changed  and  so  disguised  thy  faithful  Wilmot, 
That  nothing  in  my  voice,  my  face,  or  mien. 
Remains  to  tell  my  Chariot  I  am  he  ? 

After  viewing  him  some  time,  she  approaches 
Keeping,  and  gives  him  her  hand ;  and 
then,  turning  towards  him,  sinks  upon  bis 
bosom. 

Why  dost  thou  weep  ?    Why  dost  thou  tremble 

thus  ?  9 

Why  doth  thy  panting  heart  and  cautious  touch 
Speak  thee  but  half  convinc'd  ?  Whence  are  thy 

fears  ? 
Why  art   thou  silent  ?    Canst    thou  doubt  me 

still  ? 
Char.  No,  Wilmot,  no  !   I'm  blind  with  too 

much  light. 
O'ercome  with  wonder,  and  opprest  with  joy ;   lo 
The    struggling    passions    barr'd  the  doors  of 

speech. 
But  speech,  enlarg'd,  affords  me  no  relief. 
This  vast  profusion  of  extream  delight. 
Rising  at  once  and  bursting  from  despair. 
Defies  the  aid  of  words,  and  mocks  description.io 
But  for  one  sorrow,  one  sad  scene  of  anguish, 
That  checks  the  swelling  torrent  of  my  joys, 
I  could  not  bear  the  transport. 

Y.  IVilm.  Let  me  know  it ; 

101-102    Tht  struggling  panions  .  .  .  relief.     1783  omits. 


scENx  LI  ipatal  Curiosity  i^J 

Give  me  my  portion  of  thy  sorrow,  Chariot ! 

Let  me  partake  thy  grief,  or  bear  it  for  thee  !      "o 

Char.   Alas,  my  Wilmot !   These  sad  tears  are 
thine ; 
They  flow  for  thy  misfortunes.    I  am  pierced 
With  all  the  agonies  of  strong  compassion, 
With  all  the  bitter  anguish  you  must  feel. 
When  you  shall  hear,  your  parents  — 

T.  Wilm.  Are  no  more  !  115 

Char.  You  apprehend  me  wrong. 

r.  Wilm.  Perhaps  I  doj 

Perhaps  you  mean  to  say,  the  greedy  grave 
Was  satisfied  with  one,  and  one  is  left 
To   bless   my   longing  eyes  ?    But   which,  my 

Chariot  ? 
— And  yet,  forbear  to  speak, 'till  I  have  thought — 120 

Char.  Nay,  hear  me,  Wilmot ! 

Y.  Wilm.  I  perforce  must  hear  thee. 

For  I   might  think  'till  death,  and  not   deter- 
mine. 
Of  two  so  dear  which  I  could  bear  to  lose. 

Char.  Afflict  yourself  no  more  with  ground- 
less fears : 
Your  parents  both  are  living.    Their  distress,     125 
The  poverty  to  which  they  are  reduced, 
In  spight  of  my  weak  aid,  was  what  I  mourned; 
And  that  in  helpless  age,  to  them  whose  youth 

110-123   And  yet,  forbear  .    .    .    hear  to  kie.      17830111113. 


1 82  ifatal  Curiogit^  (act  a 

Was  crown'd  with  full  prosperity,  I  fear, 
Is  worse,  much  worse,  than  death. 

r.  IVilm.  My  joy's  compleat !  13 

My  parents  living,  and  possess'd  of  thee  !  — 
From  this  blest  hour,  the  happiest  of  my  life, 
I'll  date  my  rest.    My  anxious  hopes  and  fears. 
My  weary  travels,  and  my  dangers  past. 
Are  now  rewarded  all;  now  I  rejoice  13 

In  my  success,  and  count  my  riches  gain. 
For   know,  my   soul's    best    treasure,  I   have 

wealth 
Enough  to  glut  ev'n  avarice  itself. 
No  more  shall  cruel  want,  or  proud  contempt. 
Oppress  the  sinking  spirits,  or  insult  «4" 

The  hoary  heads  of  those  who  gave  me  being. 
Char.  'Tis  now,  O  riches,  I  conceive  your 
worth : 
You  are  not  base,  nor  can  you  be  superfluous. 
But  when  misplac'd  in  base  and  sordid  hands. 
Fly,  fly,  my  Wilmot !    Leave  thy  happy  Chariot !  Hi 
Thy  filial  piety,  the  sighs  and  tears 
Of  thy  lamenting  parents  call  thee  hence. 
T.  Wilm.  I  have  a  friend,  the  partner  of  my 
voyage. 
Who,  in  the  storm  last  night  was  shipwrack'd 
with  me. 
Char.  Shipwrack't  last  night !  —  O  you  im- 
mortal powers !  15c 


scEKri.)  i?atal  Curiosity  183 

fhat  have  you  sufFer'd  !    How  was  you  pre- 
serv'd  ? 
T.  Wilm.  Let  that,  and  all  my  other  strange 
escapes 
And  perilous  adventures,  be  the  theme 
Of  many  a  happy  winter  night  to  come  ! 
My  present  purpose  was  t'intreat  my  angel         15s 
To  know  this  friend,  this  other  better  Wilmot, 
And  come  with  him  this  evening  to  my  father's. 
I'll  send  him  to  thee. 

Char.  I  consent  with  pleasure. 

T,  Wilm,   Heavens  !     what    a  night !     How 
shall  I  bear  my  joy  ! 
My  parents,  yours,  my  friends,  all  will  be  mine,  160 
And  mine,  like  water,  air,  or  the  free  splendid 

sun. 
The  undivided  portion  of  you  all. 
If  such  the  early  hopes,  the  vernal  bloom, 
The  distant  prospect  of  my  future  bliss  : 
Then  what  the  ruddy  autumn,  what  the  fruit,      165 
The  full  possession  of  thy  heavenly  charms ! 

The  tedious,  dark,  and  stormy  winter  o'er ; 
The  hind,  that  all  its  pinching  hardships  bore, 

161-162  And  mine y  like  ivater  .    .   .  you  all.    1783  omits. 

165  autumn  .  .  ,  fruit.  The  editions  interpunctuate:  autumn  t 
What  the  fruit'. 

166  of  thy  hea-venly  charmi.  After  these  words  1783  has  the 
stage-direction  Exeunt  severally,  and  otnits  the  remainder  of  Young 
Wilmot's  speech  j  but  it  is  printed  in  1775  and  1810, 


1 84  iFatal  Curio0it^  [Ana 

With  transport  sees  the  weeks  appointed  bring 
The  chearfui,  promis'd,  gay,  delightful  spring;  170 
The  painted  meadows,  the  harmonious  woods, 
The  gentle  zephyrs,  and  unbridled  floods, 
With  all  their  charms,  his  ravished  thoughts 

employ. 
But  the  rich  harvest  must  compleat  his  joy. 

[_£xeu/it.'] 
Scene  II. 
ji  Street  in  Penryn. 
Enter  Randal. 

Randal.  Poor,  poor,  and   friendless,  whither 

shall  I  wander. 
And  to  what  point  direct  my  views  and  hopes  ? — 
A  menial  servant  ?    No  !   What !    Shall  I  live. 
Here  in  this  land  of  freedom,  live  distinguished 
And  marked  the  willing  slave  of  some  proud 

subject,  5 

And  swell  his  useless  train  for  broken  fragments. 
The  cold  remains  of  his  superfluous  board  ? 
I  wou'd  aspire  to  something  more  and  better ! 
Turn  thy  eyes,  then,  to  the  prolifick  ocean. 
Whose  spacious  bosom  opens  to  thy  view.  10 

There,  deathless  honour  and  unenvied  wealth 
Have  often  crowned  the  brave  adventurer's  toils. 
This  is  the  native  uncontested  right. 
The  fair  inheritance  of  ev'ry  Briton 


m 


scTNE  n.i  jpatal  Curiogiti?  185 

That  dares  put  in  his  claim.  My  choice  is  made :   is 
A  long  farewel  to  Cornwall,  and  to  England ! 
If  I  return,  —  but  stay,  what  stranger's  this. 
Who,  as  he  views  me,  seems  to  mend  his  pace  ? 
Enter  foung  tVilmot. 

Toung  Wilmot.  Randal !   the  dear  companion 
of  my  youth  ! 
Sure,  lavish  fortune  means  to  give  me  all  lo 

I  could  desire,  or  ask  for,  this  blest  day, 
And  leave  me  nothing  to  expect  hereafter. 

Rand.    Your  pardon,  sir  !   I  know  but  one  on 
earth 
Cou'd  properly  salute  me  by  the  title 
You're  pleased  to  give  me,  and  I  would  not  think  »S 
That  you  are  he  —  that  you  are  Wilmot.  — 

r.  mim.  Why  ? 

»Rand.    Because  I   cou'd  not  bear  the  disap- 
pointment, 
Shou'd  I  be  deceived. 

T.  Wilm.  I  am  pleas'd  to  hear  it. 

Thy  friendly  fears  better  express  thy  thoughts 
Than  words  could  do. 

Rand.  O  Wilmot !    O  my  master  !  30 

Are  you  returned  ? 

Y.  Wilm.  I  have  not  yet  embraced 

My  parents  ;  I  shall  see  you  at  my  father's. 
Rand.    No,    I'm  discharged  from  thence  — 
O  sir  !  such  ruin  — 


b. 


1 86  ifatal  Curiosity  [act  ii. 

K    Wilm.    I've   heard    it  all,  and  hasten  to 
relieve  'em. 
Sure,  Heaven  hath  blest  me  to  that  very  end. 
I've  wealth  enough  ;  nor  shalt  thou  want  a  part. 

Rand.    I  have  a  part  already :   I  am  blest 
In  your  success,  and  share  in  all  your  joys. 

Y.  IVilm.    I  doubt  it  not.  But  tell  me,  dost 
thou  think, 
My  parents  not  suspecting  my  return, 
That  I  may  visit  them,  and  not  be  known  ? 

Rand.    'Tis  hard  for  me  to  judge.    You  are 
already 
Grown  so  familiar  to  me,  that  I  wonder 
I  knew  you  not  at  first.    Yet  it  may  be ; 
For  you're  much  alter'd,  and   they   think  you 
dead. 

T.   Wilm.    This  is  certain :  Chariot  beheld  me 
long. 
And  heard  my  loud  reproaches  and  complaints. 
Without  rememb'ring  she  had  ever  seen  me. 
My  mind  at  ease  grows  wanton  ;  I  wou'd  fain 
Refine  on  happiness.    Why  may  I  not 
Indulge  my  curiosity,  and  try 
If  it  be  possible,  by  seeing  first 
My  parents  as  a  stranger,  to  improve 
Their  pleasure  by  surprize  .' 

Rand.  It  may  indeed 

Inhance  your  own,  to  see  from  what  despair 


scxNiH.)  iFatal  Curiogitp  187 

Your  timely  coming  and  unhoped  success 
Have  given  you  power  to  raise  them. 

y.  IVilm.  I  remember. 

E'er  since  we  learned  together  you  excelled 
In  writing  fairly,  and  could  imitate 
Whatever  hand  you  saw  with  great  exactness.     60 
Of  this  I'm  not  so  absolute  a  master. 
I  therefore  beg  you'll  write,  in  Chariot's  name 
And  character,  a  letter  to  my  father ; 
And  recommend  me,  as  a  friend  of  hers. 
To  his  acquaintance. 

Rand.  Sir,  if  you  desire  it; —      65 

And  yet  — 

T.  IVilm.       Nay,  no  objections  !  'Twill  save 
time, 

est  precious  with  me  now.    For  the  decep- 
tion — 

If  doing  what  my  Chariot  will  approve, 
'Cause  done  for  me  and  with  a  good  intent, 
Deserves  the  name  —  I'll  answer  it  my  self.        70 
If  this  succeeds,  I  purpose  to  defer 
Discov'ring  who  I  am  till  Chariot  comes. 
And  thou,  and  all  who  love  me.    Ev'ry  friend 
Who  witnesses  my  happiness  to  night, 
Will,  by  partaking,  multiply  my  joys.  75 

Rand.  You  grow  luxurious   in  your  mental 
pleasures. 

lh  your  mental  pltaiuret,    1 78 3,  imagination. 


I« 


i88  iFatal  €umeit^  [act  n. 

Cou'd  I  deny  you  aught,  I  would  not  write 
This  letter.    To  say  true,  I  ever  thought 
Your  boundless  curiosity  a  weakness. 

T.  Wilm.  What  canst  thou  blame  in  this  ? 

Rand.  Your  pardon,  sir  !  80 

I  only  speak  in  general ;  I'm  ready 
T'obey  your  orders. 

T.  Wilm.  I  am  much  thy  debtor; 

But  I  shall  find  a  time  to  quit  thy  kindness. 
O  Randal,  but  imagine  to  thyself 
The  floods  of  transport,  the  sincere  delight,         85 
That  all  my  friends  will  feel,  when  I  disclose 
To  my  astonished  parents  my  return  ; 
And  then  confess,  that  I  have  well  contrived 
By  giving  others  joy  t'exalt  my  own  ! 

As  pain,  and  anguish,  in  a  gen'rous  mind,        90 

While  kept  concealed  and  to  ourselves  con- 
fined. 

Want  half  their  force  ;  so  pleasure  when  it 
flows 

In  torrents  round  us  more  extatick  grows. 

Exeunt. 

81    1  only  speak  in  general.     1783,  Perhaps  I  spoke  too  freely. 
90-93  Ai  fain  .   .   .    Exeunt,    1783011110. 


Scene  m.]  iFatal  CuriOgtt^  1 89 


Scene   III 


f 

v^M  A  Room  in  Old  Wilmot's  House.    Old  Wilmot  and 
B  Agnes. 

Old   Wilmot.    Here,  take    this    Seneca,  this 

haughty  pedant, 
Who,  governing  the  master  of  mankind 
And  awing  power  imperial,  prates  of  —  patience. 
And  praises  poverty,  possess'd  of  millions  : 
—  Sell  him,  and  buy  us  bread  !    The  scantiest 

meal  S 

The  vilest  copy  of  his  book  e'er  purchased. 
Will  give  us  more  relief  in  this  distress. 
Than  all  his  boasted  precepts.  —  Nay,  no  tears  ! 
Keep  them  to  move  compassion  when  you  beg ! 

i^m    Agnes.  My  heart  may  break,  but  never  stoop 
B  to  that.  10 

O.  JVilm.    Nor  would  I  live  to  see  it.  —  But 
dispatch.  Exit  Agnes. 

Where  must  I  charge  this  length  of  misery. 
That  gathers  force  each  moment  as  it  rolls 
And  must  at  last  o'erwhelm  me,  but  on  hope — 
Vain,  flattering,  delusive,  groundless  hope —        15 
A  senseless  expectation  of  relief 
That     has    for    years    deceived   me  ?     Had    I 
thought. 

Scene  111.      1737,  wrongly,  Scene  II. 
16  A  unuleu  .   .    .  relief.    1783  omits. 


1 90  iFatal  Curiogitp  {Acta 

As  I  do  now,  as  wise  men  ever  think, 

When  first  this  hell  of  poverty  o'ertook  me, 

That  power  to  die  implies  a  right  to  do  it,  lo 

And  shou'd  be  used  when  life  becomes  a  pain, 

What  plagues  had  I  prevented  !    True,  my  wife 

Is  still  a  slave  to  prejudice  and  fear. 

I  would  not  leave  my  better  part,  the  dear, 

Weeps. 
Faithful  companion  of  my  happier  days,  15 

To  bear  the  weight  of  age  and  want  alone. 
— I'll  try  once  more  — 

Enter  Agnes,  and  after  her  Young  Wilmot. 

O.  Wilm.       Returned,  my  life  ?    So  soon? — 

^gn.  The  unexpected  coming  of  this  stranger 
Prevents  my  going  yet. 

Toung  Wilmot.  You're,  I  presume. 

The  gentleman  to  whom  this  letter  is  directed. 

Gives  a  letter. 
[Jside.l  What  wild  neglect,  the  token  of  despair. 
What  indigence,  what  misery  appears 
In  each  disorder'd,  or  disfurnished  room 
Of  this  once  gorgeous  house!   What  discontent, 
What  anguish  and  confusion,  fill  the  faces 
Of  its  dejected  owners  ! 

O.  Wilm.  Sir,  such  welcome 

33  In  each  diiorder^ d  .  .  .  room.    1783  omits. 

34  Of  this  once  gorgeoui.     1783,  In  this  once  happy. 

36  0.  fFilm.     1783  inserti  the  direction:    [^Ha-vhg  read  tht 


sciNini.]         iFatal  Curiosity  191 

As  this  poor  house  affords,  you  may  command. 
Our  ever  friendly  neighbour  —  once,  we  hoped 
T'have  called  fair  Chariot  by  a  dearer  name  — 
But  we  have  done  with  hope.    I  pray,  excuse       40 
This  incoherence  !    We  had  once  a  son  — 

IVeeps. 
Agn.  That  you  are  come  from  that  dear  vir- 
tuous maid, 
Revives  in  us  the  mem'ry  of  a  loss. 
Which,  tho'  long  since,  we  have  not  learned  to 
bear. 

IH|      Y.  Wilm.  {aside).  The  joy  to  see  them,  and 
'^  the  bitter  pain  45 

It  is  to  see  them  thus,  touches  my  soul 
With  tenderness  and  grief  that  will  o'erflow. 
My  bosom  heaves  and  swells,  as  it  would  burst ; 
My  bowels   move,  and   my  heart  melts  within 
me. 

—  They  know  me  not ;  and  yet,  I  fear,  I  shall  so 
Defeat  my  purpose  and  betray  myself. 

O.  Wilm.  The  lady  calls  you  here  her  valued 
friend  — 
Enough,  tho'  nothing  more  should  be  implied. 
To  recommend  you  to  our  best  esteem 

—  A  worthless  acquisition  !    May  she  find  55 
Some  means  that  better  may  express   her  kind- 
ness ! 

48—49   My  bosom  .  .  .  ivithin  me.     1 783  omits. 
50  IJtar,  I  ihall.    1 783,  I  shall  I  fear. 


192  iFatal  Curiosity  [actu. 

But  she,  perhaps,  hath  purposed  to  inrich 
You  with  herself,  and  end  her  fruitless  sorrow 
For  one  whom  death  alone  can  justify 
For  leaving  her  so  long  ?    If  it  be  so 
May  you  repair  his  loss,  and  be  to  Chariot 
A  second,  happier  Wilmot !    Partial  nature, 
Who  only  favours  youth,  as  feeble  age 
Were  not  her  offspring  or  below  her  care, 
Has   seal'd   our   doom  :  no   second  hope  shall 

spring 
From  my  dead  loins  and  Agnes'  steril  womb, 
To  dry  our  tears,  and  dissipate  despair. 

Jgn.  The  last  and  most  abandon'd  of  our  kind. 
By  Heaven  and  earth  neglected  or  despised, 
The  loathsom  grave,  that  robb'd  us  of  our  son 
And  all  our  joys  in  him,  must  be  our  refuge. 
T.  Wilm.  Let  ghosts  unpardon'd  or  devoted 

fiends, 
Fear  without  hope,  and  wail  in  such  sad  strains ; 
But  grace  defend  the  living  from  despair ! 
The  darkest  hours  precede  the  rising  sun. 
And  mercy  may  appear  when  least  expected. 
O.   Wilm.  This   I   have    heard    a    thousand 

times  repeated. 
And  have,  believing,  been  as  oft  deceived. 
Y.  Wilm.   Behold  in   me  an  instance  of  its 

truth  ! 

66   From  my  dead  .  .  .  ittril  ivomb.    1783  omits. 


sciNEin.]         ifatal  Curio0tt?  193 

At  sea  twice  shipwrack'd,  and  as  oft  the  prey       80 
Of  lawless  pyrates  ;  by  the  Arabs  thrice 
Surpriz'd  and  robb'd  on  shore ;  and  once  reduced 
To  worse  than  these,  the  sum  of  all  distress 
That  the  most  wretched  feel  on  this  side  hell, 
Ev'n  slavery  itself — yet,  here  I  stand,  85 

Except  one  trouble  that  will  quickly  end, 
The  happiest  of  mankind. 

O.  IVilm.  A  rare  example 

Of  fortune's  caprice,  apter  to  surprize. 
Or  entertain,  than  comfort  or  instruct. 
If  you  wou'd  reason  from  events,  be  just,  90 

And   count,  when  you  escaped,  how  many  per- 
ished ; 
And  draw  your  inf'rence  thence ! 

jfgn.  Alas  !  who  knows 

But  we  were  rendred  childless  by  some  storm. 
In  which  you,  tho'  preserv'd,  might  bear  a  part. 
T.  IVilm.  (aside).   How  has  my  curiosity  be- 
tray'd  me  95 

Into  superfluous  pain  !    I  faint  with  fondness, 
And  shall,  if  I  stay  longer,  rush  upon  'em. 
Proclaim  myself  their  son,  kiss  and  embrace  'em. 
Till  their  souls,  transported  with  the  excess 
Of  pleasure  and  surprize,  quit  their  frail  man- 
sions, lOO 

99-100   Till  their  souls  .  ,  .  mansions.    1783: 
1^^^  Till,  with  the  excess  of  pleasure  and  surprize, 

I^^K  Their  souls,  transported,  their  frail  mansions  quit. 


194-  iFatal  (Curiogitp  lAcrn. 

And  leave  'em  breathless  in  my  longing  arms. 
By  circumstances  then  and  slow  degrees, 
They  must  be  let  into  a  happiness 
Too  great  for  them  to  bear  at  once  and  live. 
That  Chariot  will  perform.    I  need  not  feign     io< 
To  ask  an  hour  for  rest.  —  Sir,  I  intreat 
The  favour  to  retire,  where  for  a  while 
I  may  repose  my  self.    You  will  excuse 
This  freedom,  and  the  trouble  that  I  give  you  : 
'Tis  long  since  I  have  slept,  and  nature  calls,     no 
O.  IVilm.  I  pray,  no  more !    Believe,  we're 
only  troubled. 
That  you   shou'd  think  any  excuse  were  need- 
ful. 
T.  Wilm.  The  weight  of  this  is  some  incum- 
brance to  me. 
Takes  a  casket  out  of  his  bosom  and  gives  it 
to  bis  mother. 

And  its  contents  of  value.    If  you  please 

To  take  the  charge  of  it  'till  I  awake,  115 

I  shall  not  rest  the  worse.    If  I  shou'd  sleep 

'Till  I  am  ask'd  for,  as  perhaps  I  may, 

I  beg  that  you  wou'd  wake  me. 

-^gn.  Doubt  it  not  ! 

Distracted  as  I  am  with  various  woes, 
I  shall  remember  that.  Exit. 

T.  Wilm.  Merciless  grief!  no 

120   /  ihali  remtmher  that,    i  783  adds,  Exit,  with  Old  ff^ilmot. 


Scene  III]  ^gtal  CuriOStt^  I9S 

What  ravage  has  it  made  ?  how  has  it  changed 
Her  lovely  form  and  mind  !   I  feel  her  anguish, 
And  dread  I  know  not  what  from  her  despair. 
My  father  too  —  O  grant  'em  patience,  Heaven ! 
A  little  longer,  a  few  short  hours  more,  "5 

And  all  their  cares,  and  mine,  shall  end  for  ever. 

How  near  is  misery  and  joy  ally'd ; 

Nor    eye    nor   thought    can    their    extreams 

divide  ! 
A   moment's    space  is  long,  and  light'ning 

slow. 
To  fate  descending  to  reverse  our  woe,        ^  130 
Or  blast  our  hopes  and  all  our  joys  o'er- 
IMk  throw.  Exeunt.  ^ 

\        ia6  end  for  ever.     1783,  Aside,  Exeunt. 

\        127-131    Hotv  near  .    .    .   o'erthroiv.    Exeunt.     1783  omits. 


Act  III, 

Scene  I.    The  scene  continued. 

Enter  Agnes,  alone,  with  the  casket  in  her  hand. 

Agnes.  Who  shou'd  this  stranger  be  ?    And 
then,  this  casket ! 
He  says  it  is  of  value,  and  yet  trusts  it, 
As  if  a  trifle,  to  a  stranger's  hand. 
His  confidence  amazes  me.    Perhaps 
It  is  not  what  he  says.    I'm  strongly  tempted 
To  open  it,  and  see  —  no,  let  it  rest ! 
Why  should  my  curiosity  excite  me 
To  search  and  pry  into  th'afFairs  of  others, 
Who  have,  t'imploy  my  thoughts,  so  many  cares 
And  sorrows  of  my  own  ?  —  With  how  much 

ease 
The  spring  gives  way  !    Surprizing !    most  pro- 
digious ! 
My  eyes  are  dazzled,  and  my  ravished  heart 
Leaps  at  the  glorious  sight.    How  bright's  the 

lustre, 
How  immense  the  worth  of  these  fair  jewels  ! 
Ay,  such  a  treasure  would  expel  for  ever 
Base  poverty  and  all  its  abject  train  ; 

7    Why  ihmld  .  .  .  excite  me.    1783  omits. 
8— II   Tojearch  .  .  .  prodigiou:  !  1783  : 

Why  should  1  pry  into  the  cares  of  others. 

Who  have  so  many  sorrows  of  my  own  ( 

With  how  much  cate  the  spring  gives  way  —  larprizing!  — 


scENi  I.]  j^atal  Curtofifit^  197 

The  mean  devices  we're  reduced  to  use 
To  keep  out  famine,  and  preserve  our  lives 
From  day  to  day  ;  the  cold  neglect  of  friends  ; 
The  galling  scorn,  or  more  provoking  pity  20 

Of  an  insulting  world  —  possess'd  of  these. 
Plenty,  content  and  power  might  take  their  turn. 
And  lofty  pride  bare  its  aspiring  head 
At  our  approach,  and  once  more  bend  before  us. 
—  A  pleasing  dream!  — 'Tis  past;  and  now  I 

wake,  »S 

More  wretched  by  the  happiness  I've  lost. 
For,  sure,  it  was  a  happiness  to  think, 
Tho'  but  a  moment,  such  a  treasure  mine  ! 
Nay,  it   was  more   than  thought  :    I   saw  and 

touched 
The  bright  temptation,  and  I  see  it  yet.  30 

'Tis  here — 'tis  mine — I  have  it  in  possession — 
Must  I  resign  it  ?    Must  I  give  it  back  ? 
Am  I  in  love  with  misery  and  want. 
To  rob  myself,  and  court  so  vast  a  loss  ? 
— Return  it,  then! — But  howi*  There  is  away —  35 
Why  sinks  my  heart  ?    Why  does  my  blood  run 

cold  ? 
Why  am  I  thrill'd  with  horror  ?    'Tis  not  choice, 
But  dire  necessity,  suggests  the  thought. 

1 7-1 1    The  mean  de-vices  .    .    .   ivorld.   Instead  of  this  passage, 
1783  reads  : 

Famine;  the  cold  neglect  of  fliends;  the  scorn. 
Or  more  provoking  pity  of  the  world. 


1 98  ifatal  Curiosity  [act  in. 

Enter  Old  Wilmot. 
~    Old  Wilmot.    The  mind  contented,  with  how 

little  pains 
The  wand'ring  senses  yield  to  soft  repose,  41 

And  die  to  gain  new  life  !    He's  fallen  asleep 
Already  • —  happy  man  !   What  dost  thou  think. 
My  Agnes,  of  our  unexpected  guest  ? 
He  seems  to  me  a  youth  of  great  humanity. 
Just  e're  he  closed  his  eyes,  that  swam  in  tears,  4 
He  wrung  my  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips, 
And,  with  a  look  that  pierced  me  to  the  soul, 
Begg'd   me  to  comfort  thee,  and  —  dost  thou 

hear  me  ?  — 
What  art  thou  gazing  on  ?    Fie  !   'tis  not  well. 
This  casket  was  deliver'd  to  you  closed ;  5. 

Why  have  you  open'd  it  ?   Shou'd  this  be  known, 
How  mean  must  we  appear ! 

Agn.  And  who  shall  know  it  ? 

O.  Wilm.  There  is  a  kind  of  pride,  a  decent 
dignity 
Due  to  our  selves,  which,  spite  of  our  misfor- 
tunes. 
May  be  maintain'd  and  cherish'd  to  the  last.        5 
To  live  without  reproach,  and  without  leave 
To  quit  the  world,  shews  sovereign  contempt 
And  noble  scorn  of  its  relentless  malice. 

41  And  die  to  gain  new  life.    I  783  omits,  reading  for  what  followt: 
He  's  fallen  asleep  already  —  Happy  man  ! 
What  dost  thou  thinks  my  Agnes,  of  our  £ue»t  \ 


scxNti.)  IFatal  Curio0it?  199 

Agn.   Shews  sovereign  madness  and  a  scorn 
of  sense ! 
Pursue  no  farther  this  detested  theme  !  60 

I  will  not  die,  I  will  not  leave  the  world. 
For  all  that  you  can  urge,  until  compell'd. 

O.  tVilm.    To    chace  a    shadow,   when    the 
setting  sun 
Is  darting  his  last  rays,  were  just  as  wise 
As  your  anxiety  for  fleeting  life,  65 

Now  the  last  means  for  its  support  are  failing. 
Were  famine  not  as  mortal  as  the  sword, 
This  warmth  might  be  excused.    But  take  thy 

choice  : 
Die  how  you  will,  you  shall  not  die  alone. 

Jgn.   Nor  live,  I  hope. 

O.  Wilm.  There  is  no  fear  of  that.  70 

Agn.  Then,  we'll  live  both. 

O.  W'tlm,      Strange  folly !  where's  the  means  ? 

Agn.  The  means  are  there ;  those  jewels  — 

O.  Wilm.  Ha  !  —  Take  heed  ! 

Perhaps  thou  dost  but  try  me  ;  yet,  take  heed  ! 
There's  nought  so  monstrous  but  the  mind  of 

man 
In  some  conditions  may  be  brought  t'approve:    75 
Theft,  sacrilege,  treason,  and  parricide. 
When  flatt'ring  opportunity  enticed 
And  desperation  drove,  have  been  committed 

68    This  ■warmth.    1783,  Your  warmth. 

71   The  means  are.    1783  omits,  Agnes  replying:  There:  those. 


200  i^atal  Curiosity  [act  in. 

By  those  who  once  wou'd  start  to  hear  them 
named. 

Agn.   And  add  to  these  detested  suicide,  go 

Which,  by  a  crime  much  less,  we  may  avoid. 

O.  Wilm.    Th'  inhospitable    murder  of   our 
guest !  — 
How    cou'dst    thou    form  a  thought    so   very 

tempting. 
So  advantageous,  so  secure,  and  easy. 
And  yet  so  cruel,  and  so  full  of  horror }  85 

Agn.  'Tis  less  impiety,  less  against  nature, 
To  talce  another's  life,  than  end  our  own. 

O.  Wilm.  It  is  no  matter,  whether  this  or  that 
Be,  in  itself,  the  less  or  greater  crime. 
Howe'er  we  may  deceive  our  selves  or  others,     90 
We  act  from  inclination,  not  by  rule. 
Or  none  could  act  amiss ;  and,  that  all  err. 
None  but  the  conscious  hypocrite  denies. 
— O  !  what  is  man,  his  excellence  and  strength, 
When  in  an  hour  of  trial  and  desertion,  gj 

Reason,  his  noblest  power,  may  be  suborned 
To  plead  the  cause  of  vile  assassination  ! 

Agn.  You're  too  severe :    Reason  may  justly 
plead 
For  her  own  preservation. 

O.  Wilm.  Rest  contented  ! 

82  TKinhoipitabU  .    .   .  gueit.    1783  omits. 

83  tempting.     1783,  damning. 

88   It  it  .  .  .  that.    1783,  No  matter  which,  the  lew  or  greater 
crime.  89   Be,  in  inelf  .   .   .  crime.    1783  omits. 


sciKii.)  iFatal  Curiosity  201 

Whate'er  resistance  I  may  seem  to  make,  loo 

I  am  betray'd  within  ;   my  will's  seduced, 

And  my  whole  soul  infected.    The  desire 

Of  life  returns,  and  brings  with  it  a  train 

Of  appetites,  that  rage  to  be  supplied. 

Whoever  stands  to  parley  with  temptation,         105 

Does  it  to  be  o'ercome. 

Agn.  Then,  nought  remains, 

But  the  swift  execution  of  a  deed 
That  is  not  to  be  thought  on,  or  delay'd. 
We  must  dispatch  him  sleeping  :  shou'd  he  wake, 
'Twere  madness  to  attempt  it. 

O.  Wilm.  True,  his  strength,  no 

Single,  is  more,  much  more  than  ours  united ; 
So  may  his  life,  perhaps,  as  far  exceed 
Ours  in  duration,  shou'd  he  'scape  this  snare. 
Gen'rous,  unhappy  man  !   O  !  what  cou'd  move 

thee 
To  put  thy  life  and  fortune  in  the  hands  115 

Of  wretches  mad  with  anguish  ? 

Agn.  By  what  means  — 

By  stabbing,  suffocation,  or  by  strangling  — 
Shall  we  effect  his  death  .? 

O.  Wilm.  Why,  what  a  fiend ! 

How  cruel,  how  remorseless  and  impatient, 
Have  pride  and  poverty  made  thee ! 

109— no   We  mmt  .   .   .  attempt  it.    1783  omits. 

no— 113    True^  his  strength  .    .    .   this  snare.    1783  omits. 

117  By  stabbing  .   .  ,  strangling.    1783  omits. 


202  iFatal  Curiosity  [act  m 

Agn.  Barbarous  man  !  iic 

Whose  wasteful  riots  ruin'd  our  estate, 
And  drove  our  son,  ere  the  first  down  had  spread 
His  rosy  cheeks,  spite  of  my  sad  presages. 
Earnest  intreaties,  agonies  and  tears, 
To  seek  his  bread  'mongst  strangers,and  to  perish  125 
In  some  remote,  inhospitable  land  — 
The  loveliest  youth,  in  person  and  in  mind. 
That  ever  crown'd  a  groaning  mother's  pains  ! 
Where  was  thy  pity,  where  thy  patience  then  ? 
Thou  cruel  husband  !  thou  unnat'ral  father!       130 
Thou  most  remorseless,  most  ungrateful  man  : 
To  waste  my  fortune,  rob  me  of  my  son. 
To  drive  me  to  despair,  and  then  reproach  me 
For  being  what  thou'st  made  me ! 

O.  Wilm.  Dry  thy  tears  ; 

I  ought  not  to  reproach  thee.    I  confess  135 

That  thou  hast  sufFer'd  much.    So  have  we  both. 
But  chide  no  more ;    I'm  wrought    up  to   thy 

purpose. 
The  poor,  ill-fated,  unsuspecting  victim, 
Ere  he  reclined  him  on  the  fatal  couch. 
From  which  he's  ne'er  to  rise,  took  off  the  sash  140 
And  costly  dagger  that  thou  saw'st  him  wear. 
And  thus,  unthinking,  furnish'd  us  with  arms 
Against  himself.    Which  shall  I  use  ? 

Agn.  The  sash. 

If  you  make  use  of  that,  I  can  assist. 

143-146   Which  shall  I  use  .   .    .   the  guilt.    1783  omits. 


sciNE  I.]  iFatal  Curiosity  203 

IBP    0.  Wilm.  No ! 

'Tis  a  dreadful  office,  and  I'll  spare  145 

Thy  trembling  hands  the  guilt.    Steal  to  the  door. 
And  bring  me  word  if  he  be  still  asleep. 

Ex[^it]  Jg\nes]. 
Or  I'm  deceiv'd,  or  he  pronounc'd  himself 
The  happiest  of  mankind.    Deluded  wretch  ! 
Thy  thoughts  are  perishing;  thy  youthful  joys,  150 
Touch'd  by  the  icy  hand  of  grisly  death, 
Are  with'ring   in  their  bloom.  —  But,  thought 

extinguisht. 
He'll  never  know  the  loss,  nor  feel  the  bitter 
Pangs  of  disappointment.  —  Then  I  was  wrong 
In  counting  him  a  wretch.    To  die  well  pleas'd,i55 
Is  all  the  happiest  of  mankind  can  hope  for ; 
To  be  a  wretch,  is  to  survive  the  loss 
Of  every  joy,  and  even  hope  itself. 
As  I  have  done.    Why  do  I  mourn  him,  then  ? 
For,  by  the  anguish  of  my  tortur'd  soul,  160 

He's  to  be  envy'd,  if  compar'd  with  me. 
Enter  Agnes  with  Young  Wilmoi' s  dagger. 
Agn.    The  stranger  sleeps  at  present;  but  so 
restless 

l6i    Tht  stranger  .  .  .  restless.    1737  and  1810  print,  regardless 

of  the  metre  : 

The  stranger 

Sleeps  at  present ;  but  so  restless,  etc. 

Below,  they  print  Nay  for  shame  .  .  .  he  more  your  self  as  one 

line,  and    You're  (juite   dismayed  .  .  .  deed  my  self   as  two  lines, 

broken  at  do;  and,  with  1775,  break  Give  me  .  .  .    single  murtker 

at  steel. 


204  ifatal  Curiotfit^  (act  in. 

His  slumbers  seem,  they  can't  continue  long. 
Come,  come,  dispatch  !  —  Here,  I've  secur'd 
his  dagger. 
O.  Wilm.  O  Agnes !    Agnes !    if  there  be  a 
hell,  'tis  just  165 

We  shou'd  expect  it. 

Goes  to  take  the  dagger  but  lets  it  fall. 
Agn.  Nay,  for  shame  ! 

Shake  off  this  panick,  and  be  more  your  self! 
O.  Wilm.  What's  to  be  done  ?    On  what  had 

we  determin'd  ? 
Agn.  You're  quite  dismay'd  ;  I'll  do  the  deed 
my  self.  Takes  up  the  dagger. 

O.  Wilm.  Give  me  the  fatal  steel. — 'Tis  but 
a  single  murther  170 

Necessity,  impatience  and  despair. 
The  three  wide  mouths  of  that  true  Cerberus, 
Grim  poverty,  demands. — They  shall  be  stopp'd. 
Ambition,  persecution,  and  revenge 
Devour  their  millions  daily ;  and  shall  I  —        175 
But  follow  me,  and  see  how  little  cause 
You  had  to  think  there  was  the  least  remains 
Of  manhood,  pity,  mercy,  or  remorse 
Left  in  this  savage  breast !    Going  the  wrong  toay.  ■ 

Agn.  Where  do  you  go  ? 

The  street  is  that  way. 

164   Come^  came^  dispatch.    1 78  3  omits. 
166   Nay,  for  ihame.    1783  omits. 
169    I^  11  do  the  deed  my  self ,     1783  omits. 
173  demands.    1783,  demand. 


i 


scrNi  I.]  ifatal  Curiosity  205 

O.  Wilm.  True !    I  had  forgot.       180 

Agn.  Quite,  quite  confounded  ! 
I     O.  Wilm.  Well,  I  recover.  —  I  shall  find  the 
r  way.  Exit. 

Agn.  O  softly  !   softly  !    The  least  noise  un- 
does us. 
Still  I  fear  him.  —  No!    now  he  seems  deter- 

min'd  ! 
O !    that    pause !    that    cowardly    pause !     His 

resolution  fails —  185 

'Tis  wisely  done  to  lift  your  eyes  to  Heaven. 
When  did  you  pray  before  ?  —  I  have  no  pa- 
tience — 
How  he  surveys  him  !   What  a  look  was  there — 
How  full  of  anguish,  pity  and  remorse! 
— He'll  never  do  it. — Strike,  or  give  it  o'er  !  — 190 
— No,  he  recovers. — But  that  trembling  arm 

182   Wtll,   I  recover,  etc.    The   following  lines  are  arranged 
without  much  attention  to  metre  in  all  the  editions    which  seem 
generally  to  follow  the  arrangement  of  1737  : 
0.  if^ilm.    WeU,  I  recover. 

—  1  shall  find  the  way, 
Agn.    O  joftly  !  Softly  ! 

The  least  noise  undoes  us. 

—  Still  I  fear  him  : 

—  No,  now  be  seems  detcrmin'd  —  O  !  that  pause. 

184  Still  I  fear  him  .   .   .    0  IVilmot !  H^ilmot.    1783  omits. 

185  0!  that  pause!    All  editions  read  :    0  !  that  paua. 
Hit  resolution  fails.    After  this,  1783  reads  ! 

What  arc  we  doing  f    Misery  and  want 

Are  lighter  ills  than  this —  I  cannot  bear  it ! 

Stop  !  hold  thy  hand  !  inconstant,  wretched  woman  ! 

What!  doth  my  heart  recoil?    O  Wilmot!  Wilmotl 

What  pow'r  shall  1  invoke  to  aid  thee,  Wilmot  ( 


2o6  iFatal  Curiosity  [act  m. 

May  miss  its  aim ;  and  if  he  fails,  we're  lost. 
'Tis  done  —  O,  no  !  he  lives,  he  struggles  yet ! 
y.  IVilm.  (^in  another  room).    O,  father!  father! 
jign.  Quick,  repeat  the  blow  ! 

What  pow'r  shall  I  invoke  to  aid  thee,  Wilmot  ?  195 
— Yet,  hold  thy  hand  !  —  Inconstant,  wretched 

woman  ! 
What!  doth  my  heart  recoil,  and  bleed  with  him 
Whose  murder  you  contrived  ?  —  O  Wilmot ! 
Wilmot  !  [£a-//.] 

Enter  Chariot,  Maria,  Eustace,  Randal  and  others. 
Chariot.  What  strange  neglect  !    The  doors 
are  all  unbarr'd, 
And  not  a  living  creature  to  be  seen.  200 

Enter  Old  Wilmot  and  Agnes. 
Char.  Sir,  we  are  come  to  give  and  to  receive 
A    thousand    greetings.  —  Ha  I    what    can  this 

mean  ? 
Why  do  you  look  with  such  amazement  on  us  ? 
Are  these  your  transports  for  your  son's  return? 
Where  is  my  Wilmot?    Has  he  not  been  here?  105 
Wou'd  he  defer  your  happiness  so  long, 
Or  cou'd  a  habit  so  disguise  your  son, 
That  you  refus'd  to  own  him  ? 

Jgn.  Heard  you  that  ? 

What  prodigy  of  horror  is  disclosing. 
To  render  murther  venial  ? 

Maria.    17830111113.  and  others.    1783  omits. 


scineI]  ifatal  Curiofiit^  207 

O.  Wilm.  Prithee,  peace !         no 

The  miserable  damn'd  suspend  their  howling, 
And  the  swift  orbs  are  fixt  in  deep  attention. 

r.  IVilm.  {groans).  Oh  !  oh  !   oh  ! 

Eustace.  Sure  that  deep  groan  came  from  the 
inner  room. 

Randal.  It  did  ;  and  seem'd  the  voice  of  one 
expiring.  "S 

Merciful  Heaven,  where  will  these  terrors  end  ? 
That  is  the  dagger  my  young  master  wore ; 
And    see,  his   father's  hands   are  stained   with 

I  blood  !  Toung  Wilmot  groans  again. 

Bust.  Another  groan  !    Why  do  we  stand  to 
gaze 
On  these  dumb  phantoms  of  despair  and  horror  ?  no 
Let  us  search  farther :   Randal,  shew  the  way. 
I^t    Char.  This  is  the  third  time  those  fantastick 


I 


forms 
Have  forc'd  themselves  upon  my  mental  eyes, 

213-215    T.  ff^Hm.  (groans)    .    .    .   expiring,     fjij  omitM. 
216  Merciful  Heaven  .    .   .  end.     1783  reads  : 
Whal  mean  these  dreadful  words  i 

218  And  see  .   .    .  groans  again.     1783  omitt. 

219  Another  groan  .  .   .  gaze.    1783  reads  instead  of  thU  line  : 

My  mind  misgives  me. 
Do  not  stand  to  gaze. 

221  shew  the  way.    1783  inserts  [£«Bn/. 

222  Char.  This  is  the  third  lime.  1 783  omits  Chariot's  speech 
and  all  that  follows  to  endless  perturbation  ;  and  then  adds:  Manent 
Old  IVilmot  and  Agnes. 


2o8  iFatal  Curiogtt^  [act  m. 

And  sleeping  gave  me  more  than  waking  pains. 

0  you  eternal  pow'rs  !  if  all  your  mercy  225 
To  wretched  mortals  be  not  quite  extinguish'd. 
And  terrors  only  guard  your  awful  thrones. 
Remove  this  dreadful  vision ;  let  me  wake, 
Or  sleep  the  sleep  of  death  ! 

Exeunt  Chariot,  Maria,  Eustace,  Randal,  i^c. 
O.  tVilm.  Sleep  those  who  may ! 

1  know  my  lot  is  endless  perturbation.  230 

Jgn.  Let  life  forsake  the  earth,  and  light  the 

sun, 
And  death  and  darkness  bury  in  oblivion 
Mankind  and  all  their  deeds,  that  no  posterity 
May  ever  rise  to  hear  our  horrid  tale. 
Or  view  the  grave  of  such  detested  parricides !  235 

O.  Wilvi.  Curses  and  deprecations  are  in  vain : 
The  sun  will  shine,  and  all  things  have  their 

course. 
When  we,  the  curse  and  burthen  of  the  earth, 
Shall  be  absorb'd  and  mingled  with  its  dust. 
Our  guilt  and  desolation  must  be  told  24.0 

From  age  to  age,  to  teach  desponding  mortals, 
How  far  beyond  the  reach  of  human  thought 
Heaven,  when  incens'd,  can  punish. — Die  thou 

first  ! 
I  dare  not  trust  thy  weakness.  Stabs  Agnes. 

Agn.  Ever  kind, 

But  most  in  this. 


Scene  ij  jfatal  Curtosfit^  209 

O.  Wilm.  I  will  not  long  survive  thee.  245 

Agn.  Do  not  accuse  thy  erring  mother,  Wil- 
mot, 
With  too  much  rigour  when  we  meet  above ! 
Rivers  of  tears,  and  ages  spent  in  howling 
Cou'd  ne'er  express  the  anguish  of  my  heart. 
To  give  thee  life  for  life,  and  blood  for  blood,    150 
Is  not  enough.     Had  I  ten  thousand  lives, 
I'd  give  them  all  to  speak  my  penitence, 
Deep,  and  sincere,  and  equal  to  my  crime.    Dies. 
Enter  Chariot  led  by  Maria,  and  Randal;  Eustace, 
and  the  rest. 
Chariot.   Welcome,  despair  !    I'll  never  hope 
again. 
Why  have  you  forced  me  from  my  Wilmot's  side?i55 
Let  me  return  —  unhand  me  —  let  me  die  ! 
Patience,  that  till  this  moment  ne'er  forsook  me, 
Has  took  her  flight ;  and  my  abandon'd  mind. 
Rebellious  to  a  lot  so  void  of  mercy 
And  so  unexpected,  rages  to  madness.  i6o 

— O  thou,  who  know'st  our  frame,  who  know'st 

these  woes 
Are  more  than  human  fortitude  can  bear, 
O  take  me,  take  me  hence,  e're  I  relapse  ; 
And  in  distraction,  with  unhallow'd  tongue. 
Again  arraign  your  mercy  !  —  Faints.  265 


IHH      248-249  Rivers  .   .   .   heart.     1783  omits, 


Enter  Cliarlii  .    .   .   rat.    1783  reads:  Enter  Randal,  Eustace  j 
and  omits  all  that  follows,  down  to  vent  my  grief,  1.  z68. 


210  if atal  Curiosity  [Acrm. 

Eust.    Unhappy  maid  !  This  strange  event  my 

strength 
Can  scarce  support;  no   wonder   thine  should 

fail. 
—  How   shall  I  vent  my  grief?     O  Wilmot ! 

Wilmot  ! 
Thou  truest  lover,  and  thou  best  of  friends. 
Are  these  the  fruits  of  all  thy  anxious  cares        270 
For  thy  ungrateful  parents  ?  —  Cruel  fiends, 
To  use  thee  thus,  to  recompense  with  death 
Thy  most  unequall'd  duty  and  affection ! 

O.  JVilm.    What  whining  fool  art  thou,  who 

would'st  usurp 
My  sovereign  right  of  grief?   Was  he  thy  son  ?275 
Say,  canst  thou  shew  thy  hands  reeking  with 

blood. 
That  flow'd,    thro'   purer   channels,    from  thy 

loins  ? 
Eust.    Forbid  it.  Heaven,  that  I  should  know 

such  guilt ; 
Yet  his  sad  fate  demands  commiseration, 

O.  Wilm,   Compute  the  sands  that  bound  the 

spacious  ocean,  280 

And  swell  their  number  with  a  single  grain  ; 
Increase  the  noise  of  thunder  with  thy  voice  ; 

469    Thou  truest  .   .   .  friends.     1783  omits. 

272-273    To  use  thee  thus  .    .    .   ajfection.    1783  omits. 

278   Forbid  it,  Hea-vtn.  1783  omits  this  and  the  following  line. 


scenli.]  ifatal  Curiosity  211 

Or,  when  the  raging  wind  lays  nature  waste. 
Assist  the  tempest  with  thy  feeble  breath ; 
Add  water  to  the  sea,  and  fire  to  Etna  ;    .  285 

But  name  not  thy  faint  sorrow  with  the  anguish 
Of  a  curst  wretch  who  only  hopes  for  this  — 

Stabbing  himself. 
To  change  the  scene,  but  not  relieve  his  pain ! 

Rand.     A   dreadful   instance  of  the  last  re- 
morse ! 
May  all  your  woes  end  here ! 

O.  IVilm.  O  would  they  end  290 

A  thousand  ages  hence,  I  then  should  suffer 
Much  less  than  I  deserve.    Yet  let  me  say, 
You'll  do  but  justice,  to  inform  the  world: 
This  horrid  deed,  that  punishes  itself. 
Was  not  intended  as  he  was  our  son ;  195 

For  that  we  knew  not,  'till  it  was  too  late. 
Proud  and  impatient  under  our  afflictions. 
While  Heaven  was  labouring  to  make  us  happy, 
We  brought  this  dreadful  ruin  on  ourselves. 
Mankind  may  learn  —  but  —  oh  !  —  Dies. 

Rand.  The  most  will  not :  300 

295  as  he  mat  our  ton.    1783,  thinking  him  our  son. 
300-306    The  most  .   .   .   too  soon.    1783  omits,  with  the  final 
Exeunt.     In  the  place  of  these  lines  1783  reads  : 

Rand.  Heaven  grant  they  may. 

And  may  thy  penitence  atone  thy  crime  ! 
Tend  well  thy  hapless  Chariot,  and  bear  hence 
These  bleeding  victims  of  despair  and  pride  ! 
Toll  the  death  bell,  and  follow  to  the  grave 
The  wretched  Parents  and  ill-fated  Son. 


212  iFatal  Cttrio0tts  [Acini. 

Let  us  at  least  be  wiser,  nor  complain 

Of   Heaven's   mysterious   ways,  and    awful 

reign. 
By  our  bold  censures  we  invade  his  throne 
Who  made  mankind,  and  governs  but  his  own. 
Tho'  youthful  Wilmot's  sun  be  set  e're  noon, 30 
The  ripe  in  virtue  never  die  too  soon. 

Exeunt. 


FINIS. 


0ott^  to  fatal  Curtojsittr 

141.  Prologue,  written  by  Henry  Feilding,  Esq., 
Spoken  by  Mi.  Roberts.  Roberts,  who  played  Old  WUmot 
in  the  first  production  of  the  piece,  does  not  appear  to  have  been  an 
actor  of  much  contemporary  note. 

141,  I.  The  Tragic  Muse,  etc.  Cf.  the  opening  of  the 
Younger  Gibber's  Prologue  to  The  London  Merchant. 

141,  2.  With  Shakespeare's  nature,  or  with 
Fletcher's  ease.  Dryden  sufficiently  exposed  this  kind  of 
would-be  discriminating  judgment.  See  his  Prologue  to  the  Tempest 
(1667)! 

'  Shakespeare,  who,  taught  by  none,  did  first  impart 
To  Fletcher  wit,  to  labouring  Jonson  art ; 
He,  monarch-like,  gave  those  his  subjects  law, 
And  is  that  Nature  which  they  paint  and  draw.' 

See  also  the  Preface  to  Troi/us  and  Cressida  (1679),  '"  °^^ 
passage  of  which  he  says  that,  in  the  matter  of  making  generally 
apparent  the  manners  of  his  persons,  Fletcher  comes  far  short  of 
Shakespeare,  as  indeed  he  does  almost  in  everything  ;  while  In 
another  passage  Dryden  concludes  that  Fletcher,  after  all,  *  was  a 
limb  of  Shakespeare.' 

141,  6.  Each  single  character  might  speak  them 
all.  cf.  John  ShefHeld,  Duke  of  Buckinghamshire's  Eaay  on 
Satirt : 

'  And  even  fools  speak  sense,  as  if  possest, 
And  each  by  inspiration  breaks  his  jest.' 

141,  14.    without:  outside,  beyond. 

141,  j6.  And  tho' our  little  stage  as  yet  be  young. 

The  New,  or  Little,  Theatre  in  the  Haymarket  had  been  opened  in 
1723,  having  apparently  been  built  on  speculation,  and  was  carried 
on  in  a  more  or  less  hand-to-mouth  fashion  till  Fielding  took  it  in 
1736,  when  he  opened  it  with  his  Pasqu'm. 

143.  Prologue,  Written  by  George  Colman,  1782. 
Spoken  by   Mr.  Palmer.    This  was  John  Palmer,  who  per- 


214        iliotffi  to  i?atal  Curtogit^ 

formed  the  part  of  Young  Wilmot  on  the  occasion.  He  was  an 
actorof  extraordinary  versatility  (up  to  a  certain  point,  apparently), 
as  is  shown  by  the  '  selected  '  list  of  his  characters  in  Genest,  vii, 

344-3  SO- 

146.  Dramatis  Personae.  The  edition  of  1782  adds  the 
following  list  of  actors  of  the  above  characters  in  1782  : 

Old  Wilmot Bcasley 

Young  Wilmot Palmer 

Eustace R.  Palmer 

Randal J.  Bannister 

Agnes Miss  Sherry 

Chariot Mrs.  Bulkley 

Maria Miss  Hooke 

147,  3.  Nor  no  time  decaying.  For  examples  of  the  double 
negative,  an  idiom  which  *  is  a  very  natural  one,  and  quite  common 
in  Elizabethan  English,*  see  Abbott's  Shakesperean  Grammar. 

147,   10.     Posts:    hastens. 

147,  12.   The  sad  prerogative  above  him:   the  sad 

prerogative  which  is  beyond  him  j  to  which  he  is  unequal. 

149,    30.     The  brave  Sir  Walter   Raleigh,   etc. 

Raleigh  arrived  at  Plymouth  about  the  middle  of  June,  1618. 
Soon  afterwards  he  started  for  London,  but  was  arrested  at  Ashburton 
by  his  cousin.  Sir  Lewis  Stukeley,  who  took  him  back  to  Plymouth. 
Orders  were  then  sent  for  him  to  be  taken  to  London  j  and  here, 
when  attempting  to  escape  to  France  'via  Gravesend,  he  was 
finally  arrested  and  consigned  to  the  Tower.  King  James's  promise 
to  give  him  up  or  have  him  hanged  in  England,  was  given  on  June 
25th. 

149,  38.  There's   now  no   insolence  that   Spain 

can  offer,  etc.  Fatal  Curiaity  was  produced  in  1736,  when 
there  was  already  great  tension  in  the  relations  between  England 
and  Spain.  The  story — or  fable  —  of  *  Jenkins's  ear  *  was  revived, 
and  set  the  country  aflame,  early  in  1738.  *  This  Jenkins  had  been 
master  of  a  trading  sloop  from  Jamaica,  which  was  boarded  and 
searched  by  a  Spanish  Guarda  Costa,  and  though  noprooft  of  smug- 
gling were  discovered,  yet,  according  to  his  own  statement,  he  under- 
went the  most  barbarous  usage.    The  Spanish  Captain,  he  said,  had 


il5oCf0  to  iFatal  CurioflfitB         215 

torn  off  one  of  his  ears,  bidding  him  carry  it  to  his  King,  and  tell 
His  Majesty  that  were  he  present  he  should  be  treated  in  the 
samt  manner.  This  story,  which  had  lain  dormant  for  seven  years, 
was  now  [1738]  seasonably  revived  at  thebar  of  the  House  of  Com- 
mons. It  is  certain  that  Jenkins  had  lost  an  ear,  or  part  of  an  ear, 
which  he  always  carried  about  with  him  wrapped  in  cotton  to  dis- 
play to  his  audience  j  but  I  find  it  alleged  by  no  mean  authority,  that 
he  had  lost  it  on  another  occasion,  and  perhaps,  as  seems  to  be  in- 
sinuated, in  the  pillory.  His  tale,  however,  as  always  happens  in 
moments  of  great  excitement,  was  readily  admitted  without  proof  j 
and  a  spirited  answer  which  he  gave  enhanced  the  popular  effect. 
Being  asked  by  a  Member  what  were  his  feelings  when  he  found 
himselfin  the  hands  of  such  barbarians,  **  I  recommended,"  said  he, 
'*  my  soul  to  God,  and  my  cause  to  my  country."  These  words  flew 
rapidly  from  mouth  to  mouth,  adding  fuel  to  the  general  flame,  and 
it  is  almost  incredible  how  strong  an  impulse  was  imparted  both  to 
Parliament  and  to  the  public,  **  We  have  no  need  of  allies  to  en- 
able us  to  command  justice,"  cried  Pulteney;  **  the  story  of  Jenkins 
will  raise  volunteers."  *  History  of  England  from  the  Peace  of 
Utrecht,  Lord  Mahon  (Earl  Stanhope),  1839,  n,  403-04. 

Lillo's  Dutch  origin  no  doubt  contributed  to  his  Hispanophobla. 
See  Introduction^  as  to  his  Britannia  and  Batavia. 

149,  51.    I  saw  her  pass  the  High  street  towards 

the  Minster.    See  Introduction, 
^53*  '33-34- 

Suit  books  and  the  unprofitable  search 
f  wisdom  there,  and  study  human-kind. 

Cf.  the  maxim  imparted  by  Mephistophiles  to  the  Student  in  Faust  t 

*  Ail  theory,  my  worthy  friend,  is  grey, 
And  green  the  golden  tree  of  life. 

156,  II.    There  is  in  melody  a  secret  charm,  etc. 

The  idea  is  much  the  same  as  that  of  the  opening  lines  of  Tnvelfth 
Night. 

162,  137.    But  by:  By  but. 

162,  139.  The  merit  we've  been  raising:  the  merit 
(^in  the  theological  sense)  we  have  been  accumulating. 


k 


2i6        j^otpflE  to  iFatal  Curioflfit^ 

167,  3.  savage  men,  etc.  The  wreckers.  Sec  Jntroduc- 
tioTij  p.  xlviii. 

169,  39.  most  men,  etc.  It  would  not  be  difficult  to  find 
illustrations  of  this  fancy,  akin  to  the  delight  which,  according  to 
Izaak  Walton,  Sir  Henry  Wotton  took  in  the  *  con  naturalness  of 
that  which  he  called  his  **  genial  air."  *  The  lines  which  follow  arc 
taken  from  Muller's  Der  neunund%ivan%igste  Fehruar^  a  drama  of 
which,  as  has  been  seen,  the  origin  is  traceable  to  Fatal  Curiosity : 

*  Where  it  began  its  growth  the  tree 

Withers  indifferent  and  perforce  j 
The  stream  flows  gaily  to  the  sea. 

Unmindful  of  its  rocky  source  ; 

The  planets  run  their  spheric  course  j 
Akin  to  heaven^s  wanderers,  man 
Dies  happy  where  bis  life  began.' 

179,  80.  inhabit'st,  a  neuter  verb.  Cf.  Paradise  Lostj  n, 
355: 

' — to  learo 
What  creatures  there  inhabit.* 

180,  loa.    Enlarg'd:  set  free. 

i83t  153-54-  the  theme  Of  many  a  happy  winter 
night  to  come.  Cf.  the  title  of  Shakespeare's  play,  and,  stUl 
more  appositely,  Marlowe  and  Nash's  Tragedy  of  Didoy  S^ueen  of 
Carthage^  Act  m,  Sc.  3  : 

*■  who  would  not  undergo  all  kind  of  toil 
To  be  well-stor'd  with  such  a  winter's  tale  V 

184,  4.    distinguished  seems  merely  to  mean  the  stroe  ai 

marked. 

189,  I.    take  this  Seneca.    Whether  or  not  Seneca,  who 

commends  the  virtue  of  patience,  or  at  all  events  that  of  humility, 
in  his  Epist/eSf  and  doubtless  also  in  his  philosophical  writings,  ever 
*  awed  '  his  pupil  Nero  by  the  excellent  principles  which  he  laid 
down  for  his  education,  may  be  open  to  doubt.  The  *  millions,* 
of  which  the  philosopher  was  possessed,  are  stated  to  have  amounted 
to  300  (of  sesterces)  j  and,  according  to  Tacitus,  Seneca  told  the 
Emperor  that  so  many  honours  and  so  much  wealth  had  been  ac- 
cumulated by  htm  upon  his  tutor  that  nothing  was  wanting  to  the 
happiness  of  the  recipient  of  his  favours  but  the  moderating  of  it. 
{Ann,  XIV,  53-4.) 


0otti  to  ifatal  Curiosity        2 1 7 

189,  12.   Where  must  I  charge:   On  what  miut  I  fix 

the  responsibility  ? 

191,  49.    My  bowels  move.    Lamentations,  1, 20,  et  al. 
192,63.    as  feeble  age  :   as  if  feeble  age. 

201,  105.  Whoever  stands  to  parley,  etc.  'The 
woman  who  deliberates  is  lost.* 

202,  1 22.    spread  :    overspread. 

204, 171-73.  Necessity,  impatience  and  despair  .  .  . 
demands.  This  is  a  striking  survival  of  a  form  very  common  in 
the  First  Folio  of  Shakespeare  —  the  third  person  plural  in  -  i. 
(See  Abbott,  Shakaperean  Grammar,  333.) 

206,  209.    disclosing  :    disclosing  itself. 

206,  210.  To  render  murther  venial:  so  as  to  make 
mere  ordinary  murder  (as  distinct  from  the  murder  of  a  son)  seem 
venial. 

207,  112.  And  the  swift  orbs,  etc.  This  must  mean, 
cither  that  the  roving  eyes  of  the  damned  are  riveted  upon  this 
awful  spectacle,  or  that  the  planets  become  fixed  stars  in  order  to 
contemplate  it.  The  latter  explanation  seems  on  the  whole  the 
worse. 

210,  274.  What  whining  fool  art  thou,  etc.  A  palp- 
able imitation  of  Hamlet,  Act  v,  Sc.  i : 

*  What  is  be  whose  grief 

Bears  ouch  an  emphasis 

forty-thousand  brothers 

Could  not,  with  all  their  quantity  of  love. 
Make  up  my  sum.' 

211,  295.    as  he  was  :    as  if  he  had  been. 


I 

THE   SOURCE    OF    FATAL   CURIOSITY 

The  following  story  to  which  reference  has  already 
been  made,  may  with  great  probability,  if  not  with  abso- 
lute certainty,  be  set  down  as  the  original  source  of  the 
plot  of  Fatal  Curiosity.  It  can  hardly  be  a  mere  coinci- 
dence that  a  similar  incident  said  to  have  happened  at 
Leipzig,  and  related  in  Johann  Jakob  Vogel's  Leipzig- 
isches  Geschichtsbuch,  quoted  by  Hoffmann,  SchUsische 
Volkslieder,  is  there  stated  to  have  happened  at  Leipzig  in 
1 6 1 8  —  the  year  assigned  to  the  '  Perin  '  murder,  and 
that  in  which  Abraham  a  Sancta  Clara  (1704)  places 
another  occurrence  of  the  same  kind.  The  Leipzig  story 
is  not  corroborated  by  the  official  registers.  Vogel  cites 
Gottfried  (Schultz')  Chronica  (1656)  as  containing  the 
same  story,  but  dating  it  1 649  and  placing  its  occurrence 
at  Thermels  in  Bohemia.  Similar  stories  have  been 
traced  to  Dithmarschen,  Mecklenburg,  Danzig,  and  the 
Grisons.  Dunlop  {History  of  Fiction,  ed.  1845,  P-  *77) 
mentions  the  same  story  as  told  by  Vincenzo  Rota  in  one 
of  the  late  noiielU,  written  early  in  the  last  century,  but 
first  printed  by  Count  Borromeo  as  late  as  1794,  which 
^cates  it  at  Brescia.    This  story  was  translated  by  E.  von 


i^^ocates  It  at  I 


220  2ippmiix 

Billow  in  his  No'vellenbuch  (1834).  Dunlop  says  that  a 
similar  story,  told  in  The  Visitor  (an  English  journal),  of 
an  innkeeper  in  Normandy,  forms  the  basis  of  the  plot 
of  Lillo's  play.  There  are  two  popular  German  ballads 
on  the  subject  :  Es  hatt  tin  Gastnuirt  einen  Sokn  and 
E3  nvaren  einmal  zivei  Bauernsohn ;  and  a  Czech  ballad 
resembling  the  former  of  these.  F.  Gregorovius  heard  a 
ballad  on  the  same  theme  in  Corsica.  A  French  popular 
ballad  characteristically  confines  the  deed  to  the  mother, 
not  mentioning  the  father.  Haec  quidem  hactenus,  though 
a  Bulgarian,  apparently  a  Polish,  and  a  Chinese  analogue 
are  likewise  noted.  (See  R.  Kohler,  and  W.  E.  A. 
Axon's  note,  u.s.')  The  following  is  taken  literatim 
from  the  copy  of  the  1618  pamphlet  in  the  Bodleian  Lib- 
rary. 


NEWES 
From  Perin  in  Cornwall 

OF 

»A  most  Bloody  and  vn-exampled  Murther 
very  lately  committed  by  a  Father  on  his  owne 
Sonne  (who  was  lately  returned  from  the  Indyes)  at 
^^H  the  Instigation  of  a  mercilesse 

^^^^^K  Step-mother. 

7^?7Rrr  with  their  Severallmost  wretched  endes,  being 
all  performed  in  the  Month  of  Septem- 
ber last.    Anno  1618. 


[Woodcut  of  the  murder.] 


LONDON 

Printed  by  E.  A.  and  are  to  be  sold  at  Christ-Church 
gate,  161 8. 


222  appmDij; 

[Woodcut  of  a  coffin.] 

An  vnfortunate  Murther 

lately  committed  neere  Perin 

in  Cornwall. 

AT  Perin  a  Towne  in  Cornwall,  liv'd  a  man  of 
honest  life  and  ample  possessions  :  Being  in  his 
youth  blest  with  a  vertuous  Wife,  who  brought  him  many 
sweete  and  toward  Children  :  that  stood  like  so  many 
Olive  branches  about  his  Table  :  And  thus  was  he  a  long 
time  blest,  onely  because  he  feared  the  Lord. 

But  as  there  is  no  day  so  bright  and  glorious,  in  which 
one  cloud  or  other  interposeth  not  itselfe,  and  no  estate  so 
firme  but  it  is  subiect  to  alteration  :  So  it  fell  out  with 
him,  for  amongst  the  rest,  one  of  his  Children,  and  (which 
augmented  his  griefe  the  more)  the  youngest  prov'd  so 
wilde  and  misgovern' d,  as  neither  gentle  admonitions  of 
his  Parents,  nor  sevearer  correction  of  Maister  or  Tutor, 
could  any  way  worke  to  good  purpose  vpon  him,  so  wilde 
and  rancke  grew  the  weedes  of  disobedient  stubbemnesse 
in  him  i  that  consorted  with  a  crew  of  his  owne  condition, 
hauing  made  what  spoyle  they  could  a  shore,  they  de- 
termin'd  a  voyage  to  Sea,  and  made  what  hauocke  they 
could  there  also. 

Which  tooke  effect  :  Being  once  at  Sea  {Dux  omnium 
malorum  as  we  terme  it)  they  spare  neither  Spanish,  French, 
Dutch,  Scotch  or  English,  but  make  good  the  Proverbe, 
and  count  all  Fish  that  come  to  the  net  :  And  hauing 
(after  many  petty  ones)  taken  one  rich  prize,  thinking 


I». 


SippcnDir  223 


ith  the  Fools  in  their  hearts  that  there  was  no  God  but 
their  golde,  they  determin'd  to  put  a  shore  in  Turkey, 
and  there  lewdly  spend  what  was  vnlawfully  got  : 

But  marke  the  Judgement  of  God  vpon  such,  being 
within  kenne  of  shore,  they  were  suddenly  becalm' d,  and 
set  vpon  by  the  Turkish  Gallyes,  who  after  long  and 
sharpe  fight  of  both  sides,  got  the  better  :  yet  such  was 
their  resolution,  they  fought  it  out  to  the  last  man,  so  as 
our  English  Gallant  seeing  no  way  to  safety,  tooke  some 
of  the  best  and  wealthiest  Jewels  he  had  about  him,  and 
with  his  sword  in  his  hand  leapt  into  the  Sea. 

The  Turkes  men  minding  the  booty,  then  our  naked 
men  boarded  and  fell  to  rifling,  where  they  found  much 
wealth,  and  accordingly  enioyed  it. 

In  the  meane  time  our  English  caveliere,  with  much 
difficultie  recouers  the  shore,  where  with  colde  comfort 
(we  may  imagin)  seeing  he  could  not  saue  those  thinges, 
for  which  his  soule  and  body  were  (without  God's  great 
mercy)  quite  lost,  he  began  to  looke  back  into  the  past 
course  of  his  life,  where  finding  much  matter  of  griefe, 
but  little  or  none  of  any  comfort,  he  began  to  fall  into 
serious  meditation  with  himselfe,  that  if  he  with  the  rest 
of  his  comforts  had  been  cast  away  at  Sea,  with  all  his 
bloody  and  vn-repented  sinnes  about  him  :  viz  Theft, 
Piracy,  Murther,  Drunkennes,  Swearing,  Lust,  blas- 
phemy and  the  like  :  In  what  a  miserable  and  desperate 
estate  his  poore  forlorne  soule  should  have  stood  at  the 
last  great  and  terrible  Day  :  when  the  sentence  of  dread- 
fiill  he,  and  comfortable  Venite,  shall  be  (by  the  great 


224  SLwmiix 

and  most  high  Judge,  and  chiefe  Justice  of  all  Flesh)  be 
pronounced. 

But  withall,  hoping  and  confessing  it  vras  Gods  mercy 
to  giue  him  longer  time  for  repentance,  that  the  Sea  had 
not  swallowed  him  with  the  rest,  he  began  to  gather  com- 
fort, and  make  a  Christian  vse  of  his  preseruation :  in  this 
manner  determining  to  change  those  Jewels  and  Diamonds 
he  had,  into  Golde,  and  with  them  tume  petty  Marchant, 
or  some  like  honest  and  thriuing  course. 

But  going  to  sell  his  Jewels,  it  happened  that  one  of 
the  richest  was  knowne  to  haue  belonged  to  the  Gou- 
emour  of  the  Towne,  vnder  whose  Commaund  he  then 
was.  The  truth  of  the  businesse  examin'  d,  it  fell  out  that 
the  Ship  which  he  and  his  Company  had  taken  and  rifled 
at  Sea,  (and  in  which  that  Jewell  with  others  were  found) 
belong' d  to  the  Governour  oi  Argiers. 

In  regard  whereof,  he  was  presently  apprehended  as  a 
Pirate  and  so  sentenc'd  a  slave  to  the  Gallyes:  To  pleade 
Excuse,  or  beg  for  mercy  was  in  vaine,  into  a  Galley  was 
our  gallant  conducted,  where  chayn'd  amongst  other 
Christians  to  the  Bogaban'  t, '  he  was  inioyn"  d  to  tugge  at 
an  Oare :  his  Dinner  and  Supper  coarse  Bran  and  water,  his 
morning  Breakfast  and  afternoone  Beuer,"  the  Buls  pizle 
and  the  Bastinado.  A  good  caueat  for  our  fierce  heads, 
whose  running  wits  are  some  at  Rome,  some  in  Venice,  and 
some  in  Spaine,  before  their  heads  be  out  of  the  shell. 

Now  he  begins  to  call  to  minde  his  disobedience  to  his 
Parents  :  and  thinke  what  a  quiet  life  and  full  of  pleasure 

1   Rowing  bench.  2  Slight  repast,  usually  between  meals. 


StppfnDiic  225 

it  had  beene  for  him,  to  haue  sit  in  his  Furd  gowne  at  his 
study  in  the  Universitie,  or  warme  and  dry  at  some  honest 
Tradesmans  shop  in  the  Citty  :  to  haue  had  warme  dyet 
twice  a  day  and  welcome,  and  not  have  begg'd  coarse 
Bran  and  water,  and  haue  gone  without  it. 

These  and  the  like  considerations  were  his  familiar  dis- 
course: hauing  continued  some  while  in  the  Galley,  com- 
ming  one  day  a  shore,'  whilest  the  Captaine  and  other 
Officers  fell  to  quaffing  :  he  and  other  Christians  with  him 
(slaues)  to  the  number  of  some  Ten,  by  their  industry 
fylde  off  their  Irons,  and  hiding  their  legges  in  short 
strawe  that  was  allow'd  them  in  the  night,  their  Cap- 
taine and  Officers  dranke  so  a  shore  and  others  in  the 
Galley,  they  made  a  desperate  and  yet  happy  escape,  and 
got  a  shore,  where  such  luckie  successe  crowned  their  at- 
tempts, that  in  few  monthes  after  (assisted  by  the  charitable 
bounty  of  well  disposed  Marchants)  they  ariued  vpon 
the  coast  of  England. 

In  all  this  Time  his  Father  and  Mother  hearing  no 
newes  of  him,  Imagined  him  to  be  dead,  which  was  such 
a  griefe  to  his  mother,  that  it  brought  her  (as  was  imag- 
ined) before  her  time  to  her  end. 

On  the  other  side  he  calling  to  minde,  his  stubbome 
carriage,  and  wilful!  disobedience,  was  ashamed  to  be 
knowne  for  their  Sonne  :  But  altogether  loathing  his 
former  courses,  bound  himselfe  Prentice  to  a  Barber 
Surgeon  farre  off  in  the  West,  with  whome  hauing  serv'd 
most  of  his  Time,  and  well  profited  in  his  profession,  his 
Master  sent  him  Surgeon  in  a  Ship  to  the  Indyes. 

1  Original,  a  day  ihort. 


226  appenDiic 

Where  such  good  liking  was  conceited  of  him,  that 
after  a  voyage  or  two  for  his  Maister,  his  Time  expired, 
and  some  gratuitie  receiued  of  his  maister  for  his  true  and 
faithful!  seruice,  he  went  out  againe  for  himselfe:  Hauing 
thus  wrought  himselfe  an  Estate  of  some  two  hundred 
pound  and  better.  Comming  this  last  voyage  from  the 
Indyes,  and  longing  as  'tis  the  nature  of  all  men,  at  last 
to  see  and  visit  his  Father,  Countrey  and  acquaintance, 
from  whome  he  had  now  for  the  space  of  fifteene  yeares 
beene  a  stranger:  and  the  Ship  which  he  came  in,  staying 
in  the  Riuer  being  vnladen,  and  euery  man  honestly  paide 
his  wages  and  what  he  had  in  venter. 
[Woodcut  of  Ship.] 

A  Ship  being  ready  bound  for  Cornivall,  he  became  a 
passenger  in  her,  and  no  sooner  put  to  Sea,  but  a  gentle 
Calme  vsherd  the  Ship,  that  seemed  to  dally  and  play  the 
wanton  on  the  curld  bosome  of  the  vpaues,  a  shoale  of 
Porpisses  that  like  actiue  tumblers  vauted  '  in  their  watry 
progresse,  made  them  such  varietie  of  present  pastime, 
they  seem' d  secure  and  free  from  all  danger  that  misfort- 
une could  any  way  threaten. 

But  note  the  euent:  being  within  kenneof  the  English 
shore,  a  pitchie  Cloud  so  darke  and  palpable,  as  day  and 
night  were  indistinguishable,  Inueloped  the  Sunne,  vnto 
this  the  Windes  like  great  men  bowed  to  one  another, 
Raine  brauld  lowde  and  talkt  roughly  :  In  this  night  of 
horror  now  was  the  ship  banded  like  a  Ball  against  the 
roughest  heaven,  and  in  the  same  instant  throwne  dovme 

I  Vaulted  ;  original,  hauttd. 


StppcnDir  227 

as  low  as  the  Center  :  billow  cuffes  billow,  and  one  waue 
buffets  another,  so  full  of  disordered  rudeness  grew  the 
Elements,  as  the  world  seem'd  nothing  else  but  like  an 
Image  of  the  first  generall  Chaos.  In  conclusion,  so  grosse 
and  palpable  grew  this  confusion,  as  had  not  the  tongue 
of  eternity  cried  fiat  dies  a  second  time,  it  had  beene 
eternall  night.  During  this  mutenous  insurrection  of  the 
wanes.  The  Maister  being  a  Stranger,  and  vnacquainted 
with  the  coast,  split  his  Ship  against  a  Rocke  ;  at  which, 
imagine  in  what  a  confused  clamour  they  were  :  some 
praying,  some  cursing,  and  others  exclayming,  which 
would  haue  rent  a  mans  heart  harder  then  the  rocke  they 
tan  against.  But  in  vaine,  the  storme  like  a  cruell  tyrant 
hauing  predestined  all  their  ruincs,  spared  neither  young 
nor  old,  but  made  a  generall  niassacreof  them  all: 

This  young  Factour  onely  escapt  :  who  with  many 
other  the  terrible  tempests  in  action,' cast  divers  plots  for 
safety,  and  withall,  as  they  were  nundfull  of  their  Hues, 
so  did  they  not  altogether  forget  the  means,  and  divers 
Jewels  they  had  aboard  ;  especially  our  young  English 
Factour,  who  well  experienced  in  swimming,  loaded 
himselfe  with  so  much  golde,  as  he  thought  might  be  no 
wayes  preiudiciall  to  his  life. 

Thus  loaden  with  Jewels  and  Gold,  by  the  will  of 
heaven,  and  his  owne  carefull  and  painefuU  industry, 
sometime  swimming,  and  other  whiles  catching  hold  of 
rent  plancks  and  the  like:    For  the  Sliip  once  wrackt, 

I  who,  with  many  other,  the  terrible  tempests  being  in  action,  cast 
divers  plots  i 


228  aippmDtj; 

the  Sea  grew  calme,  and  the  windes  (like  tyrants)  hauing 
done  what  hauock  they  could,  flew  [playing  ?]  to  the 
shore,  and  there  sate  smiling  at  the  ruines  they  had  made. 

Our  young  Gallant  a  shore,  wet,  and  vnacquainted  by 
reason  of  his  discontinuance,  enquired  of  the  next  Passen- 
ger '  he  met  the  way  to  Perin,  who  accordingly  directed 
him. 

Being  entred  the  Towne,  he  (without  acquainting  any 
man  with  his  name  or  businesse)  repaires  to  the  house 
where  some  sixteene  yeares  since  being  an  Inne,  he  had 
lefte  his  owne  Father  dwelling  :  where  enquiring  as  a 
stranger  for  such  a  man,  he  heard  that  his  first  wife  being 
dead,  he  had  married  a  second,  and  given  that  house  (be- 
ing a  well  esteemed  Inne)  to  the  Maister  of  it,  in  way 
of  dowrie  with  one  of  his  daughters,  being  sister  to  this 
our  distressed  Travailler. 

This  woman  he  desired  to  see  and  conferre  withall, 
who  by  reason  of  his  long  absence,  had  altogether  forgot 
him  :  he  notwithstanding  asked  if  she  neuer  had  a  wilde 
Youth  (concealing  his  owne  name)  to  her  Brother  ;  She 
answered  yes,  and  one  that  aboue  all  the  rest  her  Father 
and  Mother  cockred  and  loved  :  But  he  was  long  since 
taken  by  the  Turkes  and  died  (as  they  were  informed)  a 
Gaily  slave:  he  laboured  to  perswade  the  contrary,  and 
gaue  many  and  certaine  likelihoodes,  that  he  was  the  same 
party  :  Telling  the  name  of  his  Godfathers,  and  where 
they  dwelt,  as  also  with  whom,  and  in  what  place  he 
went  to  Schoole.    But  all  to  no  purpose,  so  tlu-oughly 

I  Pas$er-by. 


appcnDip  229 

was  she  grounded  in  the  report  of  his  death,  as  nothing 
could  perswade  the  contrary. 

Till  at  last  she  called  to  minde  an  infallible  token, 
which  was  this,  that  if  he  were  her  brother,  hee  had  a 
great  red  Moale  growing  in  the  bent  of  his  left  arme,  by 
which,  shee  had  often  heard  her  Mother  say,  especially 
on  her  death  bed,  that  if  euer  it  were  his  fortune  to  come 
againe,  they  might  easily  know  him  amongst  a  thousand. 
And  except  he  could  shew  her  that,  all  other  proofes  in 
the  world  should  never  perswade  her  that  he  was  her 
brother,  but  some  cunning  Impostore:  whereupon,  not 
willing  to  hold  her  longer  in  suspence,  he  opened  his 
bosome,  and  gave  her  certaine  testimony  of  the  trueth. 

At  sight  whereof  shee  fell  about  his  necke  and  kissed 
him,  not  being  able  (for  the  violence  of  instant  ioy)  to 
refraine  from  shedding  of  teares.  The  young  man  de- 
manded how  his  Father,  Mother,  and  the  rest  of  their 
kindred  did  :  but  when  hee  heard  that  his  Mother  was 
dead,  and  the  chiefe  cause  of  it  proceeded  from  his  dis- 
obedient stubbomnese  and  obstinate  course,  he  fell  into 
such  Weeping,  she  had  much  labour  to  comfort  him, 
requesting  him  to  come  in,  and  take  such  entertainement 
as  her  house  could  of  the  suddaine  afford  him. 

To  which  he  would  in  no  wise  consent,  till  had  scene  « 
done  his  duty  too,  and  crau'd  pardon  of  his  Father,  who 
dwelt  at  a  Countrey  house  of  his  wives,  some  three  or 
foure  miles  distant. 

From  which  by  many  forceable  reasons  she  labour' d 

I  Till  he  bad  •eene  I 


230  appntDtF 

to  diswade  him,  'vix.  That  their  Mother  in  Law  might 
haue  no  iust  cause  to  hit  their  Father  in  the  teeth  with 
his  Sonnes  basenes,  being  poorely  appareld,  and  newly 
Sea-wrackt,  nor  thinke  he  came  for  a  stocke  to  set  vp  his 
Trade  with,  especially  considering  that  by  the  marriages, 
and  great  portions  giuen  with  his  Children,  his  quiet  life 
was  much  disturbed,  and  his  estate  more  impoverisht  : 
His  answere  was,  that  his  comming  should  be  a  hindrance 
neither  to  her  nor  his  Father:  For  though  in  that  poore 
and  thinne  habit,  he  brought  enough  for  himselfe,  and  if 
needs  were,  to  be  a  helpe  and  supply  to  them,  and  the 
rest  of  their  poore  family. 

Onely  his  request  was,  that  shee  would  conceale  his 
Name  and  comming,  not  onely  from  the  houshold,  but 
her  Husband,  to  try  if  his  Father  (as  she  already  had 
beene)  could  be  deceived  in  his  acquaintance,  or  not: 
And  if  he  were,  that  then  the  next  morning  she  would 
meete  him  there  at  Breakfast,  with  as  many  of  their  Kin- 
dred as  was  possible,  because  that  besides  his  presence, 
hee  had  brought  that  home,  that  being  scene  and  knowne, 
would  make  their  Joy  a  great  deale  the  more  full  :  when 
the  good  olde  man  should  not  only  finde  of  a  stubbeme 
and  disobedient,  a  dutifuU  and  penetent  childe  j  and  not 
so  onely,  but  one  that  by  his  painefuU  industry,  got  that 
in  his  youth,  which  should  relieue  and  comfort  his  Father 
in  his  declining  estate. 

These  premises  considered,  she  condiscended  to  his 
request,  and  onely  tasting  a  cup  of  Beere,  for  that  time 
parted  :  He  iourneying  towards  his  Father,  and  she  to 


aippcnDtj;  231 

meditate  vpon  the  passionate  Joy  would  befall  their  whole 
Family  the  next  day  at  Breakfast.  So  leaue  we  them  and 
speake  a  worde  or  two  of  the  good  olde  man  their  Father. 
Who  by  good  House  keeping,  associating  himselfe 
with  Knights  and  Gentlemen  somwhat  aboue  his  estate  : 
As  also  by  preferring  his  owne,  and  his  second  wiues 
Kindred  to  great  and  wealthy  marriages,  had  brought 
himselfe  much  behinde  hand  in  the  world.  To  all  this 
his  wife  being  somewhat  churlish,  and  more  respecting 
her  owne  fiiture  estate,  then  his  present  welfare  :  And  as 
it  is  common  with  all  Mothers,  to  preferre  the  good  of 
their  owne  children  before  them,  to  whome  they  are  but 
mothers  in  Law.  All  these  thinges  put  together,  but  es- 
pecially seeing  his  supposed  friends,  and  auncient  com- 
pany keepers,  begin  to  thinke  and  draw  their  neckes  out 
of  the  collers  as  the  Proverbe  is,  was  no  little  griefe  to 
the  heart  of  the  good  olde  man. 

To  this  a  friend  gaue  him  notice,  of  an  Execution  of 
Three  hundred  pound  come  out  against  him  :  that  much 
disquieted  him  ;  His  Sonne  comes  to  the  woman,  de- 
maunding  Lodging  and  meate,  being  a  poore  Sea  fairing 
man,  and  theire  ship  and  all  their  goods  lost  at  Sea. 

She  answered,  she  would  aske  her  husbands  consent  i 
which  she  did. 

He  intreated  her  of  all  loue  she  would  vse  him  well, 
vrging  he  had  a  sonne  at  Sea  himselfe  (If  aliue  at  least) 
and  knew  not  what  want  he  might  stand  in  :  She  sayes 
he  is  a  poore  knaue  ;  so  much  more  neede  of  reliefe, 
answered  her  Husband  :  She  rayles  at  him,  and  tels  him 


I 


232  aippmDij; 

such  Prodigalitie  hath  brought  him  so  low  :  And  such 
Charity  he  hopes  will  be  a  meanes  to  raise  him  as  high 
as  euer  he  was  :  Sent  for  him  in,  gets  him  a  warme 
Caudle,  caused  a  Pullet  to  be  kil'd,  and  such  fare  as 
his  present  estate  afforded  prouided  he. 

Supper  being  ended,  the  good  olde  man  tho  desirous 
of  newes,  (and  rather  if  he  could  heare  any  of  his  Sonne) 
yet  in  regard  of  the  young  mans  late  sea-wracke,  and 
sharpe  travaile,  hee  put  off  their  discourse  till  the  next 
morning,  and  so  taking  leaue,  betooke  him  to  his  bed, 
requesting  his  wife  (for  other  seruants  all  that  time  were 
not  in  their  house)  to  light  the  young  man  to  his 
lodging. 

The  Olde  man  gone,  his  wife  (as  the  custome  of  most 
Women  is)  desirous  of  newes,  fell  into  a  serious  discourse 
with  him,  of  meny,  and  (as  the  young  man  thought)  frivol- 
ous matters :  and  imagining  (perhaps  iustly)  that  she  feared 
he  might  in  the  night  steale  somewhat,  or  offer  them  be- 
ing lone  people  some  discourtesie  :  To  cleare  all  manner 
of  suspect,  he  pluckt  out  divers  baggs  of  Golde,  to  the 
value  of  some  foure  hundred  pound,  vsing  these  or  the 
like  words:  Mrs.  that  you  may  know  your  kindnesses 
are  not  cast  away  vpon  some  base  or  vngratefull  Peasant, 
ill  nurtured  in  the  rules  of  requitall,  keepe  this  for  me  till 
to    morrow:    when  before   some  good  frinds   of  mine, 

[Woodcut  of  group.  ] 
which  I  purpose  to  send  for,  I  will  shew  my  selfe  a  will- 
ing and  bountifuU  debter,  and  acquaint  them  and  you 
with  the  discourse  of  my  whole  trauailes,  which  I  make 


aippntatF  233 

no  doubt  will  be  both  pleasing  and  acceptable  to  all :  with 
these  or  the  like  wordes,  giuing  her  the  golde  to  lay  by 
till  morning^  she  lighted  him  vp  to  bed,  where  we  leaue 
him  to  his  rest,  and  retiirne  to  the  couetous  Step-mother. 

Who  thinking  of  her  present  wants,  and  looking  of  the 
golde,  cast  about  twenty  wayes,  how  to  inioy  it  for  her 
owne,  when  presently  the  Deuill,  that  is  alwayes  ready  to 
take  hold  of  the  least  aduantage  that  may  be  to  increase 
his  KJngdome,  whispered  this  comfort  in  her  eare,  shew- 
ing her  the  golden  temptation:  saying,  all  this  will  I  giue 
thee,  if  thou  wilt  but  make  away  a  poore  stranger  that 
sleepes  vnder  thy  mercy. 

She  like  her  first  Grandam,  seeing  the  golde  faire  to 
looke  too,  and  the  taske  easily  and  without  much  danger 
to  be  affected,  tooke  the  Deuill  at  his  worde,  and  tyed 
herselfe  to  him  with  an  oath,  that  if  she  might  peaceably 
inioy  the  Gold,  the  true  owner  of  it  should  neuer  wake. 

Here  now  were  fit  occasion  to  talke  of  Golde  :  the 
paine,  labour  and  danger  a  man  takes  to  compasse  it,  and 
the  infinite  vexations,  troubles,  and  casualties  a  man 
vndergoes  to  keepe  it  :  so  that  I  may  speake  of  gold,  as 
the  Macedon  did  of  a  Kingdome,  it  is  more  difficult  to 
keepe  then  conquer  :  but  of  that  at  some  other  time  and 
in  fitter  place  :  She  resolued  to  keepe  the  gold,  tho  for  it 
she  looses  her  life,  and  forfeits  her  soule  :  For  where  the 
Deuill  playes  the  Lawyer  thats  his  ordinary  fee. 

First  therefore,  she  goes  vp  to  her  husband,  whome 
after  she  had  wak'd,  she  questions  how  and  what  course 
he  will  take  to  auoyde  the   Execution   come  out  against 


h. 


234  ^pprnDir 

him  :  He  requests  her  to  be  quiet,  and  that  it  was  now 
no  fit  time  of  night  to  dispute  of  such  businesse  :  If  the 
worst  came  that  could,  he  had  '  friends  and  Children 
would  not  see  him  sinke  vnder  so  sleight  a  burthen. 

She  answered,  trusting  to  friends  and  relying  vpon 
children,  (into  whose  hands  he  had  put  his  whole  estate) 
had  brought  them  so  much  behinde  hand  as  they  were. 
Telling  him  that  if  he  would  be  rul'd  by  her,  he  should 
rid  himselfe  of  all  debt  and  danger,  without  helpe  either 
of  friends  or  children:  to  whom,  whosoever  trusteth  shall 
finde  that  he  leanes  on  a  broken  stafte,  or  a  shiuered 
reede :  he  requests  to  know  how :  She  tels  him  by  meanes 
of  the  poore  Saylor  that  lodged  there  acquainting  him 
with  what  store  of  Golde  he  had  about  him,  and  how 
easily  without  danger  (comming  in  late  and  vnseene  the 
same  night)  they  might  make  it  all  theirs. 

He  seeing  her  thoughts  set  all  on  murther,  mildely 
diswaded  her,  laying  before  her  the  ineuetable  dangers, 
and  strange  Judgements  of  God,  show'd  vpon  people  in 
the  like  kinde  of  offending  :  But  when  all  that  preuail'd 
not,  he  concluded  his  speech  with  that  part  of  Scripture: 
What  nvill  it  auayle  a  man  or  a  'woman  to  get  the  ivhole 
ivorld,  and  loose  his  oiune  soule,  and  so  settled  himselfe 
to  sleepe. 

But  all  in  vaine,  for  such  deepe  Impression  of  gaine, 
and  ])alpable  reasons  of  safety,  had  the  Deuill  granted" 
in  her  thoughts,  'twas  impossible  to  rub  them  out  :  and 
therefore  in  stead  of  desisting  from  her  tended  practise, 
she  began  to  make  it  good,  and  shew  deuilish  arguments 

I  Original,  have.  %  grafted  i 


appcniir  235 

to  approue  the  lawfulnes  of  it  :  Insomuch,  that  to  con- 
clude her  deuilish  perswasions,  drew  the  good  olde  man 
out  of  his  bed,  with  an  intent  to  doe  a  murther,  which, 
murther  it  selfe  would  haue  blusht  to  haue  committed  : 
Twice  by  her  deuillish  inticements  did  he  attempt  it,  and 
twice  his  better  Genius  counseld  him  to  the  contrary. 
At  last,  the  Deuill,  for  the  more  valiantly  he  is  resisted 
growes  the  more  malicious:  by  whose  perswasion,  the 
olde  man  the  second  time  in  bed,  hauing  biterly  denyed 
the  bloody  act,  and  given  her  and  the  Deuill  (whose  ad- 
uocate  she  was)  theire  answere  as  hee  well  hopt  :  she 
comes  the  third  time  to  his  bed  side,  and  to  make  her 
temptation  the  more  forcible,  poures  out  the  gold,  fetch- 
ing her  hellish  arguments  a  minore  ad  maiui,  thus  :  how 
easily  and  with  what  little  or  no  danger  such  a  huge  masse 
of  wealth  might  be  purchased  :  which  when  he  refeld  by 
vrging  the  vnlawfulnesse  of  it,  she  burst  out  into  bitter 
[execrations  ?]  and  cursings,  calling  him  faint  hearted 
coward,  and  wished,  that  if  he  did  let  slip  that  occasion, 
hee  might  lye  and  rot  in  a  Gaole,  vowing  that  she  would 
not  onely  animate  and  set  on  all  his  Creditors  to  his  bit- 
ter vndoing  but  dishearten  and  drawe  all  her  and  his 
friends  from  helping  and  releeving  him. 

In  conclusion,  the  Diuell  and  she  prevailed,  and  on 
hee  goes  the  third  time  to  attempt  this  deede  of  dark- 
nesse,  and  entred  the  chamber,  so  deadly  was  her  intent, 
she  thrust  the  knife  in  his  hand,  and  stood  hartning  of  him 
on  at  the  dore  :  he  comming  to  the  bed  side,  found  him 
fast  a  sleepe,  and  looking  stedfastly  vpon  him,  a  drop  of 
blood  fell  from  his  nose  vpon  the  young  mans  breast,  and 


236  appenDij; 

seemed  to  blush  and  looke  red,  as  if  it  had  in  dumbe 
signe  disswaded  him  from  that  diuellish  intent.  To  con- 
clude the  bloodie  deede  is  done,  an  innocent  sonne  slaine 
by  a  guilty  Father  :  his  life  blood  shed  by  him  from 
whom  both  life  and  blood  were  received.  A  cruell 
Murther,  and  so  vnnaturall,  as  time  hath  not  in  all  his 
Recordes  one  more  horrid  and  detestable  :  to  see  what  a 
pitteous  groane  and  ruthfuU  looke  the  dying  sonne  cast 
vpon  the  murtherous  Father.  I  leaue  to  their  consider- 
ations, that  either  knew  the  loue  of  a  father  to  a  sonne, 
or  a  Sonne  to  the  father  :  onely  this  one  note  worthy  re- 
membrance I  here  credibly  recite,  that  iust  as  the  knife 
was  entering  his  throat,  the  screech-owle  beat  her  pineons 
against  the  window,  and  gave  a  fearefull  shrieke  at  the 
beds  head,  as  if  she  had  said  Awake  young  man  awake, 
but  all  in  vaine,  the  Innocent  is  dead,  and  the  guilty  pos- 
sest  his  gold. 

The  next  morning  very  early,  the  sister  according  to 
promise  lights  at  the  gate,  and  after  her  duty  done  to  her 
Father,  desires  to  see  and  speake  with  her  brother:  the 
old  man  amazed  at  this  kind  of  visitation,  askes  what 
brother  she  meant :  she  replies :  the  young  man  that  in  the 
habite  of  a  poore  Saylor  came  the  last  night,  to  demaund 
lodging,  promised  as  that  morning  to  meete  her  and 
diuers  other  of  their  kindred,  which  she  had  brought  to 
Breakefast,  and  that  he  had  brought  home  store  of  gold, 
with  which  he  purposed  to  pay  his  Fathers  debts.  The 
olde  man  hearing  this  discourse,  betwixt  feare  and  hor- 
rour,  looked  pale  and  trembled,  yet  seeing  no  remedy, 
hee  demaunded  how  she  knew  that  young  man  to  be  her 


^pptnniv  237 

brother:  after  many  other  probable  likelihoods,  she 
naimed  the  moale  in  the  bent  of  his  left  arme:  at  hearing 
of  which,  without  further  wordes,  as  if  he  had  beene 
strucke  with  a  sodaine  extasie:  he  runnes  vp  to  the 
Chamber  where  this  hainous  murther  was  committed,  and 
finding  the  token  true,  with  the  same  knife  he  had  kild 
his  Sonne,  he  murthered  himselfe:  his  Wife  seeing  her 
Husband  stay  somewhat  longer  then  she  expected,  runnes 
vp  after  him  to  see  the  event,  where  finding  her  husband 
dead  in  his  Sonnes  armes,  the  Deuill  on  one  side,  and  her 
owne  guilty  conscience  on  the  other,  telling  and  vrging 
her  to  be  the  cause  of  all  this :  her  conscience  perswading 
she  had  deserued  death  of  body  in  this  world;  and  the 
Deuill  assuring  her,  she  could  not  escape  damnation  in 
the  world  to  come,  Tooke  the  same  knife  (yet  reeking 
with  the  blood  of  her  breathlesse  husband)  and  with  it 
ript  vp  her  owne  bosome:  the  Daughter  staying  below, 
wondering  neither  Father,  Brother  nor  Mother  came  downe 
(great  with  childe  as  she  was)  went  by  the  staires  -.  where 
she  became  a  witnesse  to  the  most  lamentable  (and  worth- 
iest to  be  pittied)  Spectacle  that  ever  eye  saw. 

The  couetous  Step-mother  not  yet  altogether  dead,  as 
well  as  she  could  in  broken  accents  excused  her  husband, 
and  acknowledged 

[Woodcut  of  the  scene 
printed  as  frontispiece  to  this  volume.] 
her  selfe  the  ground  &  Author  of  all  this :  which  hindred 
the  good  woman  from  doing  instant  violence  vpon  her- 
selfe:  but  such  was  her  extreame  griefe,  to  see  a  Father 
murther  his  owne  Sonne  first,  then  himselfe,  and  a  coue- 


238  appntDtr 

tous  Step-Mother  author  of  all  this:  she  grew  franticke, 
and  threw  herselfe  first  into  the  Armes  of  her  Father, 
then  of  her  Brother,  kissing  the  one,  and  showring  teares 
vpon  the  other,  with  such  ardor  of  affection  and  violence 
of  passion,  it  made  all  the  standers  by  with  a  generall 
voyce  cry  out:  It  was  the  Bloodiest  and  most  Inhuman 
murther,  the  Countrey  was  euer  guilty  of. 

And  so  to  the  end  it  may  be  a  warning,  to  all  coue- 
tous  step-Mothers  and  a  content  for  all  easie  Fathers  to 
auoyde  the  like  hereafter:  At  the  entreaty  of  diuers 
Gentlemen  in  the  Countrey,  It  is  as  neare  the  life  as  Pen 
and  Incke  could  draw  it  out,  thus  put  in  Print. 

FINIS 
[Woodcut:  arabesque] 


For  comparison  the  condensed  version  of  Frankland 
is  added,  as  it  is  given  in  the  Postscript  to  George  Col- 
man's  edition  of  the  play  in  1783. 

II 

The  miserable  condition  of  sinful  man  in  sundry  ex- 
amples of  these  present  and  of  former  times,  should  mind 
us  hourly  to  beg  of  God  preventing  grace,  lest  we  fall  into 
temptations  of  sin  and  Satan  ;  such  have  been  the  calam- 
ities of  ages  past,  at  present  are,  and  will  be  to  come  ; 
histories  of  theft,  rapine,  murther,  and  such  like. 

One  of  wondrous  note  happened  at  Perinin  in  Com- 


appcnUtF  239 

wall,  in  September,  a  bloody  and  unexampled  murther, 
by  a  father  and  mother  upon  their  own  son,  and  then  upon 
themselves. 

He  had  been  blessed  with  ample  possessions,  and  fruit- 
ful issue,  unhappy  only  in  a  younger  son  ;  who  taking 
liberty  from  his  father's  bounty,  and  with  a  crew  of  like 
condition,  that  were  wearied  on  land,  they  went  roving 
to  sea  5  and  in  a  small  vessel  southward,  took  booty,  from 
all  whom  they  could  master,  and  so  increasing  force  and 
wealth,  ventured  on  a  Turk's-man  in  the  Streights  ;  but 
by  mischance  their  own  powder  fired  themselves  ;  and  our 
gallant,  trusting  to  his  skilful  swimming,  got  ashore  upon 
Rhodes,  with  the  best  of  his  jewels  about  him,  where, 
offering  some  to  sale  to  a  Jew,  who  knew  them  to  be  the 
governor's  of  Algier,  he  was  apprehended,  and  as  a  pyrate 
sentenced  to  the  gallies  amongst  other  christians,  whose 
miserable  slavery  made  them  all  studious  of  freedom  j  and 
with  wit  and  valour  took  opportunity  and  means  to  mur- 
ther some  officers,  got  aboard  of  an  English  ship,  and 
came  safe  to  London,  where  his  Majesty  and  some  skill 
made  him  servant  to  a  chyrurgion,  and  sudden  preferment 
to  the  East  Indies  ;  there  by  this  means  he  got  mony, 
with  which  returning  back,  he  designed  himself  for  his 
native  county  Cornwall  ;  and  in  a  small  ship  from  Lon- 
don, sailing  to  the  West,  was  cast  away  upon  the  coast  ; 
but  his  excellent  skill  in  swimming,  and  former  fate  to 
boot,  brought  him  safe  to  shore ;  where  since  his  fifteen 
years  absence,  his  father's  former  fortunes  much  decayed, 
now  retired  him  not  far  off  to  a  country  habitation,  in 
debt  and  danger. 


24°  appmuip 

His  sister,  he  finds  married  to  a  mercer,  a  meaner 
match  than  her  birth  promised  j  to  her  at  first  appears  a 
poor  stranger,  but  in  private  reveals  himself,  and  withal 
what  jewels  and  gold  he  had  concealed  in  a  bow-case ' 
about  him  ;  and  concluded  that  the  next  day  he  intended 
to  appear  to  his  parents,  and  to  keep  his  disguise  till  she 
and  her  husband  should  meet,  and  make  their  common 
joy  compleat. 

Being  come  to  his  parents,  his  humble  behaviour,  suit- 
able to  his  suit  of  cloaths,  melted  the  old  couple  to  so 
much  compassion,  as  to  give  him  covering  from  the  cold 
season  under  their  outward  roof;  and  by  degrees  his 
travelling  tales  told  with  passion  to  the  aged  people,  made 
him  their  guest,  so  long  by  the  kitchen  fire,  that  the  hus- 
band took  leave  and  went  to  bed,  and  soon  after  his  true 
stories  working  compassion  in  the  weaker  vessel,  she  wept, 
and  so  did  he  ;  but  compassionate  of  her  tears,  he  com- 
forted her  with  a  piece  of  gold,  which  gave  assurance  that 
he  deserved  a  lodging,  to  which  she  brought  him,  and 
being  in  bed  shewed  her  his  girdled  wealth,  which  he 
said  was  sufficient  to  relieve  her  husband's  wants,  to  spare 
for  himself;  and  being  very  weary,  fell  fast  asleep. 

The  wife  tempted  with  the  golden  bait  of  what  she 
had,  and  eager  of  enjoying  all,  awaked  her  husband  with 
this  news,  and  her  contrivance  what  to  do  ;  and  though 
with  liorrid  apprehension  he  oft  refused,  yet  her  puling 
fondness  (Eve's  inchantments)   moved  him  to  consent, 

I   This  must  mean  a  bent  case,  tied  round  the  body.     See  below  *  his 
girdled  wealth.'     (Cf.  bow-window  ^  semicircular  window.) 


^ppmaiF  241 

and  rise  to  be  master  of  all  ;  and  both  of  them  to  murder 
the  man,  which  instantly  they  did,  covering  the  corps 
xmder  the  cloaths  till  opportunity  to  convey  it  out  of  the 
way. 

The  early  morning  hastens  the  sister  to  her  father's 
house,  where  she  with  signs  of  joy,  enquires  for  a  saylor 
that  should  lodge  there  the  last  night ;  the  parents  slightly 
denied  to  have  seen  any  such,  until  she  told  them  that  it 
was  her  brother,  her  lost  brother,  by  that  assured  scar 
upon  his  arm  cut  with  a  sword  in  his  youth,  she  knew 
him  ;  and  were  all  resolved  this  morning  to  meet  there 
and  be  merry. 

The  father  hastily  runs  up,  finds  the  mark,  and  with 
horrid  regret  of  this  monstrous  murther  of  his  own  son, 
with  the  same  knife  cut  his  own  throat. 

The  wife  went  up  to  consult  with  him,  where  in  a 
most  strange  manner  beholding  them  both  in  blood,  wild 
and  aghast,  with  the  instrument  at  hand,  readily  rips  up 
her  own  belly  till  the  guts  tumbled  out. 

The  daughter,  doubting  the  delay  of  their  absence, 
searches  for  them  all,  whom  she  found  out  too  soon,  with 
the  sad  sight  of  this  scene ;  and  being  overcome  with 
horror  and  amaze  of  this  deluge  of  destruction,  she  sank 
down  and  died,  the  fatal  end  of  that  family. 

The  tnith  of  which  was  frequently  known,  and  flew  to 
court  in  this  guise  ;  but  the  imprinted  relation  conceals 
their  names,  in  favour  to  some  neighbour  of  repute  and 
a-kin  to  that  family. 

The  same  sense  makes  me  silent  also. 


XfbUogtapl^t 


The  place  of  publication  is  London  unless  otherivise  noted, 

I.  TEXTS 

Till  Hit  includes  separate  editions^  adaptations,  and  translations, 
besides  issues  in  collecti've  editions  of  Lillo^ s  plf^y^,  ^"^  ivith  those 
of  other  dramatists. 

A.  THE  LONDON  MERCHANT,  OR  GEORGE 
BARNWELL 

1731.  8vo.  Thi  London  Merchant:  or  thi  History  or 
George  Barnwell.  First  and  second  editions.  1st  and  2d,  Brit. 
Mus.  ;    ist,  Harv.  Coll.  Lib. 

1732.  8vo.  The  London  Merchant  :  or  the  History  or 
George  Barnwell.    Fourth  edition.    Yale  Univ.  Lib. 

1740.  8vo.  The  London  Merchant  :  or  the  History  or 
George  Barnwell.  Seventh  edition.  Boston  Pub.  Lib.,  Harv. 
Coll.  Lib. 

1740.  8vo.  The  Works  or  the  late  Mr.  Giorgx  Lillo. 
John  Gray. 

1750  [?].  Iimo.  The  Works  or  the  LATE  Mr.  George  Lillo. 

1762.    i2mo.   The  Works  or  the  late  Mr.  George  Lillo. 

1768.  Jimo.  The  Works  or  the  late  Mr.  George  Lillo, 
Edinburgh. 

1770.  i2mo.  The  London  Merchant:  or  the  History 
or  George  Barnwell.  Printed  for  T.  Lowndes,  T.  Caslon, 
W.  Nicoll,  and  S.  Bladon. 

1772.  8vo.  Der  KAurMANN  VON  London,  oder  Beoeben- 
heiten  G.  Barnwells.  Ein  biirgerliches  Trauerspiel.  Aus  dem 
Englischen  des  Herrn  TiUo  iibcrsctzt  dutch  H.  A.  B.  Neue  Auf- 
lage.    Hamburg. 

1774.  i2mo.  The  Works  or  THE  late  Mr.  George  Lillo. 
Edinburgh. 


BibUograpl)^  243 

1775-  ^™-  The  Works  of  Mr.  George  Lillo,  with  Some 
Account  or  HIS  Life  [by  T.  Davies].  2  vols.  T.  Davies.  Second 
edition,  1810. 

1775-  ^^°-  De  Koopman  van  London.  Burgerlyk  treurspel 
.  .  .  naar  het  Engelschc  van  den  Heer  Tillo.  Spectatoriaale  Schouw- 
burg.    Part  viii.    Amsterdam. 

1775-  ^™-  Le  Marchand  de  Londres,  ou  l'Histoire  de 
George  Barnwell.  Tragedie  bourgeoise  traduite  de  I'Anglois  de 
M.  Lillo  [by  P.  Clement].  Seconde  Edition,  augmentee  de  deux 
scenes.    Londres. 

1776-  i^nio.  The  London  Merchant  ;  or  the  History 
OF  George  Barnwell.    Bell's  British  Theatre,  vol.  v. 

1776.  The  London  Merchant  :  or  the  History  of  George 
Barnwell.     The  Tragic  Theatre,  vol.  vii. 

1^76.  8vo.  The  London  Merchant  :  or  the  History  of 
George  Barnwell.     The  New  English  Theatre,  vol.  vi. 

1776.  i2mo.  The  London  Merchant:  or  the  History 
or  George  Barnwell.  Marked  with  the  Variations  in  the 
Manager's  Book  at  the  Theatre  Royal  in  Drury  Lane.  Printed 
for  T.  Lowndes,  T.  Caslon,  W.  Nicoll,  T.  Davies,  and  S.  Bladon. 

1777-  ^^°-   George  Barnwell  :  a  tragedy.    J.  Wenman. 
i'jYT.    i2mo.    George  Barnwell  :  a  tragedy.    W.  Oxlade. 
1781.   8vo.    Der  Kaufmann  von  London,  oder   Begeben- 

heiten  G.  Barnwells.    Neue  Auflage.     Hamburg. 

1793.  i2mo.  George  Barnwell:  a  tragedy.  Belknap  & 
Hall,  Boston,  Mass. 

1794-  i*mo.  George  Barnwell  :  a  tragedy.  Third  edition, 
Worcester,  Mass. 

1797'  ^^°-  George  Barnwell  :  a  tragedy.  Bell's  British 
Theatre,  vol.  xiv. 

1807  [?]•  i2mo.  George  Barnwell:  a  tragedy.  With  re- 
marks by  Mrs.  Inchbald. 

18 n.  8vo.  George  Barnwell;  a  tragedy.  The  Modern 
British  Drama,  vol.  11. 

1814-  i6mo.  The  London  Merchant,  or,  the  History  of 
George  Barnwell.     [Dibdin's]   The  London  Theatre,  vol.  ix. 

1816.  i2mo.  George  Barnwell.  [Mrs.  Inchbald's]  The 
British  Theatre,  vol.  xi. 


244  llBtbUograplj^ 

1823.  8vo.  George  Barnwell.  [W.  H.  Oxberry's]  The 
Nnv  KfJglhh  Drama,  vol.  xvii. 

1824.  i6mo.  George  Barnwell  [with  three  other  plays]. 
Li-ving  P/ayl.     New  York. 

1826.  i6ino.  George  Barnwell.  With  a  wood  engraving. 
Cumberland's  British  Theatre. 

1832.  George  Barnwell.  The  British  Drama.  Vol.11.  Also 
1864,  and  Phila.  1853. 

1846.  George  Barnwell.  Modern  Standard  Drama,  vol.  xi. 
N.  Y. 

1864.  8vo.  George  Barnwell.  Illustrated.  The  British 
Drama,  vol.  11. 

18 — .  ixmo.  George  Barnwell.  YrtncWi  Standard  Drama, 
no.  88. 

1868.  i2mo.  George  Barnwell.  Lacy's  Acting  Edition  of 
Plays,  vol.  lxxix. 

There  are  also  undated  editions  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
"  Printed  for  and  sold  by  the  Booksellers  in  Town  and  Country." 


b.  fatal  curiosity 

'737'  ^^°-  Fatal  Curiosity:  a  true  tragedy  of  three  acts. 
As  it  is  acted  at  the  New  Theatre  in  the  Hay-Market.  Brit. 
Mus.,  Bost.  Pub.  Lib.,  Yale  Univ.  Lib. 

1740.  8vo.  The  Works  or  the  late  Mr.  George  Lillo. 
John  Gray. 

I77S-  ^™-  "^"^  Works  of  Mr.  George  Lillo,  with  Some 
Account  or  HIS  Life  [by  T.  Davies].  2  vols.  T.  Davies.  Vol.  11. 
Second  edition,  18 10. 

1780.   8vo.  The  Works  of-  Mr.  George  Lillo. 

1^83.  8vo.  Fatal  Curiosity  :  a  true  tragedy.  With  altera- 
tions [and  a  Postscript,  by  G.  Colman]. 

1784.  8vo.  The  Fatal  Curiosity  :  a  true  tragedy.  With  a 
short  account  of  the  author's  life  and  an  explanatory  index  [in  Ger- 
man].   Nordhausen. 

1784.  8vo.   The  Shipwpeck,  or  Fatal  Curiosity.   A  tragedy 


UBibliograp^^  245 

altered  from  Lillo  [by  H.  Mackenzie].  As  performed  at  the  Theatre 
Royal  in  Covent  Garden.    T.  Cadcll. 

[1785,]  8vo.  Stolz  und  Verzweiflunc.  Schauspiei  in  drey 
Acten  nach  Lillo.  [By  W.  H.  Bromel.j  Bromel's  Beitrag  zur 
Deutschen  Buhne.     [Dessau  and  Leipzig.] 

179I.  8vo.  Stolz  UND  Verzweif-lung.  Deutsche  Schaubuhne^ 
vol.  xxr.     Augsburg. 

1796.  8vo.  Fatal  Curiosity.  Bell's  Britiik  Theatre^  vol. 
xxiu. 

1800.  Preservation  j  or  the  Hovel  of  the  Rocks  :  a 
play,  in  five  acts  :  interspersed  with  part  of  Lillo's  drama,  in  three 
acts,  called  '*  P'atal  Curiosity."    Cox,  Charleston.    Bost.  Pub.  Lib. 

1808.  i2mo.  Fatal  Curiosity.  [Mrs.  Inchbald's]  The  Bri- 
tisk  Theatre^  vol.  xi. 

l8ll>  8vo.  Fatal  Curiosity.  The  Modern  British  Drama^ 
vol.  II. 

1817,  izmo.  Fatal  Curiosity.  Withrcmarks  by  Mrs.  Inch- 
bald. 

1824.    8vo.    Fatal    Curiosity.     The   British   Drama,   vol.  i. 

1826.    8vo.    Fatal  Curiosity.     The  London  Stage^  vol.  in. 

1832.  8vo.  Fatal  Curiosity.  Illustrated.  The  British 
Drama,  vol.  i.    Also  1864,  and  Phila.  1853. 


XL  WORKS  BIOGRAPHICAL  AND  CRITICAL 

(  Set  also  the  memoirs  and  critical  material  prefixed  to  the  Texts  enu- 
merated under  /,  and  notes  to  Introductions.  ) 

1747.  List  of  all  the  English  Dkamatic  Poets.  Printed 
with  T.  Whincop's  Scanderbeg  ;  p.  258. 

1753.  Lives  or  the  Poets  or  Great  Britain  and  Ireland. 
By  Mr.  [Theophilus]  Cibber,  and  other  Hands.  Vol.  v,  pp.  338- 
340  :   Mr.  George  Lillo. 

1781.  Philological  lN<yjiRiES  ;  in  three  Parts.  James  Harris. 
Parts  I  and  11,  pp.  154-158  ;   169-172. 

1798.  i2mo.  Barnwell.  A  novel.  By  T.  S.  Surr.  Fourth 
edition,  1807. 


246  31BibUograp!)p 

1800.  A  Complete  History  of  the  Stage.  C.  Dibdin. 
Vol.  V.  pp.  61-64. 

Z8l0.  121710.  Memoirs  or  George  Barnwell  ;  the  unhappy 
SUBJECT  OF  LiLLo's  CELEBRATED  TRAGEDY.  By  a  descendant  of  the 
Barnwell  family.     Harlow. 

1812.  BioGRAPHiA  Dramatica.  D.  E.  Baker.  Continued  by 
D.  Reed  and  S.  Jones.  Vol.  1,  part  11,  pp.  453-455,  and  vol.  n, 
pp.  224-227  and  370-378. 

1832.  Some  Account  or  the  English  Stage.  [Gencst,  J.] 
Vols,  ni-viii  pasiipij  and  Index  in  vol.  x.    Bath. 

1857.  Ueber  den  Stoff  von  Z.  Werner's  Vierundzwan- 
ziGSTEN  Februar.  R.  Kohler.  (Weimarer  Sonntagsblatt.  Repr. 
in  vol.  in  of  Kleinere  Schriften,  herausg.  v.  J.  Botte.  Berlin. 
1900.    pp.  185-199. 

1858.  Gesammelte  Werke.  G.  E.  Lessing.  Vol.  iv  :  Vorrf 
den  %u  Dideroti  Theater  f  vol.  vii  :  Hamburghche  Dramaturgie. 
Leipzig. 

1865.  Geschichte  der  Englischen  Literatur,  etc.  H. 
Hettner.  [Liter at urgesch.  d.  acht%ehnten  Jahrh.^  parti.)  Espe- 
cially pp.  514-522.    Brunswick. 

1866.  Diderot  als  Dichter  und  Dramaturg.  J.  C.  F. 
Rosenkranz  [Diderot' i  Leben  und  Werke^  vol.  1,  pp.  267-3 1 6). 
Leipzig. 

1869,   Lessing  and  Swift.    Care    Jena. 

1874-75.  CEuvres.  D.Diderot,  Vols.  vn—vin{Be//es-LeitreSf 
vols.  iv-v).  Paris  :  Gamier  Freres.  [For  references  see  Introduc- 
tion to  this  volume,  p.  xxxvii. 

1877.  Hamburgische  Dramaturgie.  G.  E.  Lessing.  Erlau- 
tert  von  F.  Schroter  u.  R.  Theile,  Esp.  pp.  489-520.     Halle. 

1882.  The  Story  of  Fatal  Curiosity.  W,  E.  A.  Axon. 
Notes  and  (Queries.    6th  series.    Vol.  v,  pp.  21-23. 

1883  [?].  Das  Schicksalsdrama  [Deutsche  National-Liter- 
atur,  vol.  151 ).    J.  Minor.    Berlin  and  Stuttgart. 

1883.  Die  Schicksalstragodik  in  ihrin  Hauptvertretebn. 
J.  Minor.     Frankfort. 

1888.  George  Lillo.  E.  W.  L.  HoflFmann.  Inaugural  Dis- 
sertation.   Marburg. 


JlBibliograpI)^  247 

1890.  Zo  LiLLo's  KAurMANN  VON  LoNDON.  A.  Brandl.  Vier- 
teljahrichrift  fiir  UtteraturgeKhichte^  in,  47-62. 

1893.  Dictionary  or  National  Biography,  vol.  ixiii,  pp. 
251-255,  Z,/7/o,  George.    By  A.  W.  Ward. 

1904.  English  Literature  and  Society  in  the  Eighteenth 
Century.    Sir  L.  Stephen.    (Fori/ La/arej,  1903,)  pp.  164-166. 


2866  i 


i .  ivi«r\  o  u  .  o  #  I 


^'^  Lillo,  George 

^^^•^  The  London  merchant 

L5A7 

1906 


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