Lucy. It was well you came, or, by what I can | your deliverance; return to your house, and live perceive, you had lost him. in peace and safety.

Mill. That, I must confess, was a danger I did not foresee; I was only afraid he should have come without money. You know, a house of entertainment, like mine, is not kept without expence.

Lucy. That is very true; but then you should be reasonable in your demands; 'tis pity to dis

courage a young man.

Mill. Leave that to me.

Re-enter BARNWELL, with a bag of money.

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 will come !

Barn. You are my fate, my heaven or my hell; only leave me now, dispose of me hereafter as you please. [Exeunt Millwood and Lucy.

What have I done? Were my resolutions founded on reason, and sincerely made? Why, then, has Heaven suffered me to fall? I sought not Barn. What am I about to do?—Now, you, the occasion; and, if my heart deceives me not, who boast your reason all-sufficient, suppose your-compassion and generosity were my motives. Is selves in my condition, aad determine for me; whether it is right to let her suffer for my faults, or, by this small addition to my guilt, prevent the ill effects of what is past.

virtue inconsistent with itself, or are vice and virtuc only empty names; or do they depend on accidents, beyond our power to produce, or to prevent; wherein we have no part, and yet must Lucy. These young sinners think every thing be determined by the event? But why should in the way of wickedness so strange !- But II attempt to reason? All is confusion, horror, could tell him, that this is nothing but what is and remorse! I find I am lost, cast down from very common; for one vice as naturally begets all my late-erected hope, and plunged again in another, as a father a son. But he will find out guilt, yet scarce know how or why! that himself, if he lives long enough. Such undistinguished horrors make my brain, [Aside. Like hell, the seat of darkness and of pain. Barn. Here, take this, and with it purchase [ Exit.

ACT III.

SCENE I-A Room in Thorougood's House. THOROWGOOD and TRUEMAN discovered (with

Account Books) sitting at a Table.

Thor. METHINKS I would not have you only learn the method of merchandise, and practise it hereafter, merely as a means of getting wealth : it | will be well worth your pains to study it as a science, to see how it is founded in reason and the nature of things: how it promotes humanity, as it has opened, and yet keeps up an intercourse between nations, far remote from one another in situation, customs, and religion; promoting arts, industry, peace, and plenty: by mutual benefits diffusing mutual love from pole to pole.

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drugs: the late-found western world's rich earth glows with unnumbered veins of gold and silver ore. On every climate, and on every country, Heaven has bestowed some good peculiar to itself. It is the industrious merchant's business to collect the various blessings of each soil and climate; and, with the product of the whole, to enrich his native country.- -Well, I have examined your accounts; they are not only just, as I have always found them, but regularly kept, and fairly entered. I commend your diligence. Method in business is the surest guide; he, who neglects it, frequently stumbles, and always wanders perplexed, uncertain, and in danger.Are Barnwell's accounts ready for my inspection? He does not use to be the last on these occasions.

True. Upon receiving your orders he retired, I thought in some confusion. If you please, I'll go and hasten him, I hope he has not been guilty of any neglect.

True. Something of this I have considered, and hope, by your assistance, to extend my thoughts much farther. I have observed those countries, where trade is promoted and encouraged, do not make discoveries to destroy, but to improve mankind by love and friendship; to tame the fierce, and polish the most savage; to teach them the advantage of honest traffic, by taking from them, with their own consent, their useless superflui-dy. tics, and giving them, in return, what, from their ignorance in manual arts, their situation, or some other accident, they stand in need of.

Thor. It is justly observed: the populous east, luxuriant, abounds with glittering gems, bright pearls, aromatic spices, and health-restoring

Thor. I am now going to the Exchange; let him know, at my return I expect to find him rea[Exeunt.

Enter MARIA with a book. Sits and reads.

Mar. How forcible is truth! The weakest mind, inspired with love of that, fixed and collected in itself, with indifference beholds the united force of earth and hell opposing. Such

souls are raised above the sense of pain, or so supported, that they regard it not. The martyr cheaply purchases his heaven; small are his sufferings, great is his reward. Not so the wretch who combats love with duty; whose mind, weakened and dissolved by the soft passion, feeble and hopeless, opposes his own desires--What is an hour, a day, a year of pain, to a whole life of tortures such as these?

Enter TRUEMAN.

True. Oh, Barnwell! oh, my friend! how art thou fallen!

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

True. It is not to be concealed: I have news to tell of him, that will afflict your generous father, yourself, and all who know him.

Mar. Defend us, Heaven!

True. I cannot speak it. See there.

Mar. I fear as much, and therefore would ne-
ver have my father know it.
True. That is impossible.
Mar. What is the sum?

True. It is considerable; I have marked it here, to shew it, with the letter, to your father, at his return.

Mar. If I should supply the money, could you so dispose of that, and the account, as to conceal this unhappy mismanagement from my father?

True. Nothing more easy. But can you intend it? Will you save a helpless wretch from ruin?-Oh, it were an act worthy such exalted virtue as Maria's! Sure Heaven, in mercy to my friend, inspired the generous thought.

Mar. Doubt not, but I would purchase so great a happiness at a much dearer price. But how shall he be found?

True. Trust to my diligence for that. In the mean time, I will conceal his absence from your father, or find such excuses for it, that the real cause shall never be suspected.

[Gives a letter. Mar. [Reads.] I know my absence will surprise my honoured master and yourself; and the more, when you shall understand, that the rea- Mar. In attempting to save from shame, one son of my withdrawing, is my having embezzled whom we hope may yet return to virtue, to Heapart of the cash with which I was entrusted. Af-ven, and you, the only witnesses of this action, I ter this, it is needless to inform you, that I in- appeal, whether I do any thing unbecoming my tend never to return again. Though this might sex and character. have been known, by examining my accounts; yet, to prevent that unnecessary trouble, and to cut off all fruitless expectations of my return, I have left this from the lost

GEORGE BARNWELL. True. Lost indeed! Yet how he should be guilty of what he there charges himself withal, raises my wonder equal to my grief. Never had youth a higher sense of virtue. Justly he thought, and as he thought he practised; never was life more regular than his.-An understanding uncommon at his years, an open, generous manliness of temper, his manners easy, unaffected, and engaging.

Mar. 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, happiest maid this wealthy city boasts, kindly condescends to weep for thy unhappy fate, poor, ruined Barnwell!

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

Mar. If Heaven succeeds it, I am well rewarded. A virgin's fame is sullied by suspicion's lightest breath; and, therefore, as this must be a secret from my father, and the world, for Barnwell's sake, for mine, let it be so to him. [Exeunt.

SCENE II-A Room in Millwood's House.

Enter Lucy and BLUNT.

Lucy. Well, what do you think of Millwood's conduct now?

Blunt. I own it is surprising: I do not know which to admire most, her feigned, or his real passion; though I have sometimes been afraid that her avarice would 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 does not want unMar, Trueman, do you think a soul, so deli- derstanding. But you men are much easier imcate as his, so sensible of shame, can ever sub-posed on in these affairs, than your vanity will mit to live a slave to vice?

True. Never, never. So well I know him, I am sure this act of his, so contrary to his nature, must have been caused by some unavoidable necessity,

Mar. Is there no means yet to preserve him? True. Oh, that there were! but few men recover their reputation lost, a merchant never. Nor would he, I fear, though I should find him, ever be brought to look his injured master in the face.

allow you to believe. Let me see the wisest of you all as much in love with me as Barnwell is with Millwood, and I will engage to make as great a fool of him.

Blunt. And, all circumstances considered, to make as much money of him too?

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

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

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 is ruined, and Millwood's hopes of farther profits there are at an end.

Blunt. That is po more than we all expected. Lucy. Being called by his master to make up his accounts, he was forced to quit his house and service, and wisely flies to Millwood for relief

and entertainment.

Blunt. Is it possible she could persuade him to do an act like that? He is by nature honest, grateful, compassionate, and generous; and though his love, and her artful persuasions, have wrought him to practise what he most abhors; yet we all can witness for him, with what reluc tance he has still complied: so many tears he shed over each offence, as might, if possible, sanctify theft, and make a merit of a crime.

Lucy. 'Tis true, at the naming of the murder of his uncle, he started into rage; and, breaking from her arms (where she till then had held him, with well-dissembled love, and false endear

Blunt. I have not heard of this before: howments), called her cruel, monster, devil, and told did she receive him?

Lucy. As you would expect. She wondered what he meant, was astonished at his impudence, and, with an air of modesty peculiar to herself, swore so heartily that she never saw him before, that she put me out of countenance.

Blunt. That is much indeed! But how did Barnwell behave?

Lucy. He grieved; and at length, enraged at this barbarous treatment, was preparing to be gone; and making towards the door, shewed a sum of money, which he had brought from his master's, the last he is ever likely to have from thence.

Blunt. But then, Millwood

Lucy. Ay, she, with her usual address, returned to her old arts of lying, swearing, and dissembling; hung on his neck, wept, and swore it was meant in jest.-The amorous youth melted into tears, threw the money into her lap, and swore he had rather die than think her false.

Blunt. Strange infatuation!

Lucy. But what ensued was stranger still. As doubts and fears, followed by reconcilement, ever increase love where the passion is sincere; so in him it caused so wild a transport of excessive fondness, such joy, such grief, such pleasure, and such anguish, that nature seemed sinking with the weight, and his charmed soul disposed to quit his breast for hers. Just then, when every passion with lawless anarchy prevailed, and reason was in the raging tempest lost, the cruel, artful Millwood prevailed upon the wretched youth to promise -what I tremble but to think of.

Blunt. I am amazed! What can it be? Lucy. You will be more so, to hear it is to 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? Lucy. The same. She was no sooner possessed of the last dear purchase of his ruin, but her avarice, insatiate as the grave, demanded this horrid sacrifice. Barnwell's near relation, and unsuspected virtue, must give too easy means to seize this good man's treasure; whose blood must seal the dreadful secret, and prevent the terrors | of her guilty fears.

her she was born for his destruction. She thought it not for her purpose to meet his rage with her rage, but affected a most passionate fit of grief, railed at her fate, and cursed her wayward stars, that still her wants should force her to press him to act such deeds, as she must needs abhor as well as he. She told him necessity had no law, and love no bounds; that therefore he never truly loved, but meant, in her necessity, to forsake her. Then she kneeled, and swore, that, since by his refusal he had given her cause to doubt his love, she never would see him more, unless, to prove it true, he robbed his uncle to supply her wants, and murdered him to keep it from discovery.

Blunt. I am astonished. What said he? Lucy. Speechless he stood; but in his face you might have read, that various passions tore his very soul. Oft he in anguish threw his eyes towards heaven, and then as often bent their beams on her; then wept and groaned, and beat his troubled breast: at length, with horror not to be expressed, he cried,- Thou cursed fair, have I not given dreadful proofs of love? What drew me from my youthful innocence, and stained my then unspotted soul, but love? What caused me to rob my worthy, gentle master, but cursed love? What makes me now a fugitive from his service, loathed by myself, and scorned by all the world, but love? What fills my eyes with tears, my soul with torture never felt on this side "death before? Why love, love, love! And why, ' above all, do I resolve (for, tearing his hair, he 'cried, I do resolve) to kill my uncle?

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Blunt. Was she not moved? It makes me weep to hear the sad relation.

Lucy. Yes, with joy, that she had gained her point. She gave him no time to cool, but urged him to attempt it instantly. He is now gone. If he performs it, and escapes, there is more money for her; if not, he will never return, and then she is fairly rid of him.

Blunt. It is time the world were rid of such a monster.

Lucy. If we do not use our endeavours to prevent the murder, we are as bad as she. Blunt. I am afraid it is too late. Lucy. Perhaps not. Her barbarity to Barnwell makes me hate her. We have run too great a length with her already. I did not think her

Blunt. It is true, we have been all too much so. But there is something so horrid in murder, that all other crimes seem nothing when com-gles, conscience———————— pared to that: I would not be involved in the guilt of it for all the world.

Lucy. Nor I, Heaven knows. Therefore let us clear ourselves, by doing all that is in our power to prevent it. I have just thought of a way that to me seems probable. Will you join with me to detect this cursed design?

Blunt. With all my heart. He, who knows of a murder intended to be committed, and does not discover it, in the eye of the law and reason, is a murderer.

Lucy. Let us lose no time; I will acquaint you with the particulars as we go. [Exeunt. SCENE III-A walk at some distance from a country seat,

ACT IV.