SCENE I.

Mr. ANDREWS's house.

Enter MARIA and THOMAS.

MARIA. But why these moping, melancholy looks?
Each eye observes and marks them now unseemly,
Whilst every countenance but your's speaks joy,
At the near wedding of our master's daughter.
Sure none so well deserv'd this noble prize:
And young lord Weston will be bless'd indeed.

THOMAS. It has been countermanded.

MARIA. What again?
This is the second time. What can this mean?
Then, his unusual absence, now a month,
Nor any cause assign'd.

THOMAS. Some accident.
I know a truer flame was ne'er profess'd:
A fondness which commenced in his apprenticeship,
Here in this house, then but the late lord's nephew,
Nor next in heirship to estate or title.

MARIA. And sure all must approve his well-judg'd choice!
In charms and virtues there are none surpass her.

THOMAS. Heav'n grant my fears are groundless! but, Maria,
To think on what of late I daily see,
Afflicts my soul.

MARIA. What is't your fears suggest?

THOMAS. A wasted fortune and a sinking credit,
With the near ruin of this worthy family;
The thought materially concerns us both.

MARIA. But, why again, should we distress ourselves
For that we cannot help?

THOMAS. Ungenerous thought!
Duty and love and gratitude demand it.
'Twas here we met each other; here we wedded,
And ever have receiv'd the kindest treatment.
But what disturbs me most—I have been privy
To matters which I should not have conceal'd
From our good friend her father.

MARIA. Think not of it.
It is not possible to save them now.

THOMAS. Would in his second marriage he had met
With one more suited to his years and rank!

MARIA. But are not all things for the better alter'd?
Our house fill'd often with the best of company?

THOMAS. The best saidst thou? O! no, the worst of all,
A shameless crew of fashionable pillagers;
So that this bank house, by their nightly riot,
Might rather seem a rake-frequented tavern;
And ruin is their sport. Is not each servant
A worn-out victim to those midnight revels,
Without a sabbath's rest? (For in these times,
All sanctity is scoff'd at by the great,
And heaven's just wrath defy'd.) An honest master,
Scarcely a month beyond his fiftieth year,
(Heart-rent with trouble at these sad proceedings,)
Wears to the eye a visage of fourscore:
Nor to be wondered at.

MARIA. You dream too much.

THOMAS. O! it is seen by all. Oft through his groves,
With folded arms and downcast looks he saunters,
Ev'n 'midst the dank inclemency of night.

MARIA. You're too severe, too scrupulous; why, man,
My mistress is a perfect saint, compar'd
With some of those I formerly have serv'd.

THOMAS. Her conduct has of late been foully censur'd.
But I've disclos'd the whole to our kind neighbours
Wilson and Goodwin, his most faithful friends—

MARIA. For which ten thousand blisters scald your tongue! [Aside]

THOMAS. Who are resolv'd (the task howe'er ungrateful)
Quickly to lay his desp'rate state before him.

MARIA. But pray, why should not we as well as others,
Avail ourselves of something, whilst all's going?

THOMAS. Think'st thou to tempt me by a thought so vile?
No; I defy ev'n Envy's cankering tongue
To brand me with the name of faithless steward
Still steady to my trust, nor love, nor fear,
Shall reason from my soul, its inbred honesty.
What then would be the transport of the thought,
That I, from wreck had sav'd this shatter'd bark,
Though poverty and want were my reward!

MARIA. I see you are as obstinate as usual,
And still persist in your old-fashion'd ravings.
Does not experience daily prove that wealth
Alone gives honour; poverty disgrace?

THOMAS. All this concerns this transient world alone;
Nor is it worth a single moment's thought.
A slender pittance, earn'd by honest industry,
Surpasses mines of wealth acquir'd by fraud.

MARIA. It cannot sure be wrong to make reprisals!
Hath she not got in loan from us our earnings
From time to time, nor heeds our pressing calls?

THOMAS. Ay, as she wastes the honest tradesman's dues,
Which from her husband she receives to pay.
But would her crime be an excuse for ours?
Were that the rule, 'twould be a desp'rate world.

MARIA. 'Tis not a wonder he should be distress'd.
Six months are scarcely past since one cashier,
In whom you know he plac'd the highest confidence,
Absconded with some thousands.

THOMAS. So 'tis said, [Bell rings]
But time will quickly shew the truth of all.

MARIA. Heard you the bell? 'tis he, just come to town.

THOMAS. And well he came so late, or he had met
On their retreat, that group of restless rioters,
Who day and night pursue this misled woman. [Bell rings again.]
It is the bell again. I am resolv'd
To speak my fears, receive them as he may.

MARIA. Prithee, forbear till you revolve it further. [He, goes off]
Doubtless she's daily plunging into ruin
The poor infatuated man her husband,
Whom fondness hath made blind to her misconduct.
But I must hear what passes at this meeting;
Wherefore, I'll to the closet next the chamber,
Where usually they meet for private conference. [She goes off.]

SCENE II.

Another room in Mr. ANDREWS's house.

Mr. ANDREWS and THOMAS.

ANDREWS. What strange disorder runs thro' all this house!
It seems more like a place of midnight revelling,
Than habitation of a sober family,
And every servant in it looks a spectre.

[A servant delivers Mr. ANDREWS a letter, which he reads;
servant retires.]

"This from your late unfortunate cashier, serves
to inform you that he never wrong'd you; 'tis true,
he was deficient much when he departed, yet, by
that Power to whom all thoughts lie open! he knows
not how it happened; but, if the present rumours
are not false, your greatest foe is nearest to
your heart."

Such secret notices of late are frequent.
When was this letter brought?

THOMAS. 'Twas left last night.

ANDREWS. Is my wife up?

THOMAS. She's not long gone to rest.

ANDREWS. Too much her practised course. Unthinking woman!
Thus she precipitates our common ruin. [Aside.]
Did not you tell me that my neighbour Wilson
Had been enquiring for me here to-day?

THOMAS. He was three times, and now I hear his voice.

ANDREWS. 'Tis opportune; return when he departs. [THOMAS goes off]

Enter WILSON.

Welcome! thrice welcome! truest, best of friends.

WILSON. I hope 'twill speedily be in my power,
As 'tis my wish sincere, to give you joy
On the most happy marriage of your daughter.

Andrew. A thousand thanks! 'twas to have been to morrow,
But is postponed a while.

WILSON. There is no prize,
Wealthy, or noble, which she doth not merit.

ANDREWS. Again I thank my friend; but tell me wherefore,
We meet not now as we were wont? time was
When scarce a single day knew us asunder;
Of late we're so for weeks.

WILSON. Where lies the blame?
You then were us'd to join your happy friends,
In all their harmony and mirthful innocence;
But you and yours have quite estrang'd yourselves,
Scorning to mingle in our humble circles.

ANDREWS. And is this mode of life to us peculiar?
The tide of fashion, in these days of riot,
Sweeps all before it that its torrent meets.

WILSON. To our eternal shame!—All sense is fled,
And ev'ry social pleasure with their virtues.
Nor boast we more that wholesome plain economy
Which made our ancestors so justly fam'd
For honestly, and every gen'rous deed;
But in its stead a splendid, wasteful vanity
(Regardless of the toiler's hard-earn'd claims,)
Pervades each rank, and all distinction levels:
Too sure fore-runners of the loss of freedom.

ANDREWS. Your picture is as just as it is gloomy.
But you can firmly stem th' infection's tide,
And 'scape the censure we so justly merit.
Yet you'd not blame your friend, if you knew all. [He walks to
and fro.]

WILSON. I cannot longer justify myself,
To be a mute spectator of such ruin,
As hourly threatens this