SCENE I.

A room in Mr. GOODWIN's house.

GOODWIN and WILSON.

WILSON. This letter just now brought from our friend Andrews,
Is superscrib'd to me, and yet most surely,
By its contents, it was design'd for you. [Gives him the letter,
which he reads.]

GOODWIN. What proof this of his sad distracted state!
Nor wonder; his distress encreases hourly.
Midst which, one of his ships, it is reported,
with a rich cargo, fraught from India's shores,
Was lately wreek'd; and that by some neglect,
It had not been insur'd.—'Tis rumour'd too,
That some of his acceptances are noted.

WILSON. Most true, I have myself paid several;
The just return to him, who, from his friends,
His purse on like occasion ne'er with-held.

GOODWIN. His bosom glows with all the heav'nly feelings
Of gen'rous amity and social love.
So boundless too, he cou'd not rest and know,
That ev'n a worthy stranger felt distress.

Enter a SERVANT and delivers a letter to Mr. Goodwin,
which he opens and peruses.

'Tis all a mystery; or perfect madness.
It can't be meant for me. [To the SERVANT.] Where got you this?

SERVANT. Your neighbour Andrews sent it to your house.

GOODWIN. Do you withdraw. [SERVANT withdraws.] I pray you
hear it read. [Reads out.]

"That you are the blackest of all villains you must
yourself admit. What, induce me to suspect my wife
with another (as you did this morning) in order to
carry on your own adulterous schemes? such an attempt
against my honour, peace of mind, and all that is most
dear to me! If you regard your safety you will be
cautious of our meeting.

"James Andrews"

WILSON. Give me the letter, 'twas design'd for me.
Some like discourse as is in part there hinted,
This morning pass'd between us—Give it, pray.

GOODWIN. 'Tis plain, two misdirections have been written;
Yet, let me stipulate this one condition,
That you command yourself; for 'twill require
Your utmost fortitude. [Gives the letter.]

WILSON. By heav'n! some stratagem,
Of deep and black contrivance is on foot;
For there's no mischief, but that artful woman
Hath heart and head to scheme.

Enter a SERVANT.

SERVANT. [To GOODWIN.] Sir, your friend Andrews.

GOODWIN. [To WILSON.] And do you choose to meet him?

WILSON. Shou'd I shun him,
It might induce him to conclude me guilty.

GOODWIN. [To his SERVANT.] You—conduct him hither. I dread
the event. [SERVANT goes off.]
And yet well know your fortitude and temper.

WILSON. Fear not.—I pity him; he's much disturb'd.

Enter Mr. ANDREWS.

ANDREWS. [To GOODWIN.] Did you receive some lines from me to-day?

GOODWIN. To my surprize I did, which I suppose
By the contents were otherwise intended.

ANDREWS. Most strange mistake! I wrote them for that villain.

WILSON. Ha! villain in my teeth, what mean you, sir?

ANDREWS. Have you not wrong'd me? injur'd me most basely?

WILSON. Unhappy man! 'twas never in my thoughts.

ANDREWS. By heav'n, 'tis false! [To GOODWIN.] You have perus'd
my letter.

GOODWIN. I have by accident, as I inform'd you.

ANDREWS. Is he not then the blackest of all villains?

WILSON. Licentious railer, cease your foul invective,
Nor patience press too far: but for that amity,
In which we've liv'd, I cou'd not have endur'd
Ev'n half of this unmerited ill-treatment.
Again, I tell you, I'm an utter stranger
To ev'ry charge in your impassion'd letter,
Nor know I what it means.

ANDREWS. Again, 'tis false.

GOODWIN. O! my good friends, forbear; I've heard too much.
Permit me then to speak between you both.
What is affirm'd on one side, on the other
As firmly is denied: wherefore, it lies
On him who made the charge to shew his proof.

ANDREWS. Then, at your instance only;—'twas a letter,
From my ill-fated wife to this deceiver,
Which on the way by accident I seiz'd;
Wherein th' attempts he made (advantage taking
Of the distress her indiscretion caus'd)
To his adult'rous purpose to seduce her,
Are manifest.

WILSON. Deluded, undone man!
How this insidious woman hath depriv'd him
Of that sage judgment which he once possess'd!

GOODWIN. Where is the letter?

ANDREWS. Unluckily destroy'd.

WILSON. And are these all the grounds on which you charge
An old and faithful friend with such a breach
Of virtue, honour, and of all that's worthy?
O most abandon'd woman! weak as wicked.

ANDREWS. Recal your words, base slanderer, else this hand
Shall pluck forth the rude tongue that utter'd them.

GOODWIN. Forbear, I pray! you will alarm my family.

WILSON. [To GOODWIN.] This is too much for ev'n
a brother's bearing.
Nor can I longer answer for myself. [Goes off.]

ANDREWS. [After remaining for some time deep in thought.]
Guilty! O guilty! every thing confirms it.
Had my sworn enemy distress'd me thus,
Time might have sooth'd the anguish of my soul;
But oh! what mode of patience can endure
To find the traitor in my bosom friend!

GOODWIN. Rather think him innocent.

ANDREWS. Yet how?
Did not the blush of conscience mark his visage?
The thought, the very thought, inflames to madness.

GOODWIN. He seem'd surpriz'd, but shew'd no sign of guilt.
'Twere better sure, to sift this matter calmly;
Passion but mars the purpose it pursues.

ANDREWS. O! cou'd I hope for doubt!

GOODWIN. You've known him long?

ANDREWS. These thirty years; no brothers e'er lov'd better:
And so exalted was, so pure the friendship,
Which 'twixt our souls in harmony subsisted,
Each knew no joy the other did not feel,
And all our evils were by sharing lighten'd:
He was my second self, as I was his,
Like streams whose currents mix and flow together.

GOODWIN. And have you ever found him in a falsehood?

ANDREWS. In his fidelity I so confided,
That with the dearest treasure of my soul
I had entrusted him—and now he's lost;
For ever lost—yet, yet to think—O heav'n!
That this unhappy woman, once so virtuous,
Cou'd ever thus have chang'd. O Goodwin! Goodwin!
There's not a peasant in the clay-built hut,
Who daily with his toil-tir'd arm acquires
A scanty pittance for life's common wants,
Whose state is not a paradise to mine!

GOODWIN. Despond not thus, there's nothing certain yet;
Wherefore, compose awhile your ruffled spirit,
And bear with manly fortitude these trials:
The tempest may th' inferior regions shake,
Whilst those of higher sphere rest undisturb'd
Above the threaten'd ruin!

ANDREWS. [After some pause.] Oh! tell me then, what says
report of her?

GOODWIN. A dangerous request!

ANDREWS. But cou'd you see your friend so deeply wrong'd?
Wrong'd in the tenderest point! and yet be silent?
What says the world of this lord Belmour's visits?
You start—

GOODWIN. Its rumours may be false—however,
Since you so press it, I will thus far venture—
Suppose, that after you have left the city,
To sleep as usual at your rural dwelling,
This, or some other night, you should return?
And at some near-appointed station wait,
Until some friendly watch, whom you can trust,
Shall give you notice of the secret visit?

ANDREWS. Thanks for this hint, it shall be so this night.

GOODWIN. Mean while, you must be calm, or may prevent
The purposes you covet to accomplish. [They go off.]

SCENE II.

Mr. ANDREWS's house.

Mrs. ANDREWS and MARIA.

MARIA. Alas! what shall I do? 'tis I, 'tis I,
That should be punish'd.

Mrs. ANDREWS. Punish'd! for what?

MARIA. I've brought my husband to a shameful end.

Mrs. ANDREWS. Why this alarm? explain the mystery.

MARIA. Your safety only, and a rash resentment
(Not dreaming of the fatal consequence)
Made me convey the key into his trunk.
And Jefferson by note, without his signature,
Inform'd your husband he shou'd find it there.

Mrs. ANDREWS. Suspend, I pray you, your distress awhile.
As yet, he's but imprison'd in his room:
You know my husband has a tender heart,
And loves him m