Char. Is poverty nothing, then? Mrs. B. Nothing in the world, if it affected only me. While we had a fortune, I was the happiest of the rich; and now 'tis gone, give me but a bare subsistence and smiles, and I shall be the happiest of the poor. look at me? Char. That I may hate my brother. my husband's Why do you Char. Has he not undone you?-Oh, this pernicious vice of gaming! but methinks his usual hours of four or five in the morning might have contented him. Need he have staid out all night! I shall learn to detest him. Mrs. B. Not for the first fault. He never slept from me before. Char. Slept from you! No, no, his nights have nothing to do with sleep. How has this one vice driven him from every virtue !-Nay, from his affections too!-The time was, sisterMrs. B. And is. I have no fear of his affections. I knew that he were safe! Would Char. From ruin and his companions. But that's impossible. His poor little boy, too! what must become of him? Mrs. B. Why, want shall teach him industry. From his father's mistakes he shall learn prudence, and from his mother's resignation, patience. Poverty has no such terrors in it as you imagine. There's no condition of life, sickness and pain excepted, where happiness is excluded. The husbandman, who rises early to his labor, enjoys more welcome rest at night for❜t. His bread is sweeter to him; his home happier; his family dearer; his enjoyments surer. The sun that rouses him in the morning, sets in the evening to release him. All situations have their comforts, if sweet contentment dwell in the heart. But my poor Beverly has none. The thought of having ruined those he loves is misery forever to him. Would I could ease his mind of that! Char. If he alone were ruined, 'twere just he should be punished. He is my brother, 'tis true; but when I think of what he has done-of the fortune you brought him—of his own large estate too, squandered away upon this vilest of passions, and among the vilest of wretches! oh, I have no patience! My own little fortune is untouched, he says. Would I were sure on't. Mrs. B. And so you may-'twould be a sin to doubt it. Char. I will be sure on't-'twas madness in me to give it to his management. But I'll demand it from him this morning. I have a melancholy occasion for it. Mrs. B. What occasion? Char. To support a sister. Take it, and reward deserves much more. Char. Because my sister's miserable. Mrs. B. You must not think so. I have my jewels left yet. And when all's gone, these hands shall toil for our support. The poor should be industrious. Why those tears, Charlotte? Char. They flow in pity for you. Mrs. B. All may be well yet. When he has nothing to lose, I shall fetter him in these arms again: and then what is it to be poor? Char. Cure him but of this destructive passion, and my uncle's death may retrieve all yet. Mrs. B. Ay, Charlotte, could we cure him! But the disease of play admits no cure but poverty; and the loss of another fortune would but increase his shame and his affliction. Mr. Lewson call this morning? Will Char. He said so last night. He gave me hints, too, that he had suspicions of our friend Stukely. Mrs. B. Not of treachery to my husband? That he loves play, I know; but surely he's honest. Char. He would fain be thought so;-therefore I doubt him. Honesty needs no pains to set itself off. (Enter Lucy.) Lucy. Your old steward, Madam. I had not the heart to deny him admittance, the good old man begged so hard for't. (Enter Jarvis.) Mrs. B. Is this well, Jarvis? I desired you to avoid me. Jarvis. Did you, Madam? I am an old man, and had forgot. Perhaps, too, you forbade my tears; but I am old, Madam, and age will be forgetful. Mrs. B. The faithful creature! how he moves me! (To Charlotte.) Jar. I have forgot these apartments too. I remember none such in my young master's house; and yet I have lived in it these five and twenty years. His good father would not have dismissed me. Mrs. B. He had no reason, Jarvis. Jar. I was faithful to him while he lived, and when he died he bequeathed me to his son. I have been faithful to him too. Mrs. B. I know it, I know it, Jarvis. Jar. I have not a long time to live. I asked but to have died with him, and he dismissed me. Mrs. B. Pr'ythee, no more of this! 'Twas his poverty that dismissed you. Jar. Is he indeed so poor, then? Oh! he was the joy of my old heart-But must his creditors have all? And have they sold his house too? His father built it when he was but a prating boy. The times that I have carried him in these arms! And, Jarvis, says he, when a beggar has asked charity of me, why should people be poor? You sha'n't be poor, Jarvis; if I were a king, nobody should be poor. Yet he is poor. And then he was so brave! Oh! he was a brave little boy! and yet so merciful, he'd not have killed the gnat that stung him. Mrs. B. Speak to him, Charlotte, for I cannot. Jar. I have a little money, Madam; it might have been more, but I have loved the poor. All that I have is yours. Mrs. B. No, Jarvis; we have enough yet. I thank you though, and I will deserve your goodness. Jar. But shall I see my master? And will he let me attend him in his distresses? I'll be no expense to him; and 'twill kill me to be refused. Where is he, Madam? Mrs. B. time. Char. Not at home, Jarvis. You shall see him another To-morrow, or the next day-Oh, Jarvis! what a change is here! Jar. A change indeed, Madam! my old heart aches at it. [SCENE 2.-Beverly discovered sitting.] Bev. Why, what a world is this! The slave that digs for gold receives his daily pittance, and sleeps contented; while those for whom he labors, convert their good to mischief, making abundance the means of want. What had I to do with play? I wanted nothing. My wishes and my means were equal. The poor followed me with blessing, love scattered roses on my pillow, and morning waked me to delight. Oh, bitter thought, that leads to what I was, by what I am! I would forget both.-Who's there? (Enter a Waiter.) Wait. A gentleman, Sir, inquires for you. Bev. He might have used less ceremony. Stukely, I suppose? Wait. No, Sir, a stranger. Bev. Well, show him in. (Exit Waiter.) A messenger from Stukely, then; from him that has undone me! yet all in friendship and now he lends me his little to bring back fortune to me. (Enter Jarvis.) Jarvis !-Why this intrusion? Your absence had been kinder. Jar. I came in duty, Sir. If it be troublesome Bev. It is. I would be private-hid even from myself.Who sent you hither? Jar. One that would persuade you home again. My mistress is not well; her tears told me so. Bev. Go with thy duty there then. Pr'ythee begone; I have no business for thee. Jar. Yes, Sir; to lead you from this place. I am your servant still. Your prosperous fortune blessed my old age. If that has left you, I must not leave you. Bev. Not leave me! Recall past time then; or, through this sea of storms and darkness, show me a star to guide me. But what canst thou? Jar. The little that I can, I will. You have been generous to me I would not offend you, Sir, but Bev. No: think'st thou I'd ruin thee, too? I have enough of shame already. My wife! my wife !-Wouldst thou believe it, Jarvis? I have not seen her all this long night—I, who have loved her so, that every hour of absence seemed as a gap in life. But other bonds have held me. Oh! I have played the boy dropping my counters in the stream, and reaching to redeem them, lost myself! Jar. For pity's sake, sir!-I have no heart to see this change. Bev. Nor I to bear it. How speaks the world of me, Jarvis ? Jar. As of a good man dead. Of one who, walking in a dream, fell down a precipice. The world is sorry for you. Bev. Ay, and pities me-Says it not so? But I was born to infamy. I'll tell thee what it says. It calls me a villain; a treacherous husband; a cruel father; a false brother; one lost to nature and her charities: or, to say all in one short word, it calls me-gamester. Go to thy mistress, I'll see her pres ently. Jar. And why not now? Rude people press upon her; loud bawling creditors; wretches who know no pity. I met one at the door; he would have seen my mistress. I wanted means of present payment, so promised it to-morrow. But others may be pressing; and she has grief enough already. Your absence hangs too heavy on her. Bev. Tell her I'll come, then. I have a moment's business. But what hast thou to do with my distresses? thy honesty has left thee poor, and age wants comfort. Keep what thou hast; lest, between thee and the grave, misery steal in. I have a friend shall counsel me. This is that friend. BLANK VERSE. COMUS.-MILTON, (The Lady enters.) This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? |