SCENE I.

_The Quay at Barbadoes, with an Inn upon it. People employed in unlading vessels, carrying bales of goods, &c._

_Enter several PLANTERS._

_1st Plant._ I saw her this morning, gentlemen, you may depend on't. My telescope never fails me. I popp'd upon her as I was taking a peep from my balcony. A brave tight ship, I tell you, bearing down directly for Barbadoes here.

_2d Plant._ Ods, my life! rare news! We have not had a vessel arrive in our harbour these six weeks.

_3d Plant._ And the last brought only Madam Narcissa, our Governor's daughter, from England; with a parcel of lazy, idle, white folks about her. Such cargoes will never do for our trade, neighbour.

_2d Plant._ No, no; we want slaves. A terrible dearth of 'em in Barbadoes, lately! But your dingy passengers for my money. Give me a vessel like a collier, where all the lading tumbles out as black as my hat. But are you sure, now, you ar'n't mistaken? [_To 1st Planter._]

_1st Plant._ Mistaken! 'sbud, do you doubt my glass? I can discover a gull by it six leagues off: I could see every thing as plain as if I was on board.

_2d Plant._ Indeed! and what were her colours?

_1st Plant._ Um! why English----or Dutch----or French----I don't exactly remember.

_2d Plant._ What were the sailors aboard?

_1st Plant._ Eh! why they were English too----or Dutch----or French----I can't perfectly recollect.

_2d Plant._ Your glass, neighbour, is a little like a glass too much: it makes you forget every thing you ought to remember. [_Cry without_, "A sail, a sail!"]

_1st Plant._ Egad, but I'm right though. Now, gentlemen!

_All._ Aye, aye; the devil take the hindmost.

[_Exeunt hastily._

_Enter NARCISSA and PATTY._

SONG.

_Freshly now the breeze is blowing,_ _As yon ship at anchor rides;_ _Sullen waves, incessant flowing,_ _Rudely dash against the sides._ _So my heart, its course impéded,_ _Beats in my perturbed breast;_ _Doubts, like waves by waves succeeded,_ _Rise, and still deny it rest._

_Patty._ Well, ma'am, as I was saying----

_Nar._ Well, say no more of what you were saying--Sure, Patty, you forget where you are; a little caution will be necessary now, I think.

_Patty._ Lord, madam, how is it possible to help talking? We are in Barbadoes here, to be sure--but then, ma'am, one may let out a little in a private morning's walk by ourselves.

_Nar._ Nay, it's the same thing with you in doors.

_Patty._ I never blab, ma'am, never, as I hope for a gown.

_Nar._ And your never blabbing, as you call it, depends chiefly on that hope, I believe.

_Patty._ I have told the story of our voyage, indeed, to old Guzzle, the butler.

_Nar._ And thus you lead him to imagine I am but little inclined to the match.

_Patty._ Lord, ma'am, how could that be? Why I never said a word about Captain Campley.

_Nar._ Hush! hush! for heaven's sake.

_Patty._ Aye! there it is now. But if our voyage from England was so pleasant, it wasn't owing to Mr. Inkle, I'm certain. He didn't play the fiddle in our cabin, and dance on the deck, and come languishing with a glass of warm water in his hand, when we were sea-sick. Ah, ma'am, that water warm'd your heart, I'm confident. Mr. Inkle! No, no; Captain Cam----

_Nar._ There is no end to this! Remember, Patty, keep your secrecy, or you entirely lose my favour.

_Patty._ Never fear me, ma'am. But if somebody I know is not acquainted with the Governor, there's such a thing as dancing at balls, and squeezing hands when you lead up, and squeezing them again when you cast down. I'm as close as a patch box. Mum's the word, ma'am, I promise you.

[_Exit._

_Nar._ How awkward is my present situation! Promised to one, who, perhaps, may never again be heard of; and who, I am sure, if he ever appears to claim me, will do it merely on the score of interest--pressed too by another, who has already, I fear, too much interest in my heart--what can I do? What plan can I follow?

_Enter CAMPLEY._

_Camp._ Follow my advice, Narcissa, by all means. Enlist with me under the best banners in the world. General Hymen for my money! little Cupid's his drummer: he has been beating a round rub-a-dub on our hearts, and we have only to obey the word of command, fall into the ranks of matrimony, and march through life together.

_Nar._ Then consider our situation.

_Camp._ That has been duly considered. In short, the case stands exactly thus--your intended spouse is all for money; I am all for love. He is a rich rogue; I am rather a poor honest fellow. He would pocket your fortune; I will take you without a fortune in your pocket.

_Nar._ Oh! I am sensible of the favour, most gallant Captain Campley; and my father, no doubt, will be very much obliged to you.

_Camp._ Aye, there's the devil of it! Sir Christopher Curry's confounded good character knocks me up at once. Yet I am not acquainted with him neither; not known to him even by sight; being here only as a private gentleman, on a visit to my old relation, out of regimentals, and so forth; and not introduced to the Governor, as other officers of the place. But then, the report of his hospitality--his odd, blunt, whimsical friendship--his whole behaviour--

_Nar._ All stare you in the face; eh, Campley?

_Camp._ They do, till they put me out of countenance.

_Nar._ What signifies talking to _me_, when you have such opposition from others? Why hover about the city, instead of boldly attacking the guard? Wheel about, captain! face the enemy! March! Charge! Rout 'em!--Drive 'em before you, and then--

_Camp._ And then--

_Nar._ Lud ha' mercy on the poor city!

_Enter PATTY, hastily._

_Patty._ Oh lud, ma'am, I'm frightened out of my wits! sure as I'm alive, ma'am, Mr. Inkle is not dead; I saw his man, ma'am, just now, coming ashore in a boat, with other passengers, from the vessel that's come to the island.

[_Exit._

_Nar._ Then one way or other I must determine.--[_To CAMPLEY._] Look'ye, Mr. Campley, something has happened which makes me wave ceremonies.--If you mean to apply to my father, remember, that delays are dangerous.

_Camp._ Indeed!

_Nar._ I mayn't be always in the same mind, you know. [_Smiling._]

[_Exit._

_Camp._ Nay, then--Gad, I'm almost afraid too--but living in this state of doubt is torment. I'll e'en put a good face on the matter; cock my hat; make my bow; and try to reason the Governor into compliance. Faint heart never won a fair lady.

SONG.

_Why should I vain fears discover,_ _Prove a dying, sighing swain?_ _Why turn shilly-shally lover,_ _Only to prolong my pain?_

_When we woo the dear enslaver,_ _Boldly ask, and she will grant;_ _How should we obtain a favour,_ _But by telling what we want?_

_Enter TRUDGE and WOWSKI, (as from the ship), with a dirty runner to one of the inns._

_Run._ This way, sir; if you will let me recommend----

_Trudge._ Come along, Wows! Take care of your furs, and your feathers, my girl!

_Wows._ Iss.

_Trudge._ That's right.--Somebody might steal 'em, perhaps.

_Wows._ Steal!--What that?

_Trudge._ Oh Lord! see what one loses by not being born in a christian country.

_Run._ If you would, sir, but mention to your master, the house that belongs to my master; the best accommodations on the quay.--

_Trudge._ What's your sign, my lad?

_Run._ The Crown, sir.--Here it is.

_Trudge._ Well, get us a room for half an hour, and we'll come: and harkee! let it be light and airy, d'ye hear? My master has been used to your open apartments lately.

_Run._ Depend on it.--Much obliged to you, sir.

[_Exit._

_Wows._ Who be that fine man? He great prince?

_Trudge._ A prince--Ha! ha!----No, not quite a prince--but he belongs to the Crown. But how do you like this, Wows? Isn't it fine?

_Wows._ Wonder!

_Trudge._ Fine men, eh?

_Wows._ Iss! all white; like you.

_Trudge._ Yes, all the fine men are like me. As different from your people as powder and ink, or paper and blacking.

_Wows._ And fine lady--Face like snow.

_Trudge._ What! the fine lady's complexions? Oh, yes, exactly; for too much heat very often dissolves 'em! Then their dress, too.

_Wows._ Your countrymen dress so?

_Trudge._ Better, better a great deal. Why, a young flashy Englishman will sometimes carry a whole fortune on his back. But did you mind the women? All here--and there; [_Pointing before and behind._] they have it all from us in England.--And then the fine things they carry on their heads, Wowski.

_Wows._ Iss. One lady carry good fish----so fine, she call every body to look at her.

_Trudge._ Pshaw! an old woman bawling flounders. But the fine girls we meet, here, on the quay--so round and so plump!

_Wows._ You not love me now?

_Trudge._ Not love you! Zounds, have not I given you proofs?

_Wows._ Iss. Great many: but now you get here, you forget poor Wowski!

_Trudge._ Not I. I'll stick to you like wax.

_Wows._ Ah! I fear! What make you love me now?

_Trudge._ Gratitude, to be sure.

_Wows._ What that?

_Trudge._ Ha! this it is, now, to live without education. The poor dull devils of her country are all in the practice of gratitude, without finding out what it means; while we can tell the meaning of it, with little or no practice at all.--Lord, Lord, what a fine advantage christian learning is! Hark'ee, Wows!

_Wows._ Iss.

_Trudge._ Now we've accomplished our landing, I'll accomplish you. You remember the instructions I gave you on the voyage?

_Wows._ Iss.

_Trudge._ Let's see now--What are you to do, when I introduce you to the nobility, gentry, and others--of my acquaintance?

_Wows._ Make believe sit down; then get up.

_Trudge._ Let me see you do it. [_She makes a low courtesy._] Very well! and how are you to recommend yourself, when you have nothing to say, amongst all our great friends?

_Wows._ Grin--show my teeth.

_Trudge._ Right! they'll think you've lived with people of fashion. But suppose you meet an old shabby friend in misfortune, that you don't wish to be seen speak to--what would you do?

_Wows._ Look blind--not see him.

_Trudge._ Why would you do that?

_Wows._ 'Cause I can't see good friend in distress.

_Trudge._ That's a good girl! and I wish every body could boast of so kind a motive for such cursed cruel behaviour.--Lord! how some of your flashy bankers' clerks have _cut_ me in Threadneedle street.--But come, though we have got among fine folks, here, in an English settlement, I won't be ashamed of my old acquaintance: yet, for my own part, I should not be sorry, now, to see my old friend with a new face.--Odsbobs! I see Mr. Inkle--Go in, Wows; call for what you like best.

_Wows._ Then I call for you--ah! I fear I not see you often now. But you come soon----

SONG.

_Remember when we walked alone,_ _And heard, so gruff, the lion growl:_ _And when the moon so bright it shone,_ _We saw the wolf look up and howl;_ _I led you well, safe to our cell,_ _While tremblingly,_ _You said to me,_ _--And kiss'd so sweet--dear Wowski tell,_ _How could I live without ye?_

_But now you come across the sea,_ _And tell me here no monsters roar;_ _You'll walk alone, and leave poor me,_ _When wolves, to fright you, howl no more._ _But ah! think well on our old cell,_ _Where tremblingly,_ _You kiss'd poor me--_ _Perhaps you'll say--dear Wowski tell,_ _How can I live without ye?_

[_Exit WOWSKI._

_Trudge._ Who have we here?

_Enter FIRST PLANTER._

_Plant._ Hark'ee, young man! Is that young Indian of yours going to our market?

_Trudge._ Not she--she never went to market in all her life.

_Plant._ I mean, is she for our sale of slaves? Our black fair?

_Trudge._ A black fair, ha! ha! ha! You hold it on a brown green, I suppose.

_Plant._ She's your slave, I take it?

_Trudge._ Yes; and I'm her humble servant, I take it.

_Plant._ Aye, aye, natural enough at sea.--But at how much do you value her?

_Trudge._ Just as much as she has saved me--My own life.

_Plant._ Pshaw! you mean to sell her?

_Trudge._ [_Staring._] Zounds! what a devil of a fellow! Sell Wows!--my poor, dear, dingy, wife!

_Plant._ Come, come, I've heard your story from the ship.--Don't let's haggle; I'll bid as fair as any trader amongst us. But no tricks upon travellers, young man, to raise your price.----Your wife, indeed! Why she's no christian!

_Trudge._ No; but I am; so I shall do as I'd be done by: and, if you were a good one yourself, you'd know, that fellow-feeling for a poor body, who wants your help, is the noblest mark of our religion.--I wou'dn't be articled clerk to such a fellow for the world.

_Plant._ Hey-day! the booby's in love with her! Why, sure, friend, you would not live here with a black?

_Trudge._ Plague on't; there it is. I shall be laughed out of my honesty, here.--But you may be jogging, friend; I may feel a little queer, perhaps, at showing her face--but, dam me, if ever I do any thing to make me asham'd of showing my own.

_Plant._ Why, I tell you, her very complexion----

_Trudge._ Rot her complexion--I'll tell you what, Mr. _Fair-trader_, if your head and heart were to change places, I've a notion you'd be as black in the face as an ink-bottle.

_Plant._ Pshaw! the fellow's a fool--a rude rascal--he ought to be sent back to the savages again. He's not fit to live among us christians.

[_Exit PLANTER._

_Trudge._ Oh, here comes my master, at last.

_Enter INKLE, and a second PLANTER._

_Inkle._ Nay, sir, I understand your customs well; your Indian markets are not unknown to me.

_2d Plant._ And, as you seem to understand business, I need not tell you, that dispatch is the soul of it. Her name you say is--

_Inkle._ Yarico: but urge this no more, I beg you; I must not listen to it: for, to speak freely, her anxious care of me demands, that here,--though here it may seem strange--I should avow my love for her.

_Plant._ Lord help you for a merchant!--It's the first time I ever heard a trader talk of love; except, indeed, the love of trade, and the love of the _Sweet Molly_, my ship.

_Inkle._ Then, sir, you cannot feel my situation.

_Plant._ Oh yes, I can! we have a hundred such cases just after a voyage; but they never last long on land. It's amazing how constant a young man is in a ship! But, in two words, will you dispose of her, or no?

_Inkle._ In two words, then, meet me here at noon, and we'll speak further on this subject: and lest you think I trifle with your business, hear why I wish this pause. Chance threw me, on my passage to your island, among a savage people. Deserted,--defenceless,--cut off from companions,--my life at stake--to this young creature I owe my preservation;--she found me, like a dying bough, torn from its kindred branches; which, as it drooped, she moistened with her tears.

_Plant._ Nay, nay, talk like a man of this world.

_Inkle._ Your patience.--And yet your interruption goes to my present feelings; for on our sail to this your island--the thoughts of time mispent--doubt--fears--for call it what you will--have much perplexed me; and as your spires arose, reflections still rose with them; for here, sir, lie my interests, great connexions, and other weighty matters--which now I need not mention----

_Plant._ But which her presence here will mar.

_Inkle._ Even so--And yet the gratitude I owe her--

_Plant._ Pshaw! So because she preserved your life, your gratitude is to make you give up all you have to live upon.

_Inkle._ Why, in that light indeed--This never struck me yet, I'll think on't.

_Plant._ Aye, aye, do so--Why, what return can the wench wish more than taking her from a wild, idle, savage people, and providing for her, here, with reputable hard work, in a genteel, polished, tender, christian country?

_Inkle._ Well, sir, at noon----

_Plant._ I'll meet you--but remember, young gentleman, you must get her off your hands--you must, indeed.--I shall have her a bargain, I see that--your servant!--Zounds, how late it is--but never be put out of your way for a woman--I must run--my wife will play the devil with me for keeping breakfast.

[_Exit._

_Inkle._ Trudge.

_Trudge._ Sir!

_Inkle._ Have you provided a proper apartment?

_Trudge._ Yes, sir, at the Crown here; a neat, spruce room they tell me. You have not seen such a convenient lodging this good while, I believe.

_Inkle._ Are there no better inns in the town?

_Trudge._ Um----Why there is the Lion, I hear, and the Bear, and the Boar--but we saw them at the door of all our late lodgings, and found but bad accommodations within, sir.

_Inkle._ Well, run to the end of the quay, and conduct Yarico hither. The road is straight before you: you can't miss it.

_Trudge._ Very well, sir. What a fine thing it is to turn one's back on a master, without running into a wolf's belly! One can follow one's nose on a message here, and be sure it won't be bit off by the way.

[_Exit._

_Inkle._ Let me reflect a little. Part with her!--My interest, honour, engagements to Narcissa, all demand it. My father's precepts too--I can remember, when I was a boy, what pains he took to mould me.--School'd me from morn to night--and still the burden of his song was--Prudence! Prudence! Thomas, and you'll rise. His maxims rooted in my heart, and as I grew--_they_ grew; till I was reckoned, among our friends, a steady, sober, solid, good young man; and all the neighbours call'd me _the prudent Mr. Thomas_. And shall I now, at once, kick down the character which I have raised so warily?--Part with her--sell her!--The thought once struck me in our cabin, as she lay sleeping by me; but, in her slumbers, she passed her arm around me, murmured a blessing on my name, and broke my meditations.

_Enter YARICO and TRUDGE._

_Yar._ My love!

_Trudge._ I have been showing her all the wigs and bales of goods we met on the quay, sir.

_Yar._ Oh! I have feasted my eyes on wonders.

_Trudge._ And I'll go feast on a slice of beef, in the inn, here.

[_Exit._

_Yar._ My mind has been so busy, that I almost forgot even you. I wish you had stayed with me--You would have seen such sights!

_Inkle._ Those sights have become familiar to me, Yarico.

_Yar._ And yet I wish they were not--You might partake my pleasures--but now again, methinks, I will not wish so--for, with too much gazing, you might neglect poor _Yarico_.

_Inkle._ Nay, nay, my care is still for you.

_Yar._ I am sure it is: and if I thought it was not, I would tell you tales about our poor old grot--bid you remember our palm-tree near the brook, where in the shade you often stretched yourself, while I would take your head upon my lap, and sing my love to sleep. I know you'll love me then.

SONG.

_Our grotto was the sweetest place!_ _The bending boughs, with fragrance blowing,_ _Would check the brook's impetuous pace,_ _Which murmur'd to be stopp'd from flowing._ _'Twas there we met, and gaz'd our fill:_ _Ah! think on this, and love me still._

_'Twas then my bosom first knew fear,_ _--Fear to an Indian maid a stranger--_ _The war-song, arrows, hatchet, spear,_ _All warn'd me of my lover's danger._ _For him did cares my bosom fill:--_ _Ah! think on this, and love me still._

_For him, by day, with care conceal'd,_ _To search for food I climb'd the mountain;_ _And when the night no form reveal'd,_ _Jocund we sought the bubbling fountain._ _Then, then would joy my bosom fill;_ _Ah! think on this and love me still._

[_Exeunt._