UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES r -:ty of c-'^-^"'^^-^ AT LOS ANGELES LIBRARY ^ THE WORKS OF HENRY FIELDING, ESQ. WITH AN ESSAY ON HIS LIFE AND GENIUS. BY ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ. A NEW EDITION. ETUTEI) 1!Y JAMES P. BROWNE, M.D. (Edinb.) ■» J ,^ * o ' .\"': r\''< /on>J; ;:'; i:' - J 5 » > > -» 3 ; IN TEN VOLUMES. VOL. IX. LONDON: BICKERS AND SON. H. SOTHERAN and CO. M.DCCC.LXXI. 13,2978 LONDON : riUNTEO BY HEAD, HOLE, & CO., FAI!lUNCil)ON STREET, AND • • • .•• CATHRK06TEI4 ROW, .fi.C. ...... • ••••/• »■•*, ••• •«•• • *•,,' •• ••,*« I < t • . . . .. « t > • • c « t ■ « •• ••. . TR V.3 CONTENTS OF THE NINTH VOLUME. CONTINUATION OF AMELIA. BOOK VII. CHAP, TAGE I. A very short chapter, and consequently re- quinng no preface II. The begmnmg of Mrs. Bonnet's history III. Continuation of Mrs. Bonnet's story. IV. Farther continuation V. The story of ]\Irs. Bennet continued VI. Farther continued VII. The story farther continued . VIII. Farther continuation IX. The conclusion of Mrs. Bennet's history X. Being the last chapter of the Seventh Book BOOK VIII. \ 1 3 12 19 25 34 42 45 51 56 I. Being the fii'st chapter of the Eighth Book . 63 II. Containing an account of Mr. Booth's fellow- sufferers . . . . . . .68 III. Containing some extraordinary behaviour in Mrs. EUison . . . " . . .70 IV CONTENTS. CHAP. TACE IV. Containing, among many matters, tlie ex- emplary behaviour of colonel James . .77 V. Comments upon authors . . . .82 VI. AVliich inclines rather to satire than panegyric 91 VIL Worthy a very serious perusal . . .97 VIII. Consisting of grave matters . . . .99 IX. A curious chapter, from which a curious reader may draw sundry observations. ' 105 X. In which are many profound secrets of philosophy . . . . . .111 BOOK IX. I. In which the history looks backwards . .125 II. In which the history goes forward . . 129 III. A conversation between Dr. Harrison and others ....... 134 IV. A dialogue between Booth and Amelia . .140 V. A conversation between Amelia and Dr. Harrison, with the result . . . .147 VI. Containing as surprising an accident as is perhaps recorded in history. . . .153 VII. In which the Author appears to be master of that profound learning,*""called The Know- ledge of the Town . . . . .160 VIII. In which two strangers make their appear- ance 165 IX. A scene of modern wit and humour . .172 X. A curious conversation between the doctor, the young clergyman, and the young clergyman's father 179 BOOK X. I. To which we will prefix no prcfoce . . 187 CONTENTS. V CHAP, PAGE II. What happened at the masquerade . .192 III. Consequences of the masquerade, not un- common nor surprismg . . . .204 IV. Consequences of the masquerade . . .208 V. In which colonel Bath appears in great glory 217 VI. Read, gamester, and observe .... 224 VII. In wliich Booth receives a visit from captain Trent 230 VIII. Contains a letter and other matters . . 235 IX. Containing some things worthy observation . 244 BOOK XI. I. Containing a very polite scene . . . 249 II. Matters political ...... 256 III. The history of Mr. Trent . . . . 2G5 IV. Containing some distress . . . .275 V. Containing more wormwood, and other in- gredients ....... 280 VI. A scene of the tragic kind . . . .285 VII. In which Mr. Booth meets with more than one adventm-e . . . . . .290 VIII. In which Amelia appears in a light more amiable than gay . . . . .295 IX. A very tragic scene . . . . .299 BOOK XII. I. The book begins with polite history . . 305 II, In which Amelia visits her husband . . 308 III. Containing matters pertinent to the history . 31G IV. In which Dr. Harrison visits colonel James . 323 V. What passed at the bailiff's house . .329 VI. What passed between the doctor and the sick man 335 VI CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE VII. In whicli tlie history draws towards a con- clusion ....... 343 VIII. Thus this history draws nearer to a con- chision ....... 349 IX. In which the history is concluded . . .357 An Essay on Conversation 361 An Essay on the Knowledge of the Ciiakacters of Men 403 AMELIA. BOOK VIT. CHAPTER I. A very short chapter^ and comequently requtn'ng no preface. Mrs. Bexnet having fastened the door, and both the ladies having taken their places, she once or twice offered to speak, when passion stopped her utterance ; and, after a minute's silence, she burst into a flood of tears. Upon which, Amelia, expressing the utmost tenderness for her, as well by her look as by her accent ; cried — ' What can '- be the reason, dear Madam, of all this emotion ?' — '■ O Mrs. Booth ! ' answered she, ' I find I have under- ' taken what I am not able to perfonn. — You would not ' wonder at my emotion, if you knew you had an ' adulteress and a murderer now standing before you.' Amelia turned pale as death at these w^ords, which Mrs. Bennet observing, collected all the force she was able, and, a little composing her countenance, cried, ' I see, ' Madam, I have terrified you with sucli dreadful words ; ' but I hope you will not think me guilty of these crimes ' in the blackest degree.' — 'Guilty!' cries Amelia. ' ' Heavens !' — ' I believe indeed your candour,' continued Mrs. Bennet, ' will be readier to acquit me than I am ' to acquit myself. — Indiscretion, at least, the highest, ' most unpardonable indiscretion, I shall always lay to VOL. IX. H 2 AMELIA. ' my own charge ; and, when I reflect on the fatal con- ' sequences, I can never, never forgive myself Here she again began to lament in so bitter a manner, that Amelia endeavoured, as much as she could (for she was herself greatly shocked), to sooth and comfort her ; telling her that if indiscretion was her highest crime, the unhappy consequences made her rather an unfortunate than a guilty person ; and concluded by saying, — ' In- ' deed. Madam, you have raised my curiosity to the ' highest pitch, and. I beg you will proceed with your ' story.' Mrs. Bennet then seemed a second time going to begin her relation, when she cried out, ' I would, if possible, ' tu'e you with no more of my unfortunate life than just ' with that part which leads to a catastrophe in which I *" think you may yourself be interested ; but I protest I ' am at a loss where to begin.' ' Begin wherever you please, dear ]\Iadam,' cries Amelia ; ' but I beg you will consider my impatience.' I do consider it,' answered Mrs. Bennet ; ' and therefore would begin with that part of my story which leads directly to what concerns yourself; for how, indeed, should my life produce any tiling worthy your notice ?' Do not say so, Madam,' cries Amelia, ' I assure you I have long suspected there were some very remarkable incidents in your life, and have only wanted an oppor- tunity to impart to you my desire of hearing them : — • I beg therefore you would make no more apologies.' I will not, Madam,' cries Mrs. Bennet, ' and yet I would avoid any thing trivial; though, indeed, in stories of distress, especially where love is concerned, many little incidents may appear trivial to those who have never felt the passion, which to delicate minds are the most interesting part of the whole.' ' Nay, but, dear Madam,' cries Amelia, ' tliis is all preface.' AMELIA. 6 ' Well, Madam,' answered Mrs. Bennet, ' I will con- ' sider your impatience.' She then rallied all her spirits in the best manner she could, and began as is written in the next chapter. And here possibly the reader will blame Mrs. Bennet for taking her story so far back, and relating so much of her life in which Amelia had no concern ; but, in truth, she was desirous of inculcating a good opinion of herself, from recounting; those transactions where her conduct was unexceptionable, before she came to the more dangerous and suspicious part of her character. This I really sup- pose to have been her intention ; for to sacrifice the time and patience of Amelia at such a season to the mere love of talking of herself, would have been as unpardonable in her, as the bearing it was in Amelia a proof of the most perfect good breeding. CHAPTER IL The heginning of Mrs. Bennetts history. I WAS the younger of two daughters of a clergyman in Essex ; of one in whose praise, if I should indulge my fond heart in speaking, I think my invention could not outgo the reality. He was indeed well worthy of the cloth he wore ; and that, I think, is the highest character a man can obtain. ' During the first part of my life, even till I reached my sixteenth year, I can recollect nothing to relate to you. All was one long serene day, in looking back upon which, as when we cast our eyes on a calm sea, no object arises to my view. All appears one scene of happiness and tranquillity. b2 4 AMELIA. ' On the day, then, when I became sixteen years old, must I begin my history ; for on that day I first tasted the bitterness of sorrow. ' My father, besides those prescribed by om- religion, kept five festivals every year. These were on his wed- ding-day, and on the birth-day of each of his little family ; on these occasions he used to invite two or three neighbours to his house, and to indulge himself, as he said, in great excess ; for so he called drinking a pint of very small punch ; and, indeed, it might appear excess to one who on other days rarely tasted any liquor stron2:er than small beer. ' Upon my unfortunate birth-day, then, when we were all in a high degree of mirth, my mother having left the room after dinner, and staying away pretty long, my father sent me to see for her. I went according to his orders ; but, though I searched the whole house, and called after her without doors, I could neither see nor hear her. I was a little alarmed at this (though far from suspecting any great mischief had befallen her), and ran back to acquaint my father, who answered coolly (for he was a man of the calmest temper), " Very " well, my dear, I suppose she is not gone far, and will " be here immediately." Half an hour or more passed after this, when, she not returning, my father himself expressed some surprise at her stay ; declaring, it must be some matter of importance which could detain her at that time from her company. His surprise now increased every minute ; and he began to grow uneasy, and to shew sufficient symptoms in his countenance of what he felt within. He then dispatched the servant- maid to inquire after her mistress in the parish ; but waited not her return ; for she was scarce gone out of doors before he begged leave of his guests to go himself on the same errand. The company now all broke up, AMELIA. 5 and attended my father, all endeavouring to give him hopes that no mischief had happened. They searched the whole parish, but in vain ; they could neither see my mother, nor hear any news of her. My father re- turned home in a state little short of distraction. His friends in vain attempted to administer either advice or comfort ; he threw himself on the floor in the most bitter agonies of despair. ' Whilst he lay in this condition, my sister and myself lying by him, all equally, I believe, and completely miserable, our old servant-maid came into the room, and cried out, her mind misgave her that she knew where her mistress was. Upon these words, my father sprung from the floor, and asked her eagerly, where ? But oh ! Mrs. Booth, how can I describe the par- ticulars of a scene to you, the remembrance of which chills my blood with horror, and which the agonies of my mind, when it passed, made all a scene of confusion ! the fact then in short was this : my motliei', who was a most indulgent mistress to one servant, which was all we kept, was unwilling, I suppose, to disturb her at her dinner ; and therefore went herself to fill her tea-kettle at a well, into which, stretching herself too far, as we imagine, the water then being very low, she fell with the tea-kettle in her hand. The missing this gave the poor old wretch the first hint of her suspicion, which, upon examination, was found to be too well grounded. ' What we all suftered on this occasion may more easily be felt than described.' 'It may indeed,' answered Amelia, ' and I am so sensible of it, that, unless you have a mind to see me faint before your face, I beg you will order me something ; a glass of water, if you please.' Mrs. Bennet immediately com- plied with her friend's request; a glass of water Avas 6 AMELIA. brought, and some liartshorn drops infused into it ; which Amelia having di'ank off, declared she found herself much better ; and then Mrs. Bennet proceeded thus : — ^ I will not dwell on a scene which I see hath already so much affected your tender heart, and which is as disagreeable to me to relate, as it can be to you to hear. I will therefore only mention to you the be- haviour of my father "on this occasion, which was indeed becoming a philosopher and a Christian divine. On the day after my mother's funeral, he sent for my sister and myself into his room ; where, after many caresses, and every demonstration of fatherly tender- ness, as well in silence as in words, he began to exhort us to bear with patience the great calamity that had befallen us ; saying, that " as every human accident, '' how terrible soever, must happen to us by divine ''permission at least, a due sense of our duty to our " great Creator must teach us an absolute submission " to his will. Not only religion, but common sense "must teach us this; for oh! my dear children," cries he, " how vain is all resistance, all repining ! could " tears wash back again my angel from the grave, I " should drain all the juices of my body through my " eyes ; but oh, could we fill up that cursed well with "our tears, how fruitless would be all our sorrow!" — ' I think I repeat you his very words ; for the im- pression they made on me is never to be obliterated. — He then proceeded to comfort us with the cheerful thought that the loss was entirely our own, and that my mother was gi^eatly a gainer by the accident which we lamented. " 1 have a wife," cries he, "my children, " and you have a mother now amongst the heavenly "choir; how selfish therefore is all our grief! how "cruel to her are all our wishes!" — In this manner he talked to us near half an hour, though I must AMELIA. ' 7 frankly own to you lils arguments had not the imme- diate good effect on us which they deserved; for we retired from him very little the better for his exhortations ; however, they became every day more and more forcible upon our recollection ; indeed, they were greatly strengthened by his example ; for in this, as in all other instances, he practised the doctrines which he taught. From this day he never mentioned my mother more, and soon after recovered his usual cheerfulness in public \ though I have reason to think he paid many a bitter sigh in private to that remem- brance which neither philosophy nor Christianity could expunge. ' My father's advice, enforced by his example, together with the kindness of some of our friends, assisted by that ablest of all the mental physicians, Time, in a few months pretty well restored my tranquillity, when fortune made a second attack on my quiet. My sister, whom I dearly loved, and who as warmly returned my affection, had fallen into an ill state of health some time before the fatal accident wliich I have re- lated. She was indeed at that time so much better, that we had great hopes of her perfect recovery; but the disorders of her mind on that dreadful occasion so affected her body, that she presently relapsed to her former declining state, and thence grew continually worse and worse, till, after a decay of near seven months, she followed my poor mother to the grave. ' I will not tire you, dear Madam, with repetitions of grief; I will only mention two observations which have occurred to me from i-eflections on the two losses I have mentioned. The first is, that a mind once violently hurt, grows, as it were, callous to any future impressions of grief; and is never capable of feeling the same pangs a second time. The other observation AMELIA. is, that the arrows of tbrtuiie, as well as all others, derive their force from the velocity with which they are discharged ; for, when they approach you by slow and perceptible degrees, they have but very little power to do you mischief. ' The truth of these observations I experienced, not only in my own heart, but in the behaviour of my father, whose philosophy seemed to gain a complete triumph over this latter calamity. ' Our family was now reduced to two ; and my father grew extremely fond of me, as if he had now conferred an entire stock of affection on me, that had before been divided. His words, indeed, testified no less; for he daily called me his only darling, his whole comfort, his all. He committed the whole charge of his house to my care, and gave me the name of his little house- keeper, an appellation of which I was then as proud as any minister of state can be of his titles. But, though I was very industrious in the discharge of my occupation, I did not, however, neglect my studies, in which I had made so great a proficiency, that I was become a pretty good mistress of the Latin language, and had made some progress in the Greek. T believe. Madam, I have formerly acquainted you, that learning was the chief estate I inherited of my father, in which he had instructed me from my earliest youth. ' The kindness of this good man had at length wiped off the remembrance of all losses : and I, during two years, led a life of great tranquillity, I think I might almost say of perfect happiness. ' I was now in the nineteenth year of my age, when my father's good fortune removed us from the county of Essex into Hampshire, where a living was conferred on him by one of his old school-fellows of twice the value of what he was before possessed of. AMELIA. 9 * His predecessor in this new living had died in very indift'erent circumstances, and had left behind him a widow with two small children. My father, therefore, who, with great economy, had a most generous soul, bought the whole furniture of the parsonage-house at a very high price ; some of it, indeed, he would have wanted •, for though our little habitation in Essex was most completely furnished ; yet it bore no proportion to the largeness of that house in which he was now to dwell. ' His motive, however, to the purchase was, I am con- vinced, solely generosity; which appeared sufficiently by the price he gave, and may be farther inforced by the kindness lie shewed the widow in another instance ; for he assigned her an apartment for the use of herself and her little family ; which, he told her, she was welcome to enjoy as long as it suited her convenience. ' As this widow was very yoimg, and generally thought to be tolerably pretty, though I own she had a cast with her eyes which I never liked, my father, you may suppose, acted fi'om a less noble principle than 1 have hinted •, but I must injustice acquit him; for these kind offers were made her before ever he had seen her face ; and I have the greatest reason to think, that, for a long time after he had seen her, he beheld her with much indifference. ' This act of my father's gave me, when I first heard it, great satisfaction ; for I may, at least, with the modesty of the ancient philosophers, call myself a lover of generosity ; but, when I became acquainted with the widow, I was still more delighted with what my father had done ; for, though I could not agree with those who thouo-ht her a consummate beautv, I must allow that she was very fully possessed of the power of making herself agreeable ; and this power she exerted 10 AMELIA. with so mucK success, witli siicli Indefatigable industry to oblige, that within three months I became in the highest manner pleased with my new acquaintance, and had contracted the most sincere friendship for her. ' But, if I was so pleased with the widow, my father was by this time enamoured of her. She had, indeed, by the most artful conduct m tlie world, so insinuated herself into his favour, so entirely infatuated him, that he never showed the least marks of cheerfulness in her absence, and could, in truth, scarce bear that she should be out of his sight. ' She had managed this matter so well, (O she is the most artful of women !) that my father's heart was gone before I ever suspected it was in danger. The discovery you ma}^ easily believe, Madam, was not pleasing. The name of a mother-in-law sounded dreadful in my ears ; nor could I bear the thought of parting again with a share in those dear affections, of which I had purchased the wdiole by the loss of a beloved mother and sister. ' In the first hurry and disorder of my mind on this occasion, I committed a crime of the highest kind against all the laws of prudence and discretion. I took the young lady herself very roundly to task, treated her designs on my father as little better than a design to commit a theft ; and in my passion, I believe, said, she might be ashamed to think of marrying a man old enough to be her grandfather ; for so in reality he almost was. ' The lady on this occasion acted finely the part of an hypocrite. She affected to be highly affronted at my unjust suspicions, as she called them ; and proceeded to such asseverations of her innocence, that she almost brought me to discredit the evidence of my own eyes and ears. ' .My father, however, acted much more honestly ; for AMELIA. 11 lie fell the next clay Into a more violent passion with me than I had ever seen him In before, and asked me, whether I intended to return his paternal fondness by assuming the right of controlling his inclinations ? with more of the like kind, which fully convinced me what had passed between him and the lady, and how little I had injured her in my suspicions. ' Hitherto, I frankly own, my aversion to this match had been principally on my own account 5 for I had no ill opinion of the woman, though I thought neither her circumstances nor my father's age promised any kind of felicity from such an union ; but now I learnt some particulars, which, had not our quarrel become public in the parish, 1 should perhaps have never known. In short, I was informed, that this gentle obliging creature, as she had at first appeared to me, had the spirit of a tigress, and was by many believed to have broken the heart of her first husband. ' The truth of this matter being confirmed to me upon examination, I resolved not to suppress it. On this occasion fortune seemed to favour me, by giving me a speedy opportunity of seeing my father alone, and in good humour. He now first began to open his In- tended marriage, telling me that he had formerly had some religious objections to bigamy, but he had very fully considered the matter, and had satisfied himself of Its legality. He then faithfully promised me, that no second marriage should in the least Impair his aftection for me ; and concluded with the highest eulogiums on the goodness of the widow, protesting that it was her virtues and not her person with which he was enamoured. ' 1 now fell upon my knees before him, and bathing his hand in my tears, which flowed very plentifully from my eyes, acquainted him with all I had heard ; and was 12 AMELIA. ' SO very Imprudent, I miglit almost say so cruel, to dis- ' close the author of my information. ' My father heard me without any indication of passion ; ' and answered coldly, that, if there was any proof ' of such facts, he should decline any farther thoughts ' of this match : " But child," said he, " thouo-h I am far * " from suspecting the truth of what you tell me, as far ^ " as regards your knowledge, yet you know the inclina- ' " tion of the world to slander." However, before we ' parted, he promised to make a proper inquiry into what ' I had told him. — But I ask your pardon, dear Madam, ' I am running minutely into those particulars of my life, * in which you have not the least concern.' Amelia stopped her friend short in her apology, and though, perhaps, she thought her impertinent enough, yet (such was her good breeding) she gave her many assur- ances of a curiosity to know every incident of her life which she could remember; after which Mrs. Bennet proceeded as in the next chapter. CHAPTER HI. Continuation of Mrs. Bennet' s story. I THINK, Madam,' said Mrs. Bennet, ' I told you my father promised me to inquire farther into the affair, but he had hardly time to keep his word; for we separated pretty late in the evening, and early the next morning he was married to the widow. ' But though he gave no credit to my information, I had sufficient reason to think he did not forget it, bv the resentment which he soon discovered to both the persons whom I had named as my informers. ' Nor was it long before I had good cause to believe, AMELIA. 13 that my father's new wife was perfectly well acquainted with the good opinion I had of her, not only from her usage of me, but from certain hints which she threw forth with an air of triumph. One day, particularly, I remember she said to my father, upon his mentioning his age, " 0, my dear ! I hope you have many years " yet to live ! unless, indeed, I should be so cruel as " to break your heart." She spoke these words, looking me full in the face, and accompanied them with a sneer, in which the highest malice was visible, under a thin covering of affected pleasantry. ' I will not entertain you, ]\Iadam, with any thing so common as the cruel usage of a step-mother; nor of what affected me much more, the unkind behaviour of a father under such an influence. It shall suffice only to tell you, that I had the mortification to perceive the gradual and daily decrease of my father's affection. His smiles were converted into frowns; the tender appellations of child, and dear, were exchanged for plain Molly, that girl, that creature, and sometimes much harder names. I was at first turned all at once into a cypher; and at last seemed to be considered as a nuisance in the family. ' Thus altered was the man of whom I gave you such a character at the entrance of my story ; but, alas ! he no longer acted from his own excellent disposition ; but was in every thing governed and directed by my mother-in-law. In fact, whenever there is great dis- parity of years between husband and wife, the younger is, I believe, always possessed of absolute power over the elder; for superstition itself is a less firm support of absolute power than dotage. ' But though his wife was so entirely mistress of my father's will, that she could make him use me ill, she could not so perfectly suljdue his understanding, as to ]4 AMELIA. prevent him from being conscious of such ill-usage ; and from this consciousness, he began inveterately to hate me. Of this hatred he gave me numberless instances, and I protest to yon, I know not any other reason for it than what I have assigned ; and the cause, as experience hath convinced me, is adequate to the effect. ' While I was in this wretched situation, my father's unkindness having almost broken my heart, he came one day into my room with more anger in his counten- ance than I had ever seen ; and after bitterly up- braiding me with my undutiful behaviour both to himself and his worthy consort, he bid me pack up my alls, and immediately prepare to quit his house ; at the same time gave me a letter, and told me that would acquaint me where I might find a home ; adding, that he doubted not but I expected, and had indeed solicited the invitation ; and left me with a declaration that he would have no spies in his family. ' The letter, I found on opening it, was from my father's own sister; but before I mention the contents, I will give you a short sketch of her character, as it was somewhat particular. Her personal charms were not great; for she was very tall, very thin, and very homely. Of the defect of her beauty, she was, perhaps, sensible ; her vanity, therefore, retreated into her mind, where there is no looking-glass, and consequently where we can flatter ourselves with discovering- almost what- ever beauties we please. This is an encouraging cir- cumstance; and yet I have observed, dear Mrs. Booth, that few women ever seek these comforts from within, till they are driven to it by despair of finding any food for their vanity from without. Indeed, I believe the first wish of our whole sex is to be handsome.' Here both the ladies fixed their eyes on the glass, and both smiled. AMELIA. 15 ' My aunt, however,' continued Mrs. Bennet, from de- spair of gaining any applause this way, had applied her- self entirely to the contemplation of her understanding, and had improved this to such a pitch, that at the age of fifty, at which she was now arrived, she had con- tracted a hearty contempt for much the greater part of both sexes ; for the women, as being idiots, and for the men as the admirers of idiots. That word and fool were almost constantly in her mouth, and were bestowed with great liberality among all her acquaintance. ' This lady had spent one day only at my father's house in near two years; it was about a month before his second marriage. At her departure, she took occasion to whisper me her opinion of the widow, whom she called a pretty idiot, and wondered how her brother could bear such company under his roof; for neither she nor I had at that time any suspicion of what after- wards happened. ' The letter which my father had just received, and wliich was the first she had sent him since his marriage, was of such a nature, that I should be unjust if I blamed him for being offended; fool and idiot were both plentifully bestowed in it as well on himself as on his wife. But what, perhaps, had principally offended him, was that part which related to me ; for, after much panegyric on my understanding, and saying he was un- worthy of such a daughter, she considered his match not only as the highest indiscretion, as it related to himself, but as a downright act of injustice to me. One ex- pression in it I shall never forget. " You have placed," said she, " a woman above your daughter, who, in '' understanding, the only valuable gift of nature, is the " lowest in the whole class of pretty idiots." After much more of this kind, it concluded with invitmg me to her house. 10 ■ A MELT A. '' I can truly say, that when I had read the h'tter [ ' entirely forgave my father's suspicion, that 1 had made ' some complaints to my aunt of his behaviour; for ' though I was indeed innocent, there was surely colour ' enough to suspect the contrary. ' Though I had never been greatly attached to my ' aunt, nor indeed had she formerly given nie any reason ' for such an attachment ; yet I was well enough pleased ' with her present invitation. To say the truth, I led so ' wretched a life where I then was, that it was impossible ' not to be a gainer by any exchange. ' I could not, however, bear the thouo-hts of leavino- ^ my father with an impression on his mind against me '■ which I did not deserve. I endeavoured, therefore, to ' remove all his suspicion of my having complained to ' my aunt by the most earnest asseverations of my inn(^- '• cence ; but they were all to no purpose. All my tears, ' all my vows, and all my intreaties were fruitless. My '■ new mother, indeed, appeared to be my advocate ; but ' she acted her part very poorly, and far from counterfeit- ' ing any desire of succeeding in my suit, she could not ^ conceal the excessive joy which she felt on the occasion. ' Well, Madam, the next day I departed for my aunt's, ' where, after a long journey of forty miles, I arrived, ^ without having once broke my fast on the road; for ^ grief is as capable as food of filling the stomach ; and I ' had too much of the former to admit any of the latter. •• T'he fatigue of my journey, and the agitation of my ^ mind, joined to my fasting, so overpowered my spirits, ' that when I was taken from my horse, I immediately ' fainted away in the arms of the man who helped me ' from my saddle. My aunt expressed great astonishment '- at seeing me in this condition, with my eyes almost ' swollen out of my head with tears ; but my father's t letter, which 1 delivered her soon after 1 came to my- AMELIA. 17 self, pretty well, I believe, cured her surprise. She often smiled witli a mixture of contempt and anger, while she was reading it; and having pronounced her brother to be a fool, she turned to me, and with as much affability as possible (for she is no great mistress of affability) said, " Don't be uneasy, dear Molly ; for you " are come to the house of a friend ; of one who hath " sense enough to discern the author of all the mischief; " depend upon it, child, I will, ere long, make some " people ashamed of their folly." This kind reception gave me some comfort, my aunt assuring me that she would convince him how unjustly he had accused me of having made any complaints to her. A paper war was now begun between these two, which not only fixed an irreconcileable hatred between them, but confirmed my father's displeasure against me ; and, in the end, I believe, did me no service with m}^ aunt ; for I was con- sidered by both as the cause of their dissension ; though in fact, my stepmother, who very well knew the affec- tion my aunt had for her, had long since done her busi- ness with my father; and as for my aunt's affection towards him, it had been abating several years, from an apprehension that he did not pay sufficient deference to her understanding. ' I had lived about half a year with my aunt, when I heard of my stepmother's being delivered of a boy, and the great joy my father expressed on that occasion; but, poor man, he lived not long to enjoy liis happiness ; for within a month afterwards I had the melancholy news of his death. * Notwithstanding all the disobligations I had lately received from him, I was sincerely afflicted at my loss of him. All his kindness to me in my infancy, all his kindness to me while I was growing up, recurred to my memory, raised a thousand tender, melancholy ideas, VOL. IX. c 18 AMELIA. and totally obliterated all tlioiiglits of his latter be- haviour, for which I made also every allowance and every excuse in my power. ' But what may perhaps appear more extraordinary, my aunt began soon to speak of him with concern. She said he had some understanding formerly, though his passion for that vile woman had, in a great mea- sure, obscured it ; and one day, when she was in an ill-humour with me, she had the cruelty to throw out a hint that she had never quarrelled with her brother if it had not been on my account. ' My father, during his life, had allowed my aunt very handsomely for my board; for generosity was too deeply riveted in his natm-e to be plucked out by all the power of his wife. So far, however, she prevailed, that though he died possessed of upwards of 2000/. he left me no more than 1001. which, as he expressed in his will, was to set me up in some busmess, if I had the grace to take to any. ' Hitherto my aunt had, in general, treated me with some degree of affection ; but her behaviour began now to be changed. She soon took an opportunity of giving me to understand that her fortune was insufficient to keep me; and, as I could not live on the interest of my own, it was high time for me to consider about going into the world. She added, that her brother having mentioned my setting up in some business in his will was very foolish ; that I had been bred to nothing, and besides, that the sum was too trifling to set me up in any way of reputation ; she desired me therefore to think of immediately going into service. ' This advice was perhaps right enough ; and I told her I was very ready to do as she directed me ; but I was, at that time, in an ill state of health ; I desired her therefore to let me stay with lier, till my legacy, AMELIA. 19 ' which was not to be paid till a year after my father's ' death, was due ; and I then promised to satisfy her for ' my board ; to which she readily consented. ' And now, Madam,' said Mrs. Bennet, sighing, ' I am ' going to open to you those matters which lead directly ' to that great catastrophe of my life, which hath occa- ' sioned my giving you this trouble, and of trying your ' patience in this manner.' Amelia, notwithstanding her impatience, made a very civil answer to this ; and then Mrs. Bennet proceeded to relate what is written in the next chapter. CHAPTER IV. Further continuation, ' The curate of the parish, where my aunt dwelt, was a ' young fellow of about four and twenty. He had been ' left an orphan in his infancy, and entirely unprovided ' for ; when an uncle had the goodness to take care of ' his education, both at school and at the university. As ' the young gentleman was intended for the church, his ' uncle, though he had two daughters of his own, and ' no very large fortune, purchased for him the next pre- ' sentation of a living of near 200^. a year. The incum- ' bent, at the time of the purchase, was under the age of ^ sixty, and in apparent good health ; notwithstanding ' which, he died soon after the bargain, and long before ' the nephew was capable of orders ; so that the uncle ' was obliged to give the living to a clergyman, to hold ' it till the young man came of proper age. ' The young gentleman had not attained his proper ' age of taking orders, when he had the misfortune to c 2 20 AMELIA. lose Ills uncle and only friend; wlio tlilnklng he had sufficiently provided for his nephew by the purchase of the living, considered him no farther in his will, but divided all the fortune of which he died possessed be- tween his two daughters ; recommending it to them, however, on his death-bed, to assist their cousin with money sufficient to keep him at the university, till he should be capable of ordination. ' But as no appointment of this kind was in the will, the young ladies, who received about 2000?. each, thought proper to disregard the last words of their father ; for, besides that both of them were extremely tenacious of their money, they were great enemies to their cousin, on account of their father's kindness to him ; and thought proper to let him know that they thought he had robbed them of too much already. ' The poor young fellow was now greatly distressed ; for he had yet above a year to stay at the university, without any visible means of sustaining himself there. ' In this distress, however, he met with a friend, who had the good-nature to lend him the sum of twenty pounds, for which he only accepted his bond for forty, and which was to be paid within a year after his being possessed of his living •, that is, within a year after his becoming qualified to hold it. * With this small sum, thus hardly obtained, the poor gentleman made a shift to struggle with all difficulties, till he became the due age to take upon himself the character of a deacon. He then repaired to that clergyman, to whom his uncle had given the living upon the conditions above-mentioned, to procure a title to ordination ; but this, to his great surprise and mor- tification, was absolutely refused him. ' ^J'lic immediate disappohitment did not hurt him so '• much as the conclusion Iw drew from it ; for he could AMELIA, 21 have but little hopes that the man, who could have the cruelty to refuse him a title, would vouchsafe afterwards to deliver up to him a living of so considerable a value ; nor was it long before this worthy incumbent told him plainly that he valued his uncle's favours at too high a rate to part with them to any one ; nay, he pretended scruples of conscience, and said, that if he had made any slight promises, which he did not now well remem- ber, they were wicked and void ; that he looked upon himself as married to his parish, and he could no more give it up than he could give up his wife without sin. ' The poor young fellow was now obliged to seek far- ther for a title, which, at length, he obtained from the rector of the parish where my aunt lived. ' He had not long been settled in the curacy, before an intimate acquaintance grew between him and my aunt ; for she was a great admirer of the clergy, and used fre- quently to say they were the only conversible creatures in the country. ' The first time she was in this gentleman's company was at a neighbour's christening, where she stood god- mother. Here she displayed her whole little stock of knowledge, in order to captivate Mr. Bennet (I suppose. Madam, you already guess that to have been his name , and before they parted, gave him a very strong invita- tion to her house. ' Not a word passed at this christenmg between ]\Ir. Bennet and myself; but our eyes were not unemployed. Here, Madam, I first felt a pleasing kind of confusion, which I know not how to describe. I felt a kind of uneasiness ; yet did not wish to be without it. I longed to be alone ; yet dreaded the hour of parting. I could not keep my eyes off from the object which caused my confusion, and which I was at once afraid of and en- amoured with. — But why do I attempt to describe my 22 AMELIA. situation to one who must, I am sure, have felt the same ? ' Amelia smiled, and Mrs. Bennet went on thus: ' O, Mrs. Booth ! had you seen the person of whom I am now speaking, you would not condemn the suddenness of my love. Nay, indeed, I had seen him there before, though this was the first time I had ever heard the music of his voice. — Oh ! it was the sweetest that was ever heard. ' Mr. Bennet came to visit my aunt the very next day. She imputed this respectful haste to the powerful charms of her understanding, and resolved to lose no opportunity in improving the opinion which, she imagined, he had conceived of her. She became by this desire quite ridiculous, and ran into absurdities and a gallimatias scarce credible. ' Mr. Bennet, as I afterwards found, saw her in the same light with myself; but as he was a very sensible and well-bred man, he so well concealed his opinion from us both, that I was almost angry, and she was pleased even to raptures, declaring herself charmed with his understanding, though, indeed, he had said very little ; but I believe he heard himself into her good ojjinion, while he gazed himself into love. ' The two first visits which Mr. Bennet made to my aunt, though I was in the room all the time, I never spoke a word ; but on the third, on some argument which arose between them, Mr. Bennet referred himself to me. I took his side of the question, as indeed I must to have done justice, and repeated two or three words of Latin, ]\Iy aunt reddened at this, and expressed great disdain of my opinion, declaring, she was astonished that a man of Mr. Bennet's understanding could appeal to the judgment of a silly girl : " Is slie," said my aunt, bridling herself, ''•fit to decide between us?" Mr. AMELIA. 23 Bennet spoke very favourably of what I had said ; upon which my aunt burst ahnost into a rage, treated me with downright scurrility, called me conceited fool, abused my poor father for having taught me Latin, which, said she, had made me a downright coxcomb, and made me prefer myself to those who were a hundred times my superiors in knowledge. Slie then fell foul on the learned languages, declaring they were totally useless, and concluded that she had read all that was worth readino-, thouo-h, she thanked heaven, she understood no language but her own. ' Before the end of this visit Mr. Bennet reconciled himself very well to my aunt, which, indeed, was no difficult task for him to accomplish ; but from that hour she conceived a hatred and rancour towards me which I could never appease. ' My aunt had, from my first coming into her house, expressed great dislike to my learning. In plain truth, she envied me that advantage. This envy I had long ago discovered ; and had taken great pains to smother it, carefully avoiding ever to mention a Latin word in her presence, and always submitting to her authority ; for indeed I despised her ignorance too much to dis- pute with her. By these means I had pretty well suc- ceeded, and we lived tolerably together ; but the affront paid to her understanding by Mr. Bennet in my favour was an injury never to be forgiven to me. She took me severely to task that very evening, and reminded me of going to service, in such earnest terms, as almost amounted to literally turning me out of doors ; advising me, in the most insulting manner, to keep my Latin to myself; which, she said, was useless to any one; but ridiculous, when pretended to by a servant. ' The next visit Mr. Bennet made at our house I was not suffered to be present. This was much the shortest 24 AMELIA. of all his visits ; and, when he went away, he left my annt in a worse humour than ever I had seen her. The whole was discharged on me in the usual manner by up- braiding me with my learning, conceit, and poverty ; reminding me of obligations, and insisting on my going immediately to service. With all this I was greatly pleased, as it assured me that Mr. Bennet had said some- thing to her in my favour ; and I would have pm'chased a kind expression of his at almost any price. ' I should scarce, however, have been so sanguine as to draw this conclusion, had! not received some hints that I had not unhappily placed my affections on a man who made me no return ; for though he had scarce addressed a dozen sentences to me (for, indeed, he had no oppor- tunity), yet his eyes had revealed certain secrets to mme with which I was not displeased. ' I remained, however, in a state of anxiety near a month; sometimes pleasing myself with thinking Mr. Bennet' s heart was in the same situation with my own ; sometimes doubting that my wishes had flattered and de- ceived me ; and not in the least questioning that my aunt was my rival ; for I thought no woman could be proof against the charms that had subdued me. Indeed, Mrs. Booth, he was a charming young fellow ; I must, I must pay this tribute to his memory — O, gracious heaven ! why, why did I ever see him ! why was I doomed to such misery ? '—Here she burst into a flood of tears, and remained incapable of speech for some time; during which, the gentle Amelia endeavoured all she could to sooth her ; and gave sufficient marks of sympathizing in the tender affliction of her friend. Mrs. Bennet, at length, recovered her spirits, and pro- ceeded, as in the next chapter. AMELIA. 25 CHAPTER V. The story of Mrs. Bennet continued. I SCARCE know where I left off— Oh ! I was, I think, telling you, that I esteemed my aunt as my rival ; and it is not easy to conceive a greater degree of detestation than I had for her ; and what may perhaps appear strange, as she daily grew more and more civil to me, my hatred increased with her civility ; for T imputed it all to her triumph over me, and to her having secured, beyond all apprehension, the heart I longed for. ' How was I surprised, when one day, with as much good-humour as she was mistress of (for her counten- ance was not very pleasing), she asked me, how I liked Mr. Bennet? The question, you will believe. Madam, threw me into great confusion ; which she plainly perceived, and without waiting for my answer, told me, she was very well satisfied ; for that it did not require her discernment to read my thoughts in my countenance. " Well, child," said she, " I have sus- " pected this a great while, and I believe it will please " you to know that I yesterday made the same dis- " covery in your lover." This I confess to you, was more than I could well bear, and I begged her to say no more to me, at that time, on that subject. " Nay, " child," answered she, "I must tell you all, or I should " not act a friendly part. Mr. Bennet, I am convinced, " hath a passion for you ; but it is a passion which, I '' think, you should not encourage. For, to be plain " with you, I fear he is in love with your person only. '' Now this is a love, child, which cannot produce that " rational happiness which a woman of sense ouglit to 26 AMELIA. " expect." — In short, she ran on with a great deal of stuff about rational happiness, and woman of sense, and concluded, with assuring me, that, after the strictest scrutiny, she could not find that ]\Ir. Bennet had an adequate opinion of my understanding; upon which she vouchsafed to make me many compliments, but mixed with several sarcasms concerning my learning. ' I hope. Madam, however,' said she to Amelia, ' you have not so bad an opinion of my capacity as to imagine me dull enough to be offended with Mr. Bennet' s sentiments ; for which I presently knew so well to account. I was, indeed, charmed with his ingenuity, who had discovered, perhaps, the only way of reconciling my aunt to those inclinations, which I now assured myself he had for me. '- I was not long left to support my hopes by my sagacity. He soon found an opportunity of declaring his passion. He did this in so forcible, though gentle a manner, with such a profusion of fervency and tender- ness at once, that his love, like a torrent, bore every thing before it; and I am almost ashamed to own to you, how very soon he prevailed upon me to — to — in short, to be an honest woman, and to confess to him the plain truth. ' When we were upon a good footing together he gave me a long relation of what had passed at several inter- views with my aunt, at which I had not been present. He said, he had discovered, that as she valued herself chiefly on her understanding, so she was extremely jealous of mine, and hated me on accoinit of my learn- ing. That, as he had loved me passionately from his first seeing me, and had thought of nothing from that time but of throwing himself at my feet, he saw no way so open to propitiate my aunt as that which he had taken, by commencUng my beauty ; a perfection to AMELIA. 27 wlilcli she had long resigned all clahn, at the expence of my understanding, in which he lamented my defi- ciency to a degree almost of ridicule. Tliis he imputed chiefly to my learning ; on this occasion he advanced a sentiment, which so pleased my aunt, that she thought proper to make it her own 5 for I heard it afterwards more than once from her own mouth. Learnino-, he said, had the same effect on the mind that strong liquors have on tlie constitution ; Loth tending to eradicate all our natural fii'e and energy. His flattery had made such a dupe of my aunt, that she assented, without the least suspicion of his sincerity, to all he said ; so sure is vanity to weaken every fortress of the understanding, and to betray us to every attack of the enemy. ' You will believe, Madam, that I readily forgave him all he had said, not only from that motive which I have mentioned, but as I was assured he had spoke the re- verse of his real sentiments. I was not, however, quite so well pleased with my aunt, who began to treat me as if I was really an idiot. Her contempt, I own, a little piqued me ; and I could not help often expressing my resentment, when we were alone together, to Mr. Bennet ; who never failed to gratify me, by making her conceit the subject of his wit ; a talent which he possessed in the most extraordinary degree. ' This proved of very fatal consequence : for one day, while we were enjoying my aunt in a very thick arbour in the garden, she stole upon us unobserved, and over- heard our whole conversation. I wish, my dear, you understood Latin, that I might repeat you a sentence in which the rage of a tigress, that hath lost her young, is described. No English poet, as I remember, hath come up to it ; nor am I myself equal to the undertaking. She burst in upon us, open-mouthed, and after discharg- 28 AMELIA, iiio- every abusive word, almost, in tlie only language she understood, on poor Mr. Bennet, turned us both out of doors ; declaring she would send my rags after me, but would never more permit me to set my foot within her threshold. ' Consider, dear Madam, to what a wretched condition we were now reduced. I had not yet received the small legacy left me by my father ; nor was Mr. Bennet master of five pounds in the whole world. ' In this situation, the man I doated on to distraction had but little difficulty to persuade me to a proposal, which, indeed, I thought generous in him to make ; as it seemed to proceed from that tenderness for my reputa- tion, to which he ascribed it ; indeed, it could proceed from no motive with which I should have been dis- pleased. — In a word, within two days we were man and wife. ' Mr. Bennet now declared himself the happiest of men ; and for my part, I sincerely declared, I envied no woman upon earth. — How little, alas ! did I then know, or suspect the price I was to pay for all my joys. — A match of real love is, indeed, truly paradise ; and such perfect happiness seems to be the forbidden fruit to mortals, which we are to lament having tasted during the rest of our lives. ' The first uneasiness which attacked us after our marriage was on my aunt's account. It was veiy disagreeable to live under the nose of so near a re- lation, who did not acknowledge us ; but, on the con- trary, was ever doing us all the ill turns in her power ; and making a party against us in the parish, which is always easy enough to do amongst the vulgar against persons who are their superiors in rank, and, at the same time, their inferiors in fortune. This made Mr. Bennet think of procurhig an exchange, in wliicli intention he AMELIA. 29 was soon after confirmed by the arrival of the rector. It was the rector's custom to spend three months every year .at his living ; for which purpose he reserved an apartment in his parsonage house, which was full large enough for two such little families as then occupied it ; we, at first, promised ourselves some little convenience from his boarding with us ; and Mr. Bennet began to lay aside his thoughts of leaving his curacy, at least for some time. But these golden ideas presently vanished ; for, thougli we both used our utmost endeavours to please him, we soon found the impossibility of succeed- ing. He was, indeed, to give you his character in a word, the most peevish of mortal s. This temper, not- withstanding that he was both a good and a pious man, made his company so insufferable, that nothing could compensate it. If his breakfast was not ready to a moment, if a dish of meat was too much or too little done ; in short, if any thing failed of exactly hitting his taste, he was sure to be out of humour all that day ; so that, indeed, he was scarce ever in a good temper a whole day together ; for fortune seems to take a delight in thwarting this kind of disposition, to which human life, with its many crosses and accidents, is in truth by no means fitted. ^ Mr. Bennet was now, by my desire, as well as his own, determined to quit the parish ; but when he attempted to get an exchange, he found it a matter of more difficulty than he had apprehended; for the rector's temper was so well known among the neigh- bouring clergy, that none of them could be brought to think of spending three months in a year with him. 'After many fruitless inquiries, Mr. Bennet thought best to remove to London, the great mart of all affairs, ecclesiastical and civil. This project greatly 30 AMELIA. pleased him, and he resolved, without more delay, to take his leave of the rector ; which he did in the most friendly manner possible, and preached his fare- well sermon; nor was there a dry eye in the church, except among the few whom my aunt, who remained still inexorable, had prevailed upon to hate us without any cause. ' To London we came, and took up our lodging the fii'st night at the inn where the stage-coach set us down 5 the next morning my husband went out early on his business, and returned with the good news of having heard of a curacy, and of having equipped himself with a lodging in the neighbourhood of a worthy peer, " who," said he, " was my fellow collegiate ; " and what is more, I have a direction to a person " who Avill advance your legacy at a very reasonable " rate." ' This last particular was extremely agreeable to me ; for our last guinea was now broached ; and the rector had lent my husband ten pounds to pay his debts in the country ; for with all his peevishness he was a good and a generous man, and had indeed so many valuable qualities, that I lamented his temper, after I knew him thoroughly, as much on his account as on my own. ' We now quitted the inn, and went to our lodgings, where my husband having placed me in safety, as he said, he went about the business of the legacy, with good assurance of success. ' My husband returned elated with his success, the person to whom he applied having undertaken to advance the legacy, which he fulfilled as soon as the proper enquiries could be made, and proper instru- ments prepared for that purpose. ' This, however, took up so much time, that, as our ' fund was so very low, we were reduced to some AMELIA. 31 distress, and obliged to live extremely penurious ; nor would all do, without my taking a most disagreeable way of procuring money, by pawning one of my gowns. ' Mr. Bennet was now settled in a curacy in town, greatly to his satisfaction, and our affairs seemed to have a prosperous aspect, when he came home to me one morning in much apparent disorder, looking as pale as death, and begged me by some means or other to get him a dram ; for that he was taken with a sudden faintness and lowness of spirits. ' Frightened as I was, I immediately ran down stairs, and procured some rum of the mistress of the house ; the first time, indeed, I ever knew him drink any. When he came to himself, he begged me not to be alarmed ; for it was no distemper, but something, that had vexed him, which had caused his disorder, which he had now perfectly recovered. ' He then told me the whole affair. He had hitherto deferred paying a visit to the lord whom I mentioned to have been formerly his fellow collegiate, and Avas now his neighbour, till he could put himself in decent rigging. He had now purchased a new cassock, hat, and wig, and went to pay his respects to his old acquaintance, who had received from him many civilities and assistances in his learning at the univer- sity, and had promised to return them fourfold here- after. ' It was not without some difficulty that Mr. Bennet got into the ante-chamber. Here he waited, or, as the phrase is, cooled his heels for above an hour before he saw his lordship, nor had he seen him then, but by an accident : for my lord was going out when he casually intercepted him in his passage to his chaiiot. He approached to salute him with some / 32 AMELIA. familiarity, tliough with respect, depending on his former intimacy, when my lord, stopping short, very gravely told him, he had not the pleasure of knowing him. " How, my lord," said he, " can you have so "soon forgot your old acquaintance Tom Bennet?" " O, Mr. Bennet ! " cries his lordship, with much re- serve, "is it you? you will pardon my memory. I am " glad to see you, Mr. Bennet, but you must excuse me " at present ; for I am in very great haste." He then broke from him, and without more ceremony, or any further in\dtation, went directly into his chariot. ' This cold reception from a person for whom my husband had a real friendsliip, and from whom he had great reason to expect a very warm return of affection, so affected the poor man, that it caused all those symp- toms which I have mentioned before. ' Though this incident produced no material conse- quence, I could not pass it over in silence, as of all the misfortunes which ever befel him, it affected my husband the most. I need not, however, to a woman of your delicacy, make any comments on a behaviour, which, though I believe it is very common, is never- theless cruel and base beyond description; and is diametrically opposite to true honour, as well as to goodness. ^ To relieve the uneasiness which my husband felt on account of his false friend, I prevailed with him to go every night, almost for a fortnight together, to the play; a diversion of which he was greatly fond, and from which he did not think his being a clergyman excluded him ; indeed, it is very well if those austere persons, who would be inclined to censure him on this head, have themselves no greater sins to answer for. ' From this time, during three months, we passed our ' time very agreeably, a little too agreeably perhaps for AMELIA. 33 our circumstances ; for, however innocent diversions may be in other respects, they must be owned to be expensive. When you consider then, Madam, that our income from the curacy was less than forty pounds a year, and that after payment of the debt to the rector, and another to my aunt, with the costs in law which she had occasioned by suing for it, my legacy was re- duced to less than seventy pounds, you will not wonder that in diversions, clothes, and the common expenses of life, we had almost consumed our whole stock. ' The inconsiderate manner in which we had lived for some time, will, I doubt not, appear to you to want some excuse; but I have none to make for it. Two things, however, now happened, which occasioned much serious reflection to Mr. Bennet *, the one was, that I grew near my time ; the other, that he now received a letter from Oxford, demanding the debt of forty pounds, which I mentioned to you before. The former of these he made a pretence of obtaining a delay for the pay- ment of the latter, promising in two months to pay off half the debt, by which means he obtained a forbear- ance during that time. ' I was now delivered of a son, a matter which should in reality have increased our concern ; but on the con- trary, it gave us great pleasure; greater, indeed, could not have been conceived at the birth of an heir to the most plentiful estate ; so entirely thoughtless were we, and so little forecast had we of those many evils and distresses to which we had rendered a human creature, and one so dear to us, liable. The day of a christening is in all families, I believe, a day of jubilee and rejoic- ing; and yet, if we consider the interest of that little wretch who is the occasion, how very little reason would the most sanguine persons have for their joy ! ' But, though our eyes were too weak to look forward VOL. IX. D 34 AMELIA. ' for the sake of our child, we coukl not be blinded to ' those dangers that immediately threatened ourselves. ' Mr. Bennet, at the expiration of the two months, ' received a second letter from Oxford, in a very per- ' emptory style, and threatening a suit without any ' farther delay. This alarmed us in the strongest ' manner; and my husband, to secure his liberty, was ' advised for a while to shelter himself in the verge of ' the court. ' And now, Madam, I am entering on that scene which ' directly leads to all my misery.' Here she stopped, and wiped her eyes; — and then, begging Amelia to excuse her for a few minutes, ran hastily out of the room, leaving Amelia by herself, while she refreshed her spirits with a cordial, to enable her to relate what follows in the next chapter. CHAPTER VI. Farther continued. Mrs. Bennet, returning into the room, made a short apology for her absence, and then proceeded in these following words : ' We now left our lodging, and took a second floor in ' that very house where you now are ; to which we ' were recommended by the woman where we had before ' lodged, for the mistresses of both houses were ac- ^ quainted ; and, indeed, we had been all at the play ' together. To this new lodging then (such was our ' wretched destiny) we immediately repaired, and were ' received by Mrs. Ellison (how can I bear the sound of ' that detested name) with much civility; she took care. AMELIA. 35 however, during the first fortnight of our residence, to wait upon us every Monday morning for her rent ; such being, it seems, the custom of this place, which, as it was inhabited chiefly by persons in debt, is not the region of credit. ' My husband, by the singular goodness of the rector, who greatly compassionated his case, was enabled to continue in his curacy, though he could only do the duty on Sundays. He was, however, sometimes obliged to furnish a person to officiate at his expense ; so that our income was very scanty, and the poor little re- mainder of the legacy being almost spent, we were reduced to some difficulties, and, what was worse, saw still a prospect of greater before our eyes. ' Under these circumstances, how agreeable to poor Mr. Bennet must have been the behaviour of Mrs. Ellison, who, when he carried her her rent on the usual day, told him, with a benevolent smile, that he needed not to give himself the trouble of such exact punctuality. She added, that, if it was at any time inconvenient to him, he might pay her when he pleased. " To say the truth," says she, " I never was so much " pleased with any lodgers in my life, — I am convinced " Mr. Bennet, you are a very worthy man, and you are " a very happy one too ; for you have the prettiest wife, " and the prettiest child I ever saw." — These, dear Madam, were the words she was pleased to make use of; and I am sure she behaved to me with such an appearance of friendship and affection, that, as I could not perceive any possible views of interest which she could have in her professions, I easily believed them real. ' There lodged in the same house — 0, Mrs. Booth ! the blood runs cold to my heart, and should run cold to yours when I name him : — There lodged in the same D 2 36 AMELIA, house a lord — the lord, indeed, whom I have since seen in your company. This lord, Mrs. Ellison told me, had taken a great fancy to my little Cliarly ; fool that I was, and blinded by my own passion, which made me con- ceive that an infant, not three months old, could be really the object of affection to any besides a parent; and more especially to a gay young fellow ! But if I was silly in being deceived, how wricked was the wretch who deceived me ; who used such art, and employed such pains, such incredible pains to deceive me ! he acted the part of a nurse to my little infant ; he danced it, he lulled it, he kissed it ; declared it was the very picture of a nephew of his, his favourite sister's child ; and said so many kind and fond things of its beauty, that I myself, though, I believe, one of the tenderest and fondest of mothers, scarce carried my own ideas of my little darling's perfection beyond the comphments wdiich he paid it. ' My lord, however, perhaps from modesty before my face, fell far short of what Mrs. Ellison reported from him. And now, when she found the impression which was made on me by these means, she took every oppor- tunity of insinuating to me his lordship's many virtues ; his great goodness to his sister's children in particular ; nor did she fail to drop some hints, which gave me the most simple and groundless hopes of strange conse- quences from his fondness to my Charly. ' When by these means, which, simple as they may appear, were, perhaps, the most artful, my lord had gained something more, I think, than my esteem, he took the surest method to confirm himself in my affec- tion. This was, by professing the highest friendship for my husband 5 for, as to myself, I do assure you, he never shewed me more than common respect; and I hope you will believe I should have immediately startled AMELIA. 37 and flown off if lie liad. Poor I accounted for all the friendship which he expressed for my husband, and all the fondness which he shewed to my boy, fi'om the great prettiness of the one, and the great merit of the other; foolishly conceiving, that others saw with my eyes, and felt with my heart. Little did I dream, that my own unfortunate person was the fountain of all this lord's goodness, and was the intended price of it. ' One evening, as I was drinking tea with Mrs. Ellison by my lord's fire (a liberty which she never scrupled taking when he was gone out), my little Charly, now about half a year old, sitting in her lap, my lord, accidentally, no doubt, indeed I then thought it so, came in. I was confoimded, and offered to go; but my lord declared, if he disturbed Mrs. Ellison's com- pany, as he phrased it, he would himself leave the room. When I was thus prevailed on to keep my seat, my lord immediately took my little baby into his lap, and gave it some tea there, not a little at the expense of his embroidery ; for he was very richly dressed : indeed, he was as fine a figure as perhaps ever was seen. His behaviour on this occasion gave me many ideas in his favour. I thought he discovered good sense, good nature, condescension, and other good qualities, by the fondness he shewed to my child, and the contempt he seemed to express for his finery, which so greatly became him ; for I cannot deny but that he was the handsomest and genteelest person in the world ; though such considerations advanced him not a step in my favour. ' My husband now returned from church (for this happened on a Sunday), and was, by my lord's par- ticular desire, ushered into the room. My lord received him with the utmost politeness, and with many pro- fessions of esteem; which, he said, he had conceived 13.3978 38 AMELIA. from Mrs. Ellison's representations of his merit. He then proceeded to mention the living which was de- tained from my husband, of which Mrs. Ellison had likewise informed him ; and said, he thought it would be no difficult matter to obtam a restoration of it by the authority of the bishop, who was his particular friend, and to whom he would take an immediate op- portunity of mentioning it. This, at last, he determined to do the very next day ; when he invited us both to dinner, where we were to be acquainted with his lord- ship's success. ' My lord now insisted on my husband's staying supper with him, without taking any notice of me ; but Mrs. Ellison declared, he should not part man and w^ife ; and that she herself would stay mth me. The motion was too agreeable to me to be rejected ; and, except the little time I retired to put my child to bed, we spent together the most agreeable evening imaginable; nor was it, I believe, easy to decide, whether Mr. Bennet or myself were most delighted with his lordship and Mrs. Ellison ; but this I assure you, the generosity of the one, and the extreme civility and kindness of the other, "were the subjects of our conversation all the ensuing night, during which we neither of us closed our eyes. ' The next day, at dinner, my lord acquainted us that he had prevailed with the bishop to write to the clergy- man m the country ; indeed, he told us that he had engaged the bishop to be very warm in our interest, and had not the least doubt of success. This threw us both into a flow of spu-its ; and in the afternoon, Mr. Bennet, at Mrs. Ellison's request, which was seconded by his lordship, related the history of our lives, from our first acquaintance. My lord seemed much affected with some tender scenes, which, as no man could better feel, so none could better describe than mv husband. When AMELIA. 39 lie had finished, my lord begged pardon for mentioning an occurrence which gave him such a particular concern, as it had disturbed that delicious state of happiness in which we had lived at our former lodging. " It would " be ungenerous," said he, '' to rejoice at an accident, " which, though it brought me fortunately acquainted " with two of the most agreeable people in the world, " was yet at the expense of your mutual felicity. This " circumstance I mean, is your debt at Oxford ; pray " how does that stand ? I am resolved it shall never " disturb your happiness hereafter." At these words the tears burst from my husband's eyes ; and, in an ecstacy of gratitude, he cried out, " Your lordship over- " comes me with generosity. If you go on in this '' manner, both my wife's gratitude and mine must be " bankrupt." He then acquainted my lord with the exact state of the case, and received assurances from him, that the debt should never trouble him. My hus- band was again breaking out into the warmest ex- pressions of gi'atitude ; but my lord stopped him short, saying, " If you have any obligation, it is to my little " Charly here, from whose little innocent smiles I have " received more than the value of this trifling debt in " pleasure." I forgot to tell you, that when I offered to leave the room after dinner upon my child's account, my lord would not suffer me, but ordered the cliild to be brought to me. He now took it out of my arms, placed it upon his own knee, and fed it with some fruit from the dessert. In short, it would be more tedious to you than to myself, to relate the thousand little tender- nesses he shewed to the child. He gave it many baubles; amongst the rest was a coral, worth at least three pounds ; and when my husband was confined near a fortnight to his chamber with a cold, he visited the child every day (for to this infant's account were all the 40 AMELIA. visits placed) ; and seldom failed of accompanying liis visit with a present to the little thing. ' Here, Mrs. Booth, I cannot help mentioning a doubt which hath often arisen in my mind, since T have been enough mistress of mj^self to reflect on this horrid train which was laid to blow up my innocence. Wicked and barbarous it was to the highest degree, without any question ; but my doubt is, whether the art or folly of it be the more conspicuous; for however delicate and refined the art must be allowed to have been, the folly, I think, must upon a fair examination appear no less astonishing ; for to lay all considerations of cruelty and crime out of the case, what a foolish bargain doth the man make for himself, who purchases so poor a pleasure at so high a price ! ' We had lived near three weeks with as much freedom as if we had been all of the same family ; when, one afternoon, my lord proposed to my husband to ride down himself to solicit the surrender ; for, he said, the bishop had received an unsatisfactory answer from the parson, and had writ a second letter more pressing ; which his lordship now promised us to strengthen by one of his own that my husband was to carry with him. Mr. Bennet agreed to this proposal with great thankfulness ; and the next day was appointed for his journey. The distance was near seventy miles. ' My husband set out on his journey ; and he had scarce left me before Mrs. Ellison came into my room, and endeavoured to comfort me in his absence ; to say the truth, though he was to be from me but a few days, and the pui-pose of his going was to fix our happiness on a sound foundation for all our future days, I could scarce support my spirits under this first separation. But though I then thought Mrs. Ellison's intentions to be most kind and friendly, yet the means she used were AMELIA. 41 utterly ineffectual, and appeared to me injudicious. Instead of soothing my uneasiness, which is always the first pliysic to be given to grief, she rallied me upon it, and began to talk in a very unusual style of gaiety, in which she treated conjugal love with much ridicule. ' I gave her to understand, that she displeased me by this discourse ; but she soon found means to give such a turn to it, as made merit of all she had said. And now, when she had worked me into a good humour, she made a proposal to me, which I at first rejected ; but at last fatally, — too fatally suffered myself to be over persuaded. This was to go to a masquerade at Eanelagh, for which my lord had furnished her with tickets.' At these words, Amelia turned pale as death, and hastily begged her friend to give her a glass of water, some air, or any thing. Mrs. Bennet having thrown open the window, and procured the water, which prevented Ameha from fainting, looked at her with much tender- ness, and cried, ' I do not wonder, my dear Madam, that ' you are affected with my mentioning that fatal mas- ' querade ; since I firmly believe the same ruin was ' intended for you at the same place. The apprehension ' of which occasioned the letter I sent you this morning, ' and all the trial of your patience which I have made ' since.' Amelia gave her a tender embrace, with many expres- sions of the warmest gratitude ; assured her, she had pretty well recovered her spirits, and begged her to continue her story ; which Mrs. Bennet then did. How- ever, as our readers may likewise be glad to recover their spirits also, we shall here put an end to this chapter. 42 AMELIA, CHAPTER VII. The story farther continued. Mrs. Bennet proceeded thus : ' I was at length prevailed on to accompany Mrs. Ellison to the masquerade. Here, I must confess, the pleasantness of the place, the variety of the dresses, and the novelty of the thing, gave me much delight, and raised my fancy to the highest pitch. As I was entirely void of all suspicion, my mind tlu'ew off all reserve, and pleasure only filled my thoughts. Inno- cence, it is true, possessed my heart ; but it was innocence unguarded, intoxicated with foolish desires, and liable to every temptation. During the first two hours, we had many trifling adventures not worth remembering. At length my lord joined us, and con- tinued with me all the evening ; and we danced several dances together. ' I need not, I believe, tell you. Madam, how engaging his conversation is. I wish I could with truth say I was not pleased with it, or, at least, that I had a right to be pleased with it. But I w^ill disguise nothing from you ; I now began to discover that he had some affec- tion for me ; but he had already too firm a footing in my esteem to make the discovery shocking. I will — I will own the truth ; I was delighted with perceiving a passion in him, which I was not unwillmg to think he had had from the beginning, and to derive liis having concealed it so long from his awe of my virtue, and his respect to my understanding. I assure you. Madam, at the same time, my intentions were never to exceed the bounds of umocence. I was charmed with the delicacy AMELIA. 43 of Ills passion ; and in tlie foolish, thoughtless turn of mind in which I then was, I fancied I might give some very distant encouragement to such a passion in such a man, with the utmost safety ; that I might indulge my vanity and interest at once, without being guilty of the least injury. ' I know Mrs. Booth will condemn all these thoughts, and I condemn them no less myself; for it is now my stedfast opinion, that the woman who gives up the least outwork of lier virtue, doth, in that very moment, betray the citadel. ' About two o'clock we returned home, and found a very handsome collation provided for us. I was asked to partake of it ; and I did not, I could not refuse. I was not, liowever, entirely void of all suspicion, and I made many resolutions ; one of which was, not to drink a drop more than my usual stint. This was, at the utmost, little more than half a pint of small punch. ' I adhered strictly to my quantity ; but in the quality, I am convinced, I was deceived; for, before I left the room, I found my head giddy. What the villain gave me, I know not ; but, besides being intoxicated, I per- ceived effects from it which are not to be described. * Here, Madam, I must draw a curtain over the residue of that fatal night. Let it sufiice, that it involved me in the most dreadful ruin; a ruin, to which, I can truly say, I never consented; and of which I was scarce conscious, when the villainous man avowed it to my face in the morning. ' Thus I have deduced my story to the most horrid period ; happy had I been, had this been the period of my life ; but I was reserved for greater miseries ; but before I enter on them, I will mention something very remarkable, with which I was now acquainted, and that will shew there was nothing of accident which 44 AMELIA. had befallen me ; but that all was the effect of a long, regular, premeditated design. ' You may remember. Madam, I told you that we were recommended to Mrs. Ellison by the woman at whose house we had before lodo;ed. This woman, it seems, was one of my lord^ j_j)i mps, and h ad before introduced me to his lor dship's notice. ' You are to know thenT^adamj that this villain, this lord, now confessed to me, that he had first seen me in the gallery at the oratorio ; whither I had gone with tickets, with which the woman where I first lodged, had presented me, and which were, it seems, purchased by my lord. Here I first met the vile betrayer, who was disguised in a rug coat, and a patch upon his face.' At these words, Amelia cried, ' O, gracious Heavens ! ' and fell back in her chair. Mrs. Bennet, with proper applications, brought her back to life ; and then Amelia acquainted her, that she herself had first seen the same person in the same place, and in the same disguise. ' O ' Mrs. Bennet ! ' cried she, ' how am I indebted to you ! ' what words, what thanks, what actions can demonstrate ' the gratitude of my sentiments ! I look upon you, and ' always shall look upon you, as my preserver from the ' brink of a precipice, from which I was falling into the ' same ruin which you have so generously, so kindly, ' and so nobly disclosed for my sake.' Here the two ladies compared notes ; and it appeared, that his lordship's behaviour at the oratorio had been alike to both; that he had made use of the very same words, the veiy same actions to Amelia, which he had practised over before on poor imfortunate Mrs. Bennet. It may, perhaps, be thought strange, that neither of them could afterwards recollect him; but so it was. And, indeed, if we consider the force of disguise, the very short time that either of them was witli him at this first AMELIA. 45 interview, and the very little curiosity tliat must have been supposed in the minds of the ladies, together with the amusement in which they were then engaged, all wonder will, I apprehend, cease. Amelia, however, now declared, she remembered his voice and features perfectly well ; and was thoroughly satisfied he was the same per- son. She then accounted for his not having visited in the afternoon, according to his promise, from her declared resolutions to Mrs. Ellison not to see him. She now burst forth into some very satirical invectives against that lady, and declared she had the art, as well as the wickedness, of the devil himself. Many congratulations now passed from Mrs. Bennet to Amelia, which were returned with the most hearty acknowledgments from that lady. But, instead of filling our paper with these, we shall pursue Mrs. Bennet's story ; which she resumed, as we shall find m the next chapter. CHAPTER VIII. Farther continuation. No sooner,' said Mrs. Bennet, continuing her story, was my lord departed, than Mrs. Ellison came to me. She behaved in such a manner, when she became acquainted with what had passed, that, though I was at first satisfied of her guilt, she began to stagger my opinion : and, at length, prevailed upon me entirely to acquit her. She raved like a mad woman against my lord, swore he should not stay a moment in her house, and that she would never speak to him more. In short, had she been the most innocent woman in the world, she could not have spoke, nor acted any 46 AMELIA, otherwise: nor could she have vented more wrath and indignation against the betrayer. 'That part of her denunciation of vengeance which concerned my lord's leaving the house, she vowed should be executed immediately ; but then, seeming to recollect herself, she said, " Consider, my dear child, "it is for your sake alone I speak ; will not such a "proceeding give some suspicion to your husband?" I answered, That I valued not that; that I was re- solved to inform my husband of all, the moment I saw him ; with many expressions of detestations of myself, and an indifference for life, and for every thing else. ' Mrs. Ellison, however, found means to soothe me, and to satisfy me with my own innocence ; a point, in which, I believe, we are all easily convinced. In short, I was persuaded to acquit both myself and her, to lay the whole guilt upon my lord, and to resolve to conceal it from my husband. 'The whole day I confined myself to my chamber, and saw no person but Mrs. Ellison. I was, indeed, ashamed to look any one in the face. Happily for me, my lord went into the country without attempting to come near me ; for I believe his sight would have driven me to madness. ' The next day, I told Mrs. Ellison, that I was resolved to leave her lodgings the moment my lord came to town ; not on her account (for I really inclined to think her innocent), but on my lord's, whose face I was resolved, if possible, never more to behold. She told me, I had no reason to quit her house on that score; for that my lord himself had left her lodgings that morning, in resentment, she believed, of the abuses which she had cast on him the day before. ' This confirmed me in the opinion of her innocence : AMELIA. 47 nor hath she from that day to this, till my acquaintance with you, ]Madam, done any thing to forfeit my opinion. On the contrary, I owe her many good offices ; amongst the rest, I have an annuity of one hundred and fifty pounds a year from my lord, which I know was owing to her solicitations; for she is not void of generosity or good-nature; though, by what I have lately seen, I am convinced she was the cause of my ruin, and hath endeavoured to lay the same snares for you. ' But to return to my melancholy story. My husband returned at the appointed time ; and I met him with an agitation of mind not to be described. Perhaps the fatigue which he had undergone in his journey, and his dissatisfaction at his ill success, prevented his taking notice of what I feared was too visible. All his hopes were entirely frustrated ; the clergyman had not re- ceived the bishop's letter; and as to my lord's, he treated it with derision and contempt. Tired as he was, Mr. Bennet would not sit down till he had en- quired for my lord, intending to go and pay his com- pliments. Poor man ! he little suspected that he had deceived him, as I have since known concerning the bishop ; much less did he suspect any other injury. But the lord — the villain was gone out of town, so that he was forced to postpone all his gratitude. ' Mr. Bennet returned to town late on the Saturday night, nevertheless he performed his duty at church the next day ; but I refused to go with him. This, I think, was the first refusal I was guilty of since our mamage ; but I was become so miserable, that his presence, which had been the source of all my happiness, was become my bane. I will not say I hated to see him ; but I can say I was ashamed, indeed afraid to look him in the face. I was conscious of I knew not what Guilt, I hope, it cannot be called.' 48 • AMELIA. ' I hope not, nay, I tliink not/ cries Amelia. ' My husband,' continued Mrs. Bennet, ' perceived my dissatisfaction, and imputed it to his ill success in the country. I was pleased with this self-delusion; and yet, when I fairly compute the agonies I suffered at his endeavours to comfort me on that head, I paid most severely for it. O, my dear Mrs. Booth ! happy is tlie deceived party between true lovers, and wretched indeed is the author of the deceit. ' In this wretched condition I passed a whole week, the most miserable, I think, of my whole life, endeavouring to humour my husband's delusion, and to conceal my own tortures ; but I had reason to fear I could not succeed long ; for on the Saturday night I perceived a visible alteration in his behaviour to me. He went to bed in an apparent ill-humour, turned sullenly from me ; and, if I offered at any endearments, he gave me only peevish answers. ' After a restless turbulent night, he rose early on Sunday morning and walked down stairs. I expected his return to breakfast, but was soon informed by the maid that he was gone forth ; and that it was no more than seven o'clock. All this, you may believe. Madam, alarmed me. I saw plainly he had discovered the fatal secret, though by what means I could not divine. The state of my mind was very little short of madness. Sometimes I thought of running away from my injured husband, and sometimes of putting an end to my life. ' In the midst of such perturbations, I spent the day. My husband returned in the evening. 0, Heavens ! can I describe what followed ? It is impossible ; I shall sink under the relation. He entered the room, with a face as white as a sheet, his lips trembling, and his eyes red as coals of fire, and startmg as it were from his head. '' Molly," cries he, throwing himself into AMELIA. 49 Ills chair, "are you well ? " — " Good Heavens ! " says I, " what's the matter ? — Indeed, I cannot say I am well." " No ! " says he,— — starting from his chair, " false " monster, you have betrayed me, destroyed me, you " have ruined your husband ! " Then looking like a fury, he snatched off a large book from the table, and, with the malice of a madman, threw it at my head, and knocked me down backwards. He then caught me up in his arms, and kissed me with most extravagant tender- ness ; then looking me stedfastly in the face for several moments, the tears gushed in a torrent from his eyes, and with his utmost violence he threw me again on the floor ; — kicked me, stamped upon me. I believe, indeed, his intent was to kill me, and I believe he thought he had accomplished it. ' I lay on the ground for some minutes, I believed, de- prived of my senses. When I recovered myself, I found my husband lying by my side on his face, and the blood running from him. It seems when he thought he had dispatched me, he ran his head with all his force against a chest of drawers which stood in the room, and gave himself a dreadful wound in his head. ' I can truly say, I felt not the least resentment for the usage I had received ; I thought I deserved it all ; though, indeed, I little guessed what he had suffered from me. I now used the most earnest intreaties to him to compose himself; and endeavoured with my feeble arms, to raise him from the ground. At length, he broke from me, and springing from the ground, flung himself into a chair, when, looking wildly at me, he cried, — " Go from me, Molly. I beseech you, leave me, '' I would not kill you." — He then discovered to me — O Mrs. Booth! can you guess it? — I was indeed polluted by the villain — I had infected my husband. — Heavens ! why do I live to relate any thing so horrid — I will not, VOL. IX. E 50 AArELIA. '' I cannot yet survive it. I cannot forgive myself. Heaven ' cannot forgive me ! ' Here slie became inarticulate with the violence of her grief, and fell presently into such agonies, that the affrighted Amelia began to call aloud for some assistance. Upon this, a maid-servant came up, who seeing her mistress in a violent convulsion fit, presently screamed out she was dead. Upon which one of the other sex made his appearance ; and who should this be but the honest serjeant ? whose countenance soon made it evident, that, though a soldier, and a brave one too, he was not the least concerned of all the company on this occasion. The reader, if he hath been acquainted with scenes of this kind, very well knows that Mrs. Bennet, in the usual time, returned again to the possession of her voice ; the first use of which she made was to express her astonish- ment at the presence of the serjeant, and, with a frantic air, to inquire who he was. The maid concluding that her mistress was not yet returned to her senses, answered, ' Why 'tis my master, ' Madam. Heaven preserve your senses. Madam — Lord, ' Sir, my mistress must be very bad not to know you.' What Atkinson thought at this instant, I will not say : but certain it is he looked not over wise. He attempted twice to take hold of Mrs. Bennet' s hand ; but she with- drew it hastily, and presently after, rising up from her chair, she declared herself pretty well again, and desired Atkinson and the maid to withdraw. Both of whom presently obeyed; the serjeant appearing by his counten- ance to want comfort almost as much as the lady did to whose assistance he had been summoned. It is a good maxim to trust a person entirely or not at all ; for a secret is often innocently blabbed out by those who know but half of it. Certain it is, that the maid's AMELIA. 51 speech communicated a suspicion to the mind of Amelia, which the behaviour of the Serjeant did not tend to re- move; what that is, the sagacious reader may likewise probably suggest to themselves ; if not, they must wait our time for disclosing it. We shall now resume the his- tory of Mrs. Bennet, who, after many apologies, proceeded to the matters in the next chapter. CHAPTER IX. The conclusion of Mrs. Bennetts history. When I became sensible,' cries Mrs. Bennet, ' of the injury I had done my husband, I threw myself at his feet, and embracing his knees, while I bathed them with my tears, I begged a patient hearing, declaring, if he was not satisfied with what I should say, I would become a willing victim of his resentment. I said, and I said truly, that if I owed my death that instant to his hands, I should have no other terror, but of the fatal consequence which it might produce to himself. ' He seemed a little pacified, and bid me say whatever I pleased. ' I then gave him a faithful relation of all that had happened. He heard me with great attention, and at the conclusion cried, with a deep sigh, "O Molly, I " believe it all. You must have been betrayed as '' you tell me ; you could not be guilty of such base- " ness, such cruelty, such ingratitude." He then O ! it is impossible to describe his behaviour he ex- pressed such kindness, such tenderness, such concern for the manner in which he had used me T cannot dwell E 2 52 AMELIA. ' on tills scene 1 shall relapse you must excuse ' me.' Amelia begged her to omit any thing which so affected her ; and she proceeded thus : ' My husband, who was more convinced than I was of Mrs. Ellison's guilt, declared he would not sleep that night in her house. He then went out to see for a lodging; he gave me all the money he had, and left me to pay her bill, and put up the clothes, telling me, if I had not money enough, I might leave the clothes as a pledge ', but he vowed he could not answer for himself, if he saw the face of Mrs. Ellison. ' Words cannot scarce express the behaviour of that art- ful woman, it was so kind and so generous. She said, she did not blame my husband's resentment, nor could she expect any other but that he and all the world should censure her That she hated her house almost as much as we did, and detested her cousin, if possible, more. In fine, she said, I might leave my clothes there that evening ; but that she would send them to us the next morning. That she scorned the thought of detain- ing them ; and as for the paltry debt, we might pay her whenever we pleased ; for to do her justice, with all her vices, she hath some good in her.' ' Some good in her, indeed ! ' cried Amelia, with great ndignation. ' We were scarce settled in our new lodgings,' con- tinued Mrs. Bennet, ' when my husband began to com- plain of a pain in his inside. He told me, he feared he had done himself some injury in his rage, and had burst something within him. As to the odious — I can- not bear the thought, the great skill of the surgeon soon entirely cured him ; but his other complaint, instead of yielding to any application, grew still worse and worse, nor ever ended till it brought him to his grave. AMELIA. 53 ^ Mrs. Booth ! could I have been certain that I had occasioned this, however innocently I had occasioned it, I could never have survived it; but the surgeon who opened him after his death, assured me, that he died of what they called a polypus in his heart, and that nothing which had happened on account of me was in the least the occasion of it. ' I have, however, related the affair truly to you. The first complaint I ever heard of the kind, was within a day or two after we left Mrs. Ellison's ; and this com- plaint remained till his death, which might induce him perhaps to attribute his death to another cause ; but the surgeon, who is a man of the highest eminence, hath always declared the contrary to me, with the most positive certainty; and this opinion hath been my only comfort. ' When my husband died, which was about ten weeks after we quitted Mrs. Ellison's, of whom I had then a different opinion from what I have now, I was left in the most wretched condition imaginable. I believe, Madam, she shewed you my letter. Indeed, she did every thing for me at that time which I could have expected from the best of friends. She supplied me with money from her own pocket, by which means I was preserved from a distress in which I must have otherwise inevitably perished. ' Her kindness to me in this season of distress pre- vailed on me to return again to her house. Why, indeed, should I have refused an offer so very con- venient for me to accept, and which seemed so generous in her to make ? Here I lived a very retired life, with my little babe, seeing no company but Mrs. Ellison her- self for a full quarter of a year. At last Mrs. Ellison brought me a parchment from my lord, in which he had settled upon me, at her instance, as she told me, and as 54 AMELIA. I believe it was, an annuity of one hundred and fifty pounds a year. This was, I think, the very first time she had mentioned his hateful name to me since my return to her house. And she now prevailed upon me, though I assure you not without much difficulty, to suffer him to execute the deed in my presence. ' I will not describe our interview, — I am not able to describe it, and I have often wondered how I found spirits to support it. This I will say for him, that, if he was not a real penitent, no man alive could act the part better. ' Besides resentment, I had another motive of my backwardness to agree to such a meeting ; and this was — fear. I apprehended, and surely not without reason, that the annuity was rather meant as a bribe than a recompence, and that farther designs were laid against my innocence ; but in this I found myself hap- pily deceived ; for neither then, nor at any time since, have I ever had the least solicitation of that kind. Nor indeed, have I seen the least occasion to think mv lord had any such desires. ' Good Heavens ! what are these men ! what is this appetite which must have novelty and resistance for its provocatives ; and which is delighted with us no longer than while we may be considered in the light of enemies ! ' ' 1 thank you. Madam,' cries Amelia, ' for relieving me from my fears on your account ; I trembled at the con- sequence of this second acquaintance with such a man, and in such a situation.' ' I assure you. Madam, I was in no danger,' returned Mrs. Bennet: 'for, besides that I think 1 could have ' pretty well relied on my own resolution, I have heard ' since, at St. Edmundsbury, from an intimate acquaint- ' ance of my lord's, who was an entire stranger to my AMELIA. 55 affairs, that the highest degree of inconstancy is his character; and that few of his numberless mistresses have ever received a second visit from him. ' Well, Madam,' continued she, ' I think I have little more to trouble you with ; unless I should relate to you my long ill state of health ; from which I am lately, I thank Heaven, recovered ; or, unless I should mention to you the most grievous accident that ever befel me, the loss of my poor dear Charly.' — Here she made a full stop, and the tears ran down into her bosom. Amelia was silent a few minutes, while she gave the lady time to vent her passion ; after which she began to pour forth a vast profusion of acknowledgments for the trouble she had taken in relating her history ; but chiefly, for the motive which had induced her to it, and for the kind warning which she had given her by the little note which Mrs. Bennet had sent her that morning. ' Yes, Madam,' cries Mrs. Bennet, ' I am convinced by ' what I have lately seen, that you are the destined sacri- ' fice to this wicked lord ; and that Mrs. Ellison, whom I ^ no longer doubt to have been the instrument of my ruin, ' intended to betray you in the same manner. The day I ' met my lord in your apartment, I began to entertain ' some suspicions, and I took Mrs. Ellison very roundly ' to task upon them ; her behaviour, notwithstanding ' many asseverations to the contrary, convinced me I ' was right ; and I intended, more than once, to speak ' to you, but could not ; till last night the mention of '• the masquerade determined me to delay it no longer. ' I therefore sent you that note this morning, and am ' glad you so luckily discovered the writer, as it hath ' given me tliis opportunity of easing my mind, and of ' honestly shewing you, how unworthy I am of your ' friendship, at the same time that I so earnestly desire it. 56 AMELIA. CHAPTER X. Being the last chapter of the Seventh Booh. Amelia did not fail to make proper compliments to Mrs. Bennet, on the conclusion of her speech in the last chap- ter. She told her that from the first moment of her acquaintance, she had the strongest inclination to her friendship *, and that her desires of that kind were much increased by hearing her story. ' Indeed, Madam,' says she, 'you are much too severe a judge on yourself; for they must have very little candour, in my opinion, who look upon your case with any severe eye. To me, I assure you, you appear highly the object of compas- sion ; and I shall always esteem you as an innocent and an unfortunate woman.' Amelia would then have taken her leave ; but Mrs. Bennet so strongly pressed her to stay to breakfast, that at length she complied ; indeed, she had fasted so long, and her gentle spirits had been so agitated with variety of passions, that nature very strongly seconded Mrs. Bennet's motion. Whilst the maid was preparing the tea-equipage, Amelia, with a little slyness in her countenance, asked Mrs. Bennet, if serjeant Atkinson did not lodge in the same house with her ? The other reddened so extremely at the question, repeated the Serjeant's name with such hesitation, and behaved so awkwardly, that Amelia wanted no farther confirmation of her suspicions. She would not, however, declare them abruptly to the other ; but began a dissertation on the Serjeant's virtues ; and, after observing the great concern which he had mani- fested, when Mrs. Bennet was in her fit, concluded with AMELIA. 57 saying slie believed the seijeant would make the best husband in the world : for that he had great tenderness of heart, and a gentleness of manners, not often to be found in any man, and much seldomer in persons of his rank. ' And why not in his rank ? ' said ]\Irs. Bennet : ' In- ' deed, Mrs. Booth, we rob the lower order of mankind ' of their due. I do not deny the force and power of ' education ; but, when we consider how very injudicious * is the education of the better sort in general, how little ^ they are instructed in the practice of virtue, we shall * not expect to find the heart much improved by it. And * even as to the head, how very slightly do we commonly ' find it improved by what is called a genteel education ? * I have myself, I think, seen instances of as great good- ' ness, and as great understanding too, among the lower ' sort of people, as among the higher. Let us compare * your Serjeant, now, with the lord who hath been the ^ subject of conversation; on which side would an im- * partial judge decide the balance to incline?' ' How monstrous then,' cries Amelia, ' is the opinion ' of those, who consider our matching ourselves the least * below us in degTce, as a kind of contamination ! ' *" A most absurd and preposterous sentiment,' answered Mrs. Bennet, warmly; 'how abhorrent from justice, from * common sense, and from humanity — but how extremely ' incongruous with a religion which professes to know no ' difterence of degree, but ranks all mankind on the foot- ' ing of brethren ! Of all kinds of pride, there is none '• so unchristian as that of station ; in reality, there is * none so contemptible. Contempt, indeed, may be said *• to be its own object ; for my own part, I know none so ' despicable as those who despise others.' ' I do assure you,' said Amelia, 'you speak my own ' sentiments. I give you my word, I should not be 58 AMELIA. *" ashamed of being the wife of an honest man in any ' station. — Nor, if I had been much higher than I was, ' should I have thought myself degraded by calling our ' honest seijeant my husband.' ' Since you have made this declaration,' cries Mrs. Bennet, ' I am sure you will not be offended at a secret * I am going to mention to you.' ' Indeed, my dear,' answered Amelia, smiling, ' I won- ' der rather you have concealed it so long ; especially ^ after the many hints I have given you.' ' Nay, pardon me, Madam,' replied the other, ' I do ' not remember any such hints ; and, perhaps, you do ' not even guess what I am going to say. My secret is ^ this ; that no woman ever had so sincere, so passionate ' a lover, as you have had in the serjeant.' ' I a lover in the serjeant ! — I ! ' cries Amelia, a little surprised. ' Have patience,' answered the other ; — ' I say you, my dear. As much surprised as you appear, I tell you no more than the truth ; and yet it is a truth you could hardly expect to hear from me, especially with so much good-humour ; since I will honestly confess to you — But what need have I to confess what I know you guess already? — Tell me now sincerely, Don't you guess ? ' ' I guess, indeed, and hope,' said she, ' that he is your husband.' ' He is, indeed, my husband,' cries the other ; ' and I am most happy in your approbation. In honest truth, you ought to approve my choice ; since you was every way the occasion of my making it. What you said of him, very greatly recommended him to my opinion ; but he endeared himself to me most by what he said of you. In short, I have discovered, he hath always loved you with such a faithful, honest, noble. AMELIA. 59 generous passion, that I was consequently convinced his mind must possess all the ingredients of such a passion ; and what are these, but true honour, good- ness, modesty, bravery, tenderness, and, in a word, every human virtue. — Forgive me, my dear ; but I was uneasy till I became myself the object of such a passion.' ' And do you really think,' said Amelia, smiling, ' that I shall forgive you robbing me of such a lover ? or, supposing what you banter me with was true, do you really imagine you could change such a passion ? ' ' No, my dear,' answered the other ; * I only hope I have changed the object ; for be assured, there is no greater vulgar error, than that it is impossible for a man who loves one woman ever to love another. On the contrary, it is certain, that a man who can love one woman so well at a distance, will love another better that is nearer to him. Indeed, I have heard one of the best husbands in the world declare, in the presence of his wife, that he had always loved a princess with adoration. These passions, which reside only in very amorous and very delicate minds, feed only on the delicacies there growing ; and leave all the substantial food, and enough of the delicacy too, for the wife.' The tea being now ready, Mrs. Bennet, or, if you please, for the future, Mrs. Atkinson, proposed to call in her husband; but Amelia objected. She said, she should be glad to see him any other time ; but was then in the utmost hurry, as she had been three hours absent from all she most loved. However, she had scarce drank a dish of tea before she changed her mind ; and, saying she would not part man and wife, desired Mr. Atkinson might appear. The maid answered, that her master was not at home ; which words she had scarce spoken, when he knocked 60 AMELIA. hastily at the door ; and immediately came rmming into the room, all pale and breathless, and addressing himself to Amelia, cried out, ' I am sorry, my dear lady, to bring * you ill news ; but captain Booth ' — ' What ! what ! ' cries Amelia, di-opping the tea-cup from her hand, ' is any thing ' the matter with him ! ' — ' Don't be frightened, my dear ' lady,' said the serjeant — ' He is in very good health ; ' but a misfortune hath happened.' — ' Are my children 'well?' said Amelia. — ' O, very well,' answered the Serjeant — ' Pray, Madam, don't be frightened ; I hope * it will signify nothing — he is arrested — but I hope to * get him out of their damned hands immediately.' * Where is he ? ' cries Amelia, ' I will go to him this ' instant ! ' ' He begs you will not,' answered the Ser- jeant. ' I have sent his lawyer to him, and am going ' back with Mrs. Ellison this moment; but I beg your ' ladyship, for his sake, and for your own sake, not to ' go.' ' Mrs. Ellison ! what is Mrs. Ellison to do ? ' cries Amelia, — ' I must and will go.' Mrs. Atkinson then interposed, and begged that she would not hurry her spirits, but compose herself, and go home to her children, whither she would attend her. She comforted her with the thoughts, that the captain was in no immediate danger, that she could go to him when she would ; and desired her to let the serjeant return with Mrs. Ellison ; saying, she might be of service ; and that there was much wisdom, and no kind of shame, in making use of bad people on certain occasions. * And who,' cries Amelia, a little come to herself, ' hath done this barbarous action ? ' ' One I am ashamed to name,' cries the serjeant ; ' in- * deed I had always a very different opinion of him ; I * could not have believed any thing but my own ears and ' eyes ; but Dr. Harrison is the man who hath done the '- deed.' AMELIA. 61 * Dr. Harrison ! ' cries Amelia. — ' Well then, there is ' an end of all goodness in the world. I will never have ' a good opinion of any human being more.' The Serjeant begged that he might not be detained from the captain ; and that if Amelia pleased to go home, he would wait upon her. But she did not choose to see Mrs. Ellison at this time; and, after a little con- sideration, she resolved to stay where she was ; and Mrs. Atkinson agreed to go and fetch her children to her, it being not many doors distant. The Serjeant then departed ; Amelia, in her confusion, never having once thought of wishing him joy on his marriage. AMELIA. BOOK VIII. CHAPTEPv I. Being the First Chapter of the Eighth Book. The history must now look a little backwards to those circumstances which led to the catastrophe mentioned at the end of the last book. When Amelia went out in the morning she left her children to the care of her husband. In this amiable office he had been engaged near an hour; and was at that very time lying along on the floor, and his little things ci'awling and playing about him, when a most violent knock was heard at the door; and immediately a footman, running up stairs, acquainted him, that his lady was taken violently ill, and carried into Mrs. Chenevix's toy-shop. Booth no sooner heard this account, which was de- livered with great appearance of haste and earnestness, than he leaped suddenly from the floor ; and leaving his children roaring at the news of their mother's illness in strict charge with his maid, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the place; or towards the place rather: for, before he arrived at the shop, a gentleman stopped him full butt, crying, 'Captain, whither so fast?' Booth answered eagerly, ' Whoever you are, friend, ' don't ask me any questions now.' — ' You must pardon G4 AMELIA. ' me ! captain,' answered tlie gentleman ; ' but I have a ' little business with your honour — In short, captain, I ' have a small warrant here in my pocket against your ' honour, at the suit of one Dr. Harrison.' ' You are a ' bailiff then,' says Booth. ' I am an officer. Sir,' answered the other. — ' Well, Sir, it is in vain to con- *" tend,' cries Booth, ' but let me beg you will permit ' me only to step to Mrs. Chenevix's — I will attend ' you, upon my honour, wherever you please ; but my ' wife lies violently ill there.' ' Oh, for that matter,' answered the bailiff, 'you may set your heart at ease. ' Your lady, I hope, is very well. I assure you, she is * not there ; you will excuse me, captain, these are only ' stratagems of war. Bolus and virtus^ quis in a hostess * equirit 9 ' — ' Sir, I honour your learning,' cries Booth, ' and could almost kiss you for what you tell me. I ' assure you, I would forgive you five hundred arrests ' for such a piece of news. Well, Sir, and whither am 'I to go with you?' '0, any where: where your ' honour pleases,' cries the bailiff. ' Then suppose we ' go to Brown's coffee-house,' said the prisoner. ' No,' answered the bailiff', ' that will not do ; that's in the ' verge of the court.' ' Why, then, to the nearest ' tavern,' said Booth. ' No, not to a tavern,' cries the other, ' that is not a place of security ; and you know, ' captain, your honour is a shy cock ; I have been after ' your honour these three months — Come, Sir, you must ' go to my house, if you please.' ' With all my heart,' answered Booth, 'if it be any where hereabouts.' ' Oh, 'it is but a little ways off,' replied the bailiff; 'it is ' only in Gray's-inn-lane, just by almost.' He then called a coach, and desired his prisoner to walk in. Booth entered the coach without any resistance, which, had he been inclined to make, he must have plainly per- ceived would have been ineffectual, as the bailiff appeared A3IELIA. 65 to have several followers at hand, two of whom, beside the commander in chief, mounted with him into the coach. As Booth was a sweet-tempered man, as well as somewhat of a philosopher, he behaved with all the good-hmnour imaginable, and, indeed, with more than his companions ; who, however, shewed him what they call civility, that is, they neither struck him nor spit in his face. Notwithstanding the pleasantry which Booth endea- voured to preserve, he in reality envied every labourer whom he saw pass by him in his way. The charms of liberty against his will rushed on his mind ; and he could not avoid suggesting to himself, how much more happy was the poorest wretch, who, without controul, could repair to his homely habitation, and to his family 5 com- pared to him, who was thus violently, and yet lawfully, torn away from the company of his wife and children. And their condition, especially that of his Amelia, gave his heart many a severe and bitter pang. At length he arrived at the bailiff's mansion, and was ushered into a room, in which were several persons. Booth desired to be alone ; upon which the bailiff waited on him up stairs, into an apartment, the win- dows of which were well fortified with iron-bars ; but the walls had not the least outwork raised before them ; they were, indeed, what is generally called, naked ; the bricks having been only covered with a thin plaster, which in many places was mouldered away. The first demand made upon Booth was for coach- hire, which amounted to two shillings, according to the bailiff's account ; that being just double the legal fare. He was then asked, if he did not choose a bowl of punch ? to Avliich he having answered in the negative, the bailiff replied, ' Nay, Sir, just as you please. I ' don't ask you to drink, if you don't choose it ; but VOL. IX. F 66 AMELIA. ' certainly you know tlie custom ; the house is full of ' prisoners, and I can't afford gentlemen a room to them- ' selves for nothing.' Booth presently took this hint, indeed it was a pretty broad one, and told the bailiff he should not scruple to pay him his price; but in fact he never drank miless at his meals. ' As to that. Sir,' cries the bailiff, ' it is 'just as your honour pleases. I scorn to impose upon ' any gentleman in misfortunes : I wish you well out of ' them, for my part. Your honour can take nothing amiss ' of me 5 I only does my duty, what I am bound to do ; ' and, as you says you don't care to drink any thing, ' what will you be pleased to have for dinner ? ' Booth then complied in bespeaking a dish of meat, and told the bailiff, he would drink a bottle with him after dinner. He then desired the favom* of pen, ink, and paper, and a messenger ; all which were immediately procured him, the bailiff telling him he might send wherever he pleased, and repeating his concern for Booth's misfortunes, and a hearty desire to see the end of them. The messenger was just dispatched with the letter, Avhen who should arrive but honest Atkinson ! A soldier of the guards, belonging to the same company with the Serjeant, and who had known Booth at Gib- raltar, had seen the arrest, and heard the orders given to the coachman. This fellow accidentally meeting Atkinson, had acquainted him with the whole affair. At the appearance of Atkmson, joy immediately overspread the countenance of Booth. The ceremonials which passed between them are unnecessary to be re- peated. Atkinson was soon dispatched to the attorney and to Mrs. Ellison, as the reader hath before heard from his own mouth. Booth now greatly lamented that he had writ to his AMELIA. 67 wife. He tlioiiglit she might have been acquainted with the affair better by the serjeant. Booth begged him, however, to do everything in his power to comfort her ; to assure her that he was in perfect health and good spirits, and to lessen as much as possible the concern which he knew she would have at reading liis letter. The Serjeant, however, as the reader hath seen, brought himself the first account of the arrest. Indeed, the other messenger did not arrive till a full hour afterwards. This was not owing to any slowness of his, but to many previous errands which he was to execute before the delivery of the letter ; for, notwithstanding the earnest desire which the bailiff had declared to see Booth out of his troubles, he had ordered the porter, who was his fol- lower, to call upon two or three other bailiffs, and as many attorneys, to try to load his prisoner with as many actions as possible. Here the reader may be apt to conclude, that the bailifp, instead of being a friend, was really an enemy to poor Booth ; but, in fact, he was not so. His desire was no more than to accumulate bail bonds ; for the bailiff was reckoned an honest and good sort of man in his way, and had no more malice against the bodies in his custody than a butcher hath to those in his ; and as the latter, when "r" he takes his knife in hand, hath no idea but of the joints into which he is to cut the carcase ; so the former, when he handles his writ, hath no other design but to cut out the body into as many bail bonds as possible. As to the life of the animal, or the liberty of the man, they are thoughts which never obtrude themselves on either. f2 68 AMELIA. CHAPTER II. Containing an account of Mr. Bootli s fellow-sufferers. Before we return to Amelia, we must detain our reader a little longer with Mr. Booth, in the custody of Mr, Bondumthe bailiff, who now informed his prisoner that he was welcome to the liberty of the house with the other gentlemen. Booth asked who those gentlemen were. ' One of them, Sir,' says Mr. Bondum, ' is a very great writer or author, as they call him — He hath been here these five weeks, at the suit of a bookseller, for eleven pound odd money *, but he expects to be discharged in a day or two ; for he hath writ out the debt. He is now writing for five or six booksellers, and he will get you sometimes, when he sits to it, a matter of fifteen shillings a day. For he is a very good pen, they say ; but is apt to be idle. Some days he don't write above five hours ; but at other times I have known him at it above sixteen.' — ' Ay ! ' cries Booth, ' Pray, what are his productions ? — AVhat doth he write?' — 'Why, sometimes,' answered Bondum, 'he writes your history books for your numbers, and some- times your verses, your poems, what do you call them ? and then again he writes news for your newspapers.' — Ay, indeed ! he is a most extraordinary man, truly — How doth he get his news here ? ' ' Why he makes it, as he doth your parliament speeches for your Magazines. He reads them to us sometimes over a bowl of pimch. To be sure it is all one as if one was in the parliament house — It is about liberty and freedom, and about the constitution of England. I says nothing for my part : for I will keep my neck out of a halter : but, faith, he makes it out plainly to AMELIA. 69 ' me that all matters are not as they should be. I am all ' for liberty, for my part.' ' Is that so consistent with ' your calling ? ' cries Booth. ' I thought, my fi'iend, you ' had lived by depriving men of their liberty.' ' That's ' another matter,' cries tlie bailiif, ' that's all according to ' law, and in the way of business. To be sure, men must ' be obliged to pay their debts, or else there would be an ' end of every thing.' Booth desired the bailiff to give him his opinion of liberty. Upon which, he hesitated a moment, and then cried out, ' O it is a fine thing, it is a Ss^ ' very fine thing, and the constitution of England.' Booth told him, that, by the old constitution of England, he had heard that men could not be arrested for debt ; to which tlie bailiff answered that must have been in very bad times ; ' because as why,' says he, ' would it not be the ' hardest thing in the world if a man could not arrest ' another for a just and lawful debt? besides. Sir, you ' must be mistaken •, for, how could that ever be ! is not ' liberty the constitution of England ? well, and is not the ' constitution, as a man may say, — whereby the constitu- ' tion, that is the law and liberty, and all that ' Booth had a little mercy upon the poor bailiff, when he found him rounding in this manner, and told him he had made the matter very clear. Booth then proceeded to inquire after the other gentlemen, his fellows in affliction ; upon which Bondum acquainted him, that one of the prisoners was a poor fellow. ' He calls himself a gentle- ' man,' said Bondum ; ' but I am sure I never saw any ' tiling genteel by him. In a week, that he hath been in ' my house, he hath drank only part of one bottle of wine. ' I intend to carry him to Newgate within a day or two, if * he cannot find bail, which, I suppose, he will not be able ' to do; for every body says he is an undone man. He ' hath run out all he hath by losses in business, and one ' way or other ; and he hath a wife and seven children. 70 AMELIA. Here was the wliole family here the other day, all howlmg together. I never saw such a beggarly crew ; I was almost ashamed to see them m my house. I thought they seemed fitter for Bridewell than any other place. To be sure, I do not reckon him as proper com- pany for such as you, Sir ; but there is another prisoner in the house that I dare say you will like very much. He is, indeed, very much of a gentleman, and spends his money like one. I have had him only three days, and I am afraid he won't stay much longer. They say, indeed, he is a gamester ; but what is that to me or any one, as long as a man appears as a gentleman? I always love to speak by people as I find. And, in my opinion, he is fit company for the greatest lord in the land ; for he hath very good clothes, and money enough. He is not here for debt, but upon a judge's warrant for an assault and battery ; for the tipstaff locks up here.' The bailiff was thus haranguing, when he was inter- rupted by the arrival of the attorney whom the trusty Serjeant had, with the utmost expedition, found out, and dispatched to the relief of his distressed friend. But be- fore we proceed any farther Avith the captain, we will return to poor Amelia, for whom, considering the situation in which we left her, the good-natured reader may be, perhaps, in no small degree solicitous. CHAPTER HI. Containing some extraordinary behaviour in Mrs. Ellison, The Serjeant being departed to convey Mrs. Ellison to the captain, his wife went to fetch Amelia's children to their mother. AMELIA. 71 Amelia's concern for tlie distresses of her husband was ao;o;ravated at the sio-ht of her chikh-en. ' Good Heavens ! ' she cried, ' what will, what can become of these poor ' little wretches ! why have I produced these little crea-\ ' tm-es only to give them a share of poverty and misery ! ' At which words she embraced them eagerly in her arms,, and bedewed them both with her tears. ! The children's eyes soon overflowed as fast as their mother's, though neither of them knew the cause of her affliction. The little boy, who was the elder, and much the sharper of the two, imputed the agonies of his mother to her illness, according to the account brought to his father in his presence. When Amelia became acquainted with the child's ap- prehensions, she soon satisfied him that she was in a per- fect state of health ; at which the little thing expressed great satisfaction, and said, he was glad she was well again. — Amelia told him, she had not been in the least disordered. — Upon which, the innocent cried out, ' La ! ' how can people tell such fibs ! a gi'cat tall man told my ' papa you was taken very ill at Mrs. somebody's shop, ^ and my poor papa presently ran down stairs — I was ' afraid he would have broke his neck to come to you.' '• O the villains ! ' cries Mrs. Atkinson, ' what a strata- ' gem was here to take away your husband ! ' ' Take away ! ' answered the child — ' What hath any ' body taken away papa ? — Sure that naughty fibbing ' man hath not taken away papa ? ' Amelia begged Mrs. Atkinson to say something to her children; for that her spirits were overpowered. She then threw herself into a chair, and gave a full vent to a passion almost too strong for her delicate constitution. The scene that followed, during some minutes, is be- yond my power of description ; I must beg the readers' hearts to suggest it to themselves. The children hung on 72 AMELIA. the mother, whom they endeavoured in vain to comfort; as Mrs. Atkuison did in vain attempt to pacify them, tell- ing them all would be well, and they would soon see their papa again. At length, partly by the persuasion of Mrs. Atkinson, partly from consideration of her little ones, and more, perhaps, from the relief which she had acquired by her tears, Amelia became a little composed. Nothing worth notice passed in this miserable company from this time, till the return of Mrs. Ellison from the bailiff's house ; and to draw out scenes of wretchedness to too great a length, is a task very uneasy to the writer, and for which none but readers of a most gloomy com- plexion will think themselves ever obliged to his labours. At length ]\Irs. Ellison arrived, and entered the room with an air of gaiety, rather misbecoming the occasion. When she had seated herself in a chair, she told Amelia that the captain was very well, and in good spirits ; and that he earnestly desired her to keep up hers. ' Come, Madam,' said she, ' don't be disconsolate ; I hope we shall soon be able to get him out of his troubles. The debts, indeed, amount to more than I expected; how- ever, ways may be found to redeem him. He must own himself guilty of some rashness in going out of the verge, when he knew to what he was liable ; but that is now not to be remedied. If he had followed my advice, this had not happened ; but men will be head- strong.' ' I cannot bear this,' cries Amelia ; ' shall I hear that best of creatures blamed for his tenderness to me?' ' Well, I will not blame him,' answered Mrs. Ellison ; I am sure I propose notliing but to serve him ; and if you will do as much to serve him yourself, he will not be long a prisoner.' AMELIA. 73 ' I do ! ' cries Amelia ; ' Heavens ! is there a thing ' upon earth — ' * Yes, there is a thing upon earth,' said Mrs. Ellison, and a very easy thing too ; and yet, I will venture my life, you start when I propose it. And yet, when I con- sider that you are a woman of understanding, I know not why I should think so ; for sure you must have too much good sense to imagine that you can cry your hus- band out of prison. If this would have done, I see you have almost cried your eyes out already. And yet you may do the business by a much pleasanter way than by crying and bawling.' ' What do you mean. Madam ? ' cries Amelia. — ' For my part, I cannot guess your meaning.' ' Before I tell you. Madam,' answered Mrs. Ellison, ' I must inform you, if you do not already know it, that the captain is charged with actions to the amount of near five hundred pounds. I am sure I would willingly be his bail ; but I know my bail would not be taken for that sum. You must consider, therefore, Madam, what chance you have of redeeming him ; unless you choose, as perhaps some wives would, that he should lie all his life in prison.' At these words Ameha discharged a shower of tears, and gave every mark of the most frantic grief. ' Why there now,' cries Mrs. Ellison, ' while you will indulge these extravagant passions, how can you be capable of listening to the voice of reason ? I know I am a fool in concerning myself thus with the affairs of others. I know the thankless ofl&ce I undertake ; and yet I love you so, my dear Mrs. Booth, that I cannot bear to see you afflicted, and I would comfort you, if you would suffer me. Let me beg you to make your mind easy ; and within these two days, I will engage to set your husband at liberty. 74 AMELIA. ' Harkye, child, only behave like a woman of spirit ' this evening, and keep your appointment, notwith- ' standing what hath happened ; and I am convinced ' there is one, who hath the power and the will to serve Mrs. Ellison spoke the latter part of her speech in a whisper ; so that Mrs. Atkinson, who was then engaged witli the children, might not hear her ; but Amelia answered aloud, and said, ' What appointment would you ' have me keep this evening ? ' ^ Nay, nay, if you have forgot,' cries Mrs. Ellison, ' I * will tell you more another time ; but come, will you go ' home ? my dinner is ready by this time, and you shall ' dine with me.' ' Talk not to me of dinners,' cries Amelia ; ' my stomach ' is too full already.' ' Nay, but, dear Madam,' answered Mrs. Ellison, — ' let ' me beseech you to go home with me. I do not care,' says she, whispering, ' to speak before some folks.' ' I have no secret. Madam, in the world,' replied Amelia aloud, ' which I would not communicate to this lady ; for ' I shall always acknowledge the highest obligations to ' her for the secrets she hath imparted to me.' ' ]\Iadam,' said Mrs. Ellison, ' I do not interfere with ' obligations. I am glad the lady hath obliged you so ' much ; and I wish all people were equally mindful of ' obligations. I hope, I have omitted no opportunity of ' endeavouring to oblige Mrs. Booth, as well as I have ' some other folks.' ' If by other folks. Madam, you mean me,' cries Mrs. Atkinson, ' I confess I sincerely believe you intended the ^ same obligation to us both ; and I have the pleasure ' to think it is owing to me that this lady is not as much ' obliged to you as I am.' ' 1 protest, Madam, I can hardly guess your meaning,' AMELIA. 75 said Mrs. Ellison. — ^ Do you really intend to affront me, ' Madam ? ' ' I intend to preserve innocence and virtue, if it be in my power, Madam,' answered the other. ' And sure nothing but the most eager resolution to destroy it, could induce you to mention such an appointment at such a time.' ' I did not expect this ti'eatment from you. Madam,' cries Mrs. Ellison ; ' such ingratitude I could not have believed, had it been reported to me by any other.' ' Such impudence,' answered Mrs. Atkinson, ' must exceed, I think, all belief; but, when women once abandon that modesty which is the characteristic of their sex, they seldom set any bounds to their assurance.' ' I could not have believed this to have been in human nature,' cries Mrs. Ellison. ' Is this the woman whom I have fed, have cloathed, have supported; who owes to my charity, and my intercessions, that she is not at this day destitute of all the necessaries of life ? ' ' I own it all,' answered Mrs. Atkinson. — ' And I add the favour of a masquerade ticket to the number. Could I have thought. Madam, that you would, before my face, have asked another lady to go to the same place with the same man ! — But I ask your pardon, I impute rather more assurance to you than you are mis- tress of — You have endeavoured to keep the assignation a secret from me; and it was by mere accident only that I discovered it ; unless there are some guardian angels, that in general protect innocence and virtue ; though, I may say, I have not always found them so watchful.' ' Indeed, Madam,' said Mrs. Ellison, ' you are not worth my answer, nor will I stay a moment longer with such a person. — So, Mrs. Booth, you have your 76 AMELIA. ' choice, Madam, whether you will go with me, or remain ' in the company of this lady.' ' If so, Madam,' answered Mrs. Booth, ' I shall not be ' long in determining to stay where I am.' Mrs. Ellison then, casting a look of great indignation at both the ladies, made a short speech full of invectives against Mrs. Atkinson, and not without oblique hints of ingratitude against poor Amelia ; after which she burst out of the room, and out of the house ; and made haste to her own home, in a condition of mind, to which for- tune, without guilt, cannot, I believe, reduce any one. Indeed, how much the superiority of misery is on the side of wickedness, may appear to every reader who will compare the present situation of Amelia, with that of Mrs. Ellison. Fortune had attacked the former with almost the highest degree of her malice. She was in- volved in a scene of most exquisite distress; and her husband, her principal comfort, torn violently from her arms ; yet her sorrow, however exquisite, was all soft and tender ; nor was she Avithout many consolations. Her case, however hard, was not absolutely desperate; for scarce any condition of fortune can be so. Art and industry, chance and friends, have often relieved the most distressed circumstances, and converted them into opulence. In all these she had hopes on this side the grave, and perfect virtue and innocence gave her the strongest assurances on the other. Whereas, in the bosom of Mrs. Ellison, all was storm and tempest; an- ger, revenge, fear, and pride, like so many raging furies, possessed her mind, and tortured her with disappoint- ment and shame. Loss of reputation, which is gene- rally irreparable, was to be her lot ; loss of friends is of this the certain consequence; all on this side the grave appeared dreary and comfortless ; and endless misery on the other, closed the gloomy prospect. AMELIA. 77 Hence, my worthy reader, console thyself, that how- ever few of the other good thmgs of life are thy lot; the best of all things, which is innocence, is always within thy own power ; and though fortune may make thee often unhappy ,«she can never make thee completely and irreparably miserable without thy own consent. CHAPTER IV. Containing^ among many matters^ the exem])lary heliaviour of colonel James, When Mrs. Ellison was departed, Mrs. Atkinson began to apply all her art to sooth and comfort Amelia; but was presently prevented by her; 'I am ashamed, dear ' Madam,' said Amelia, ' of having indulged my affliction '• so much at your expense. The suddenness of the occa- ' sion is my only excuse ; for had I had time to summon ' my resolution to my assistance, I hope I am misti-ess of ' more patience than you have hitherto seen me exert. I ' know. Madam, in my unwarrantable excesses, I have ' been guilty of many transgressions. First, against that ' divine will and pleasure without whose permission, at ' least, no human accident can happen; in the next place, ' Madam, if any thing can aggravate such a fault, I have ' transgressed the laws of friendship as well as decency, ' in throwing upon you some part of the load of my ' grief; and again, I have sinned agamst common sense, ' which should teach me, instead of weakly and heavily ' lamenting my misfortunes, to rouse all my spirits to ' remove them. In this light, I am shocked at my own ' folly, and am resolved to leave my children under your 78 AMELIA. ' care, and go directly to my husband. I may comfort ' him. I may assist him. I may relieve him. There is ' nothing now too difficult for me to undertake.' Mrs. Atkinson greatly approved and complimented her friend on all the former part of her speech, except what related to herself, on which she spoke very civilly, and I believe with great truth ; but as to her determination of going to her husband she endeavoured to dissuade her, at least she begged her to defer it for the present, and till the Serjeant returned home. She then reminded Amelia that it was now past five in the afternoon, and that she had not taken any refreshment but a dish of tea the whole day, and desired she would give her leave to pro- cure her a chick, or any thing she liked better, for her dinner. Amelia thanked her friend, and said, she would sit down with her to whatever she pleased ; ' but if I do ' not eat,' said she, ' I would not have you impute it to ' any thing but want of appetite ; for I assure you, all ' things are equally indifferent to me. I am more soli- ' citous about these poor little things, who have not been ' used to fast so long. Heaven knows what may liere- ' after be their fate ! ' Mrs. Atkinson bid her hope the best, and then recom- mended her children to the care of her maid. And now arrived a servant from Mrs. James, with an invitation to captain Booth and to his lady, to dine with the colonel the day after the next. This a little per- plexed Amelia ; but after a short consideration she dis- patched an answer to Mrs. James, in wliich she concisely informed her of what had happened. The honest serjeant, who had been on his legs almost the whole day, now returned, and brought Amelia a short letter from her husband ; in which he gave her the most solemn assurances of his health and spirits, AMELIA. 79 and begged her, with great earnestness, to take care to preserve her own ; which, if she did, he said, he had no doubt but that they shouhl shortly be happy. He added something of hopes from my lord, with which Mrs. Ellison had amused him ; and which served only to destroy the comfort that Amelia received from the rest of his letter. Whilst Amelia, the serjeant, and his lady, were en- gaged in a cold collation, for which purpose a cold chick was procured from the tavern for the ladies, and two pound of cold beef for the serjeant ; a violent knocking was heard at the door, and presently afterwards colonel James entered the room. After proper compliments had passed, the colonel told Amelia, that her letter was brought to Mrs. James while they were at table, and that, on her showing it him, he had immediately rose up, made an apology to his company, and took a chau' to her, He spoke to her with great tenderness on the occasion, and desired her to make herself easy ; assuring her, that he would leave nothing in his power undone to serve her husband. He then gave her an invitation, in his wife's name, to his own house, in the most pressing manner. Amelia returned him very hearty thanks for all his kind offers ; but begged to decline that of an apartment in his house. She said, as she could not leave her chil- dren, so neither could she think of brmging such a trouble with her into his family ; and though the colonel gave her many assurances that her children, as well as herself, would he very welcome to Mrs. James, and even betook himself to intreaties, she still persisted obstinately in her refusal. In real truth, Amelia had taken a vast affection for ]Mrs. Atkinson, of the comfort of whose company she could not bear to be deprived in her distress; nor to 80 AMELIA. exchange it for that of Mrs. James, to whom she had lately conceived no little dislike. The colonel, when he fomid he could not prevail with Amelia to accept his invitation, desisted from any far- ther solicitations. He then took a bank-bill of fifty pomids from his pocket-book, and said — ' You will pardon me, dear Madam, if I choose to impute your refusal of my house rather to a dislike of my wife, who I will not pretend to be the most agreeable of women (all men,' said he, sighing, ' have not captain Booth's fortune) than to any aversion or anger to me. I must insist upon it, therefore, to make your present habitation as easy to you as possible — I hope. Madam, you will not deny me this happiness ; I beg you will honour me with the acceptance of this trifle. He then put the note into her hand, and declared that the honour of touching it was worth a hundred times that sum.' ' I protest, colonel James,' cried Amelia, blushing, ' I know not what to do or say, your goodness so greatly confounds me. Can I, who am so well acquainted with the many great obligations Mr. Booth already hath to your generosity, consent that you should add more to a debt we never can pay ? ' The colonel stopped her short, protesting that she mis- placed the obligation ; for, that if to confer the highest happiness was to oblige, he was obliged to her accept- ance. ' And I do assure you. Madam,' said he, ' if this ' trifling sum, or a much larger, can contribute to your * ease, I shall consider myself as the happiest man upon ' earth in being able to supply it ; and you. Madam, my ' greatest benefactor in receiving it.' Amelia then put the note in her pocket; and they entered into a conversation, in wliicli many civil things were said on both sides ; but Avliat was chiefly worth AMELIA. 81 remark was, that Amelia had ahnost her husband con- stantly in her mouth, and the colonel never mentioned him ; the former seemed desirous to lay all obligations, as much as possible, to the account of her husband ; and the latter endeavoured, with the utmost delicacy, to insinuate that her happiness was the main and indeed only point which he had in view. Amelia had made no doubt, at the colonel's first appearance, but that he intended to go directly to her husband. When he dropped therefore a hint of his intention to visit him next morning, she appeared visibly shocked at the delay. The colonel perceiving this said, ' However inconvenient it may be, yet. Madam, if it will ' oblige you, or if you desire it, I will even go to-night.' Amelia answered, ' My husband will be far from desiring ' to derive any good from your inconvenience; but if ' you put it to me, I must be excused for saying, I desire ' nothing more in the world than to send him so great ' a comfort as I know he will receive from the presence ' of such a friend.' ' Then to show you. Madam,' cries the colonel, 'that I desire nothing more in the world ' than to give you pleasure, I will go to him imme- ' diately.' Amelia then bethought herself of the Serjeant, and told the colonel, his old acquaintance Atkinson, whom he had known at Gibraltar, was then in the house, and would conduct him to the place. The seijeant was immediately called in, paid his respects to the colonel, and was acknowledged by him. They both immediately set for- ward, Amelia to the utmost of her power pressing their departure. Mrs. Atkinson now returned to Amelia, and was by her acquainted with the colonel's late generosity ; for her heart so boiled over with gratitude, that she could not conceal the ebullition. Amelia likewise gave her friend VOL. IX. G 82 AMELIA. a full narrative of the coloners former beliaviour and friendship to her husband, as well abroad as in England ; and ended with declaiming, that she believed him to be the most generous man upon earth. Mrs. Atkinson agreed with Amelia's conclusion, and said she was glad to hear there was any such man. They then proceeded with the children to the tea-table, where panegyric, and not scandal, was the topic of their conversation 5 and of this panegyric the colonel was the subject ; both the ladies seeming to vie with each other in celebrating the praises of his goodness. CHAPTER V. Comments ujpon Aatliovs. Having left Amelia in as comfortable a situation as could possibly be expected, her immediate distresses relieved, and her heart filled with great hopes from the friendship of the colonel ; we will now return to Booth, who, when the attorney and serjeant had left him, received a visit from that great author, of whom honourable mention is made in our second chapter. Booth, as the reader may be pleased to remember, was a pretty good master of the classics ; for his father, though he designed his son for the army, did not think it necessary to breed him up a blockhead. He did not, perhaps, imagine, that a competent share of Latin and Greek would make his son either a pedant or a coward. He considered likewise, probably, that the life of a soldier is in general a life of idleness ; and might think that the spare hours of an officer in country quarters would be as well employed with a book, as in sauntering about the AMELIA. 83 street, loitering in a coflfee-house, sotting in a tavern, or in laying schemes to debauch and ruin a set of harmless ignorant country girls. As Booth was therefore what mioht well be called, in O 7 this age at least, a man of learning, he began to discourse our author on subjects of literature. ' I think. Sir,' says he, ' that Dr. Swift hath been generally allowed, by the ' critics in this kingdom, to be the greatest master of ' humour that ever wrote. Indeed, I allow him to have ' possessed most admii-able talents of this kind ; and if ' Eabelais was his master, I think he proves the truth of ' the common Greek proverb — That the scholar is often ' superior to the master. As to Cervantes, I do not think ' we can make any just comparison 5 for though Mr. Pope ' compliments him with sometimes taking Cervantes' 'serious air — ' — 'I remember the passage,' cries the author ; ' tliou, whatever title please thine ear, ' Dean, Drapier, Bickerstaff, or Gulliver ; ' Whether you take Cervantes' serious air, ' Or laugh and shake in Eabelais' easy chair — ' You are right, Sir,' said Booth ; ' but though I should agree that the doctor hath sometimes condescended to imitate Eabelais, I do not remember to have seen in his works the least attempt in the manner of Cervantes. But there is one in his own way, and whom I am con- vinced he studied above all others — you guess, I believe, y I am going to name Lucian. This author, I say, I am convinced he followed ; but I think he followed him at a distance ; as, to say the truth, every other writer of this kind hath done in my opinion ; for none, I think, hath yet equalled him. I agree, indeed, entirely with Mr. Mode, in his Discourse on the age of the Philopatris, when he gives him the epithet of the incomparable fi 2 84 AMELIA. * Liician ; and incomparable, I believe, he will remain as ' lono- as the lano-uao-e in which he wrote shall endure. ' What an inimitable piece of humom' is his Cock.' ' I *• remember it very well,' cries the author, ' his story of a ' Cock and a Bull is excellent.' Booth stared at this, and asked the author what he meant by the Bull ? ' Nay,' answered he, ' I don't know very well, upon my soul. It is a long time since I read him. I learnt him all over at school, I have not read him much since. And pray. Sir,' said he, ' how do you like his Pharsalia ? don't you think Mr. Rowe's translation a very fine one?' Booth replied, ' I believe we are talking of dif- ferent authors. The Pharsalia, which Mr. Eowe trans- lated, was written by Lucan ; but I have been speaking of Lucian, a Greek writer, and, in my opinion, the greatest in the humorous way that ever the world produced.' ' Ay,' cries the author, ' he was indeed so, a very excellent writer indeed. I fancy a translation of him would sell very well.' ' I do not know, indeed,' cries Booth. ' A good translation of him would be a valuable book. I have seen a wretched one published by Mr. Dryden, but translated by others, who in many places have misunderstood Ijucian's meaning, and have no where preserved the spirit of the original.' ' That is great pity,' says the author. ' Pray, Sir, is he well translated into French?' Booth answered, he could not tell ; but that he doubted it very much, having never seen a good version into that language out of the Greek. To confess the truth, I believe,' said he, ' the French translators have generally consulted the Latin only ; which, in some of the few Greek writers I have read is intolerably bad. And as the English translators, for the most part, pursue the French, we may easily guess, what spirit those copies of bad copies must preserve of the original.' AMELIA. 85 * Egad you are a shrewd guesser,' cries the author. ' I am glad the booksellers have not your sagacity. But how should it be otherwise, considering the price they pay by the sheet? The Greek, you will allow, is a hard language ; and there are few gentlemen that write who can read it without a good lexicon. Now, Sir, if we were to afford time to find out the true meaning of words, a gentleman would not get bread and cheese by his work. If one was to be paid, indeed, as Mr. Pope was for his Homer — Pray, Sir, don't you think that the best translation in the world ? ' ' Indeed, Sir,' cries Booth, ' I think, though it is cer- tainly a noble paraphrase, and of itself a fine poem, yet in some places it is no translation at all. In the very beginning, for instance, he hath not rendered the true force of the author. Homer invokes his Muse in the five first Jines of the Iliad 5 and, at the end of the fifth, he gives his reason : ' For all these things,' says he, 'were brought about by the decree of Jupiter ; and, therefore, he supposes their true sources are known only to the deities. Now, the translation takes no more notice of the AE, than if no such word had been there.' ' Very possibly,' answered the author ; ' it is a long time since I read the original. Perhaps, then, he fol- lowed the French translations. I observe, indeed, he talks much in the notes of Madam Dacier and Monsieur Eustathius.' Booth had now received conviction enough of liis friend's knowledge of the Greek language; without attempting, therefore, to set him right, he made a sudden transition to the Latin. ' Pi'ay, Sir,' said he, '• as you have mentioned Powe's translation of the Phar- 86 AMELIA. ' salia, do you remember how he hath rendered that pas- ' sage m the character of Cato ? Venerisque huic maximus itsus Progenies ; urbi Pater est, urhique Maritv^s. ' For I apprehend that passage is generally misunder- '- stood.' ' I really do not remember,' answered the author. — ^ Pray, Sir, what do you take to be the meaning ? ' ' I apprehend, Sir,' replied Booth, ' that by these ' words, Urhi Pater est^ urhique Ma7-itus^ Cato is repre- ' sented as the father and husband to the city of Rome.' ' Very true, Sir,' cries the author ; ' very fine, indeed. ' Not only the father of his country, but the husband too ; ' very noble, truly ! ' ' Pardon me. Sir,' cries Booth, ' I do not conceive that ' to have been Lucan's meaning. If you please to observe ' the context ; Lucan having commended the temperance ' of Cato, in the instances of diet and clothes, proceeds to ' venereal pleasures ; of which, says the poet, his prin- ' cipal use was procreation ; then he adds, Ui'hi 'pater est^ ' Urhique Maritus ; that he became a father and a hus- ' band, for the sake only of the city.' ' Upon my word that's true,' cries the author ; ' I did ' not think of it. It is much finer than the other. — Ui^his ''pater est — what is the other; — ay — Urhis Maritus. — It ' is certainly as you say. Sir.' Booth was by this pretty well satisfied of the author's profound learning ; however, he was willing to try him a little farther. He asked him, therefore, what was his opinion of Lucan in general, and in what class of writers he ranked him ? The author stared a little at this question ; and, after some hesitation, answered, ' Certainly, Sir, I think he is a ' fine writer, and a very great poet.' AMELIA. 87 ^ I am very much of the same opinion,' cries Booth ; but where do you class him, next to what poet do you place him ? ' ' Let me see,' cries the author, ' where do I class him ! next to whom do I place him ! — Ay ! —why ! — why, pray, where do you yourself place him ? ' ' Why, surely,' cries Booth, ' if he is not to be placed in the first rank with Homer, and Virgil, and Milton, I think clearly, he is at the head of the second ; before either Statins or Silius Italicus. — Though I allow to each of these their merits ; but, perhaps, an epic poem was beyond the genius of either. I own, I have often thouofht, if Statins had ventured no farther than Ovid or Claudian, he would have succeeded better; for his Sylv£e are, in my opinion, much better than his Thebais.' ' I believe I was of the same opinion formerly,' said the author. ' And for what reason have you altered it ? ' cries Booth. ' I have not altered it,' answered the author ; ' but to ' tell you the truth, I have not any opinion at all about '• these matters at present. I do not trouble my head ' much with poetry ; for there is no encouragement to ' such studies in this age. It is true, indeed, I have ' now and then wrote a poem or two for the Magazines, ^ ' but I never intend to write any more ; for a gentleman ' is not paid for his time. A sheet is a sheet with the ' booksellers ; and, whether it be in prose or verse, they ' make no difference ; though certainly there is as much ' difference to a gentleman in the work, as there is to a ' tailor between making a plain and a laced suit. Eliimes ' are difficult things •, they are stubborn things, Sir. I ' have been sometimes longer in tagging a couplet, than ' I have been in writing a speech on the side of the oppo- 88 AMELIA. ' sitlon, which hath been read with great applause all ' over the kingdom.' ' I am glad you are pleased to confirm that,' cries Booth; 'for I protest it was an entire secret to me till this day. I was so perfectly ignorant, that I thought the speeches published in the Magazines were really made by the members themselves.' ' Some of them, and I believe I may, without vanity, say the best,' cries the author, ' are all the productions of my own pen ; but, I believe, I shall leave it off soon, unless a sheet of speech will fetch more than it does at present. In truth, the romance-writing is the only branch of our business now that is worth following. Goods of that sort have had so much success lately in the market, that a bookseller scarce cares what he bids for them. And it is certainly the easiest work in the world ; you may write it almost as fast as you can set pen to paper; and if you interlard it with a little scandal, a little abuse on some living characters of note, you cannot fail of success.' ' Upon my word. Sir,' cries Booth, ' you have greatly instructed me, I could not have imagined there had been so much regularity in the trade of writing as you are pleased to mention ; by what I can perceive, the pen and ink is likely to become the staple com- modity of the kingdom.' ' Alas ! Sir,' answered the author, ' it is overstocked. The market is overstocked. There is no encourage- ment to merit, no patrons. I have been these five years soliciting a subscription for my new translation of Ovid's Metamorphoses, with notes explanatory, historical, and critical ; and I have scarce collected five hundred names yet.' The mention of this translation a little surprised Booth ; not only as the author had just declared his AMELIA. 89 intentions to forsake the tuneful Muses ; but for some otlier reasons, which he had collected from his conversation with our author, he little expected to hear of a proposal to translate any of the Latin poets. He proceeded, therefore, to catechise him a little farther ; and by his answers was fully satisfied, that he had the very same acquaintance with Ovid, that he had appeared to have with Lucan. The author then pulled out a bundle of papers, con- taining proposals for his subscription, and receipts ; and addressing himself to Booth, said, ' Though the place in ' which we meet, Sir, is an improper place to solicit ' favours of this kind ; yet, perhaps, it may be in yom* ' power to serve me, if you will charge your pockets * with some of these.' Booth was just offering at an excuse, when the bailiff introduced colonel James and the Serjeant. The unexpected visit of a beloved friend to a man In affliction, especially in Mr. Booth's situation, is a comfort which can scarce be equalled ; not barely from the hopes of relief or redress, by his assistance; but as it is an evidence of sincere friendship, which scarce admits of any doubt or suspicion. Such an instance doth indeed make a man amends for all ordinary troubles and dis- tresses ; and we ought to think ourselves gainers, by having had such an opportunity of discovering, that we are possessed of one of the most valuable of all human possessions. Booth was so transported at the sight of the colonel that he dropped the proposals which the author had put into liis hands, and burst forth into the highest profes- sions of gratitude to his friend; who behaved very properly on his side, and said every thing which be- came the mouth of a friend on the occasion. It is true, indeed, he seemed not moved equally, either 90 AMELIA. with Bootli or the serjeant; both whose eyes watered at the scene. In truth, the colonel, though a very generous man, had not the least gram of tenderness in his dispo- sition. His mind was formed of those firm materials, of which nature formerly hammered out the Stoic, and upon which the sorrows of no man living could make an im- pression. A man of this temper, who doth not much value danger, will fight for the person he calls his friend ; and the man that hath but little value for his money will give it him ; but such friendship is never to be absolutely depended on ; for whenever the favourite passion inter- poses with it, it is sure to subside and vanish into air. Whereas the man whose tender disposition really feels the miseries of another, will endeavour to relieve them for his own sake ; and in such a mind, friendship will often get the superiority over every other passion. But from whatever motive it sprung, the colonel's behaviour to Booth seemed truly amiable * and so it appeared to the author, who took the first occasion to applaud it m a very florid oration ; which the reader, when he recollects that he was a speech-maker by pro- fession, will not be surprised at; nor, perhaps, will be much more surprised, that he soon after took an occasion of clapping a proposal into the colonel's hands ; holding at the same time a receipt very visible in his own. The colonel received both, and gave the author a guinea in exchange, which was double the sum men- tioned in the receipt ; for which the author made a low bow, and very politely took his leave, saying, ' I ' suppose, gentlemen, you may have some private busi- ' ness together; I heartily wish a speedy end to your ' confinement ; and I congratulate you on the possessing ' so great, so noble, and so generous a friend.' AMELIA. 91 CHAPTER VI. Which inclines rather to Satire than Panegyric, The colonel had the curiosity to ask Booth the name of the gentleman, who, in the vulgar language, had struck, or taken him in for a guinea, with so much ease and dexterity. Booth answered, he did not know his name ; all that he knew of him was, that he was the most im- pudent and illiterate fellow he had ever seen ; and that, by his own account, he was the author of most of the wonderful productions of the age. ' Perhaps,' said he, ' it may look uncharitable in me to blame you for your ' generosity ; but I am convinced the fellow hath not ' the least merit or capacity ; and you have subscribed to ' the most horrid trash that ever was published.' ' I care not a farthing what he publishes,' cries the colonel. ' Heaven forbid, I should be obliged to read ' half the nonsense I have subscribed to.' ' But don't you think,' said Booth, ' that by such in- ' discriminate encouragement of authors, you do a real ' mischief to the society? by propagating the subscrip- ' tions of such fellows, people are tired out, and withhold ' their contributions to men of real merit ; and, at the ' same time, you are contributing to fill the world, not ' only with nonsense, but with all the scurrility, inde- ' cency, and profaneness with which the age abounds ; ' and with which all bad writers supply the defect of ' genius.' ' Pugh ! ' cries the colonel, ' I never consider these '■ matters. Good or bad, it is all one to me ; but there's '• an acquaintance of mine, and a man of great wit too, ' that thinks the worst the best, as they are the surest ' to make him laugh.' 92 AMELIA. ' I ask pardon, Sir,' says the Serjeant ; ' but I wish your ' honour would consider your own affairs a little ; for ' it grows late in the evening.' ' The Serjeant says true,' answered the colonel. ' What ' is it you intend to do ? ' ' Faith, colonel, I know not what I shall do. My ' affairs seem so irreparable, that I have been driving ' them as much as possibly I could from my mind. If ' I was to suffer alone, I think I could bear them with ' some philosophy ; but when I consider who are to be ' the sharers in my fortune — the dearest of children, and ' the best, the worthiest, and the noblest of women — ' Pardon me, my dear friend ; these sensations are above ' me, they convert me into a woman ; they drive me to ' despair, to madness.' The colonel advised him to command himself; and told him, this was not the way to retrieve his fortune. ' As to me, my dear Booth,' said he, ' you know you ' may command me as far as is really within my power.' Booth answered eagerly, that he was so far from ex- pecting any more favours from the colonel, that he had resolved not to let him know anything of his misfortune. ' No, my dear friend,' cries he, ' I am too much obliged ' to you already ; ' and then burst into many fervent expressions of gratitude 5 till the colonel himself stopped him, and begged liim to give an account of the debt or debts for which he was detained in that horrid place. Booth answered, he could not be very exact; but he feared it was upwards of four hundred pounds. ' It is but three hundred pounds, indeed, Sir,' cries the Serjeant; ' if you can raise three hundred pounds, ' you are a free man this moment.' Booth, who did not apprehend the generous meaning of the Serjeant, as well as, I believe, the reader will, answered, he was mistaken ; that he had computed his AMELIA. 93 debt, and tliey amounted to upward of four hundred pounds; nay, that the baiHfif had shewn him writs for above that sum. ' Whether your debts are three or four hundred,' cries the colonel, ' the present business is to give bail only ; ' and then you will have some time to try your friends. ' I think you might get a company abroad; and then I ' would advance the money on the security of half your ' pay ; and, in the mean time, I will be one of your bail ' with all my heart.' Whilst Booth poured forth his gratitude for all this kindness, the Serjeant ran down stairs for the bailiff; and shortly after returned with him into the room. The bailiff, being informed that the colonel offered to be bail for his prisoner, answered a little surly, ' Well, ' Sir, and who will be the other ? you know, I suppose, ' there must be two ; and I must have time to inquire ' after them.' The colonel replied, ' I believe, Sir, I am well known ' to be responsible for a much larger sum than you ' demand on this gentleman ; but if your forms require ' two, I suppose, the seijeant here will do for the ' other.' ' I don't know the serjeant or you either, Sir,' cries Bondum ; ' and if you propose yourselves bail for the * gentleman, I must have time to inquire after you.' ' You need very little time to inquire after me,' says the colonel ; ' for I can send for several of the law, ' whom I suppose you know, to satisfy you ; but consider ' it is very late.' ' Yes, Sir,' answered Bondum, ' I do consider it is too ^ late for the captain to be bailed to night.' ' What do you mean by too late ?' cries the colonel. ' I mean, Sir, that I must search the office, and that is ' now shut up ; for if my lord mayor and the court of 94 AMELIA. ' aldermen would be bound for him, I would not discharge ' him till I had searched the office.' ' How, Sir,' cries the colonel, ' hath the law of Eng- ' land no more regard for the liberty of the subject than ' to suffer such fellows as you to detain a man in custody ' for debt, when he can give undeniable security ? ' ' Don't fellow me,' said the bailiff, ' I am as good a ' fellow as yourself, I believe, though you have that ' riband in your hat there.' ' Do you know whom you are speaking to ?' said the seijeant. ' Do you know you are talking to a colonel ' of the army ?' ' What's a colonel of the army to me ! ' cries the bailiff. ' I have had as good as he in my custody before now.' ' And a member of parliament ?' cries the serjeant. ' Is the gentleman a member of parliament '? — Well, ' and what harm have I said — I am sure I meant no ' harm, and if his honour is offended, I ask his pardon 5 * to be sure his honour must know that the sheriff is ' answerable for all the writs in the office, though they * were never so many, and I am answerable to the sheriff. ' I am sure the captain can't say that I have shewn him * any manner of incivility since he hath been here. — And ' I hope, honourable Sir,' cries he, turning to the colonel, ' you don't take any thing amiss that I said, or meant by ' way of disrespect, or any such matter. I did not, ' indeed, as the gentleman here says, know who I was ' speaking to ; but I did not say any thing uncivil as I ' know of, and I hope no offence.' The colonel was more easily pacified than might have been expected, and told the bailiff that, if it was against the rules of law to discharge Mr. Booth that evening, he must be contented. He then addressed himself to his friend, and began to prescribe comfort and patience to him ; saying, he must rest satisfied witli his confinement AMELIA. 95 that niglit; and the next mornhig he promised to visit him again. Booth answered, that as for himself, the lying one night in any place was very little worth his regard. ' You and ' I, my dear friend, have both spent our evening in a ' worse situation than I shall in this house. All my con- ' cern is for my poor Amelia, whose sufferings on account ' of my absence I know, and I feel with unspeakable ' tenderness. Could I be assured she was tolerably easy, ' I could be contented in chains or in a dungeon.' ' Give yourself no concern on her account,' said the colonel, ' I will wait on her myself, though I break an ' engagement for that purpose, and will give her such ' assurances as I am convinced will make her perfectly ' easy.' Booth embraced his friend, and, weeping over him, paid his acknowledgment with tears for all his goodness. In words, indeed, he was not able to thank him ; for gratitude joining with, his other passions, almost choaked him, and stopped his utterance. After a short scene, in which nothing jDassed worth recounting, the colonel bid his friend good-night ; and leaving the serjeant with him, made the best of his way back to Amelia. CHAPTER VII. Worthy a very serious perusal. The colonel found Amelia sitting very disconsolate with Mrs. Atkinson. He entered the room with an air of great gaiety, assured Amelia that her husband was per- 93 AMELIA. fectly well, and that he hoped the next day he would again be with her. Amelia was a little comforted at this accomit; and vented many grateful expressions to the colonel for his unparalleled friendship, as she was pleased to call it. She could not, however, help giving way soon after to a sigh at the thoughts of her husband's bondage ; and declared that night would be the longest she had ever known. ' This lady. Madam,' cries the colonel, ' must endea- vour to make it shorter. And if you will give me leave, I will join in the same endeavour.' Then after some nore consolatory speeches, the colonel attempted to give a gay turn to the discourse, and said, ' I was engaged to have spent this evening disagreeably at Eanelagh, with a set of company I did not like. How vastly am I obliged to you, dear Mrs. Booth, that I pass it so infi- nitely more to my satisfaction ! ' ' Indeed, colonel,' said Amelia, ' I am convinced that to a mind so rightly turned as yours, there must be a much sweeter relish in the highest offices of friendship, than in any pleasures which the gayest public places can afford.' ' Upon my word. Madam,' said the colonel, ' you now do me more than justice. I have, and always had, the utmost indifference for such pleasures. Indeed, I hardly allow them worthy of that name, or if they are so at all, it is in a very low degree. In my opinion, the highest friendship must always lead us to the highest pleasure.' Here Amelia entered into a long dissertation on friend- ship, in which she pointed several times directly at the colonel as the hero of her tale. The colonel highly applauded all her sentiments ; and when he could not avoid taking the compliment to him- AMELIA, 97 self, lie received it with a most respectful bow. He then tried his hand likewise at description, in which he found means to repay all Amelia's panegyric in kind. This, though he did with all possible delicacy, yet a curious observer might have been apt to suspect that it was chiefly on her account that the colonel had avoided the masquerade. In discourses of this kind they passed the evening, till it was very late, the colonel never offering to stu' from his chair before the clock had struck one ; when he thought, perhaps, that decency obliged him to take his leave. As soon as he was gone, Mrs. Atkinson said to Mrs. Booth, ' I think. Madam, you told me this afternoon that ^ the colonel was married.' Amelia answered, she did so, * I thmk likewise. Madam,' said Mrs. Atkinson, 'you ' was acquainted with the colonel's lady.' Amelia answered, that she had been extremely intimate with her abroad. ' Is she yoimg and handsome ? ' said ]\Ii's. Atkinson. ' In short, pray, was it a match of love or convenience ? ' Amelia answered, entirely of love, she believed, on his side ; for that the lady had little or no fortune. ' I am very glad to hear it,' said Mrs. Atkinson : ' for I am sure the colonel is in love with somebody. I think I never saw a more luscious picture of love drawn than that which he was pleased to give us as the portraiture of friendship. I have read, indeed, of Py lades and Orestes, Damon and Pythias, and other great friends of old ; nay, I sometimes flatter myself, that I am capable of being a friend myself; but as for that fine, soft, tender, delicate passion, which he was pleased to de- scribe, I am convinced there must go a he and a she to the composition.' VOL. IX. H 98 AMELIA. ' Upon my word, my dear, you are mistaken,' ciies Amelia. ' If you liad known the friendship which hath always subsisted between the colonel and my husband, you would not Imagine It possible for any description to exceed it. Nay, I think his behaviour this very day Is sufficient to convince you.' ' I own what he hath done to-day hath great merit/ said Mrs. Atkinson ; ' and yet from what he hath said to- night — You will pardon me, dear Madam: perhaps I am too quick-sighted in my observations, nay, I am afraid I am even impertinent.' ' Fie ! upon it,' cries Amelia, ' how can you talk in that strain ? Do you Imagine I expect ceremony ? — Pray speak what you think with the utmost freedom.' ' Did he not then,' said Mrs. Atkinson, 'repeat the words, the finest looman in the loorld^ more than once ? did he not make use of an expression which might have become the mouth of Oroondates himself? — If I re- member, the words were these, " that, had he been " Alexander the Great, he should have thought it more " glory to have wiped off a tear from the bright eyes of " Statira than to have conquered fifty worlds." ' ' Did he say so ? ' cries Amelia — ' I tliink he did say something like It ; but my thoughts were so full of my husband that I took little notice. But what would you infer from what he said ? I hope you don't think he is in love with me ! ' ' I hope he doth not think so himself,' answered Mrs. Atkinson ; ' though when he mentioned the bright eyes of Statira, he fixed his own eyes on yom's with the most languishing air I ever beheld.' Amelia was going to answer, when the Serjeant arrived, and then she immediately fell to inquiring after her hus- band ; and received such satisfactory answers to all her many questions concerning him, that she expressed great A3tELIA. 99 pleasure. These ideas so possessed lier mind, that with- out once casting her thoughts on any other matters, she took her leave of the serjeant and his lady, and repaired to bed to her children, in a room which Mrs. Atkinson had provided her in the same house ; where we will at present wish her a good night. CHAPTER VIII. Consisting of grave matters. While innocence and cheerful hope, in spite of the malice of fortune, closed the eyes of the gentle Amelia, on her homely bed, and she enjoyed a sweet and profound sleep, the colonel lay restless all night on his down ; his mind was affected with a kind of ague fit ; sometimes scorched up with flaming desires, and again chilled with the coldest despair. There is a time, I think, according to one of our poets. When lust and envy sleep. This, I suppose, is when they are well gorged with the food they most delight in ; but while either of these are hungry, Nor poppy, nor Mandragora, Nor all the drowsy syrups of the East Will ever medicine them to slumber. The colonel was at present unhappily tormented by both these fiends. His last evening's conversation with Amelia had done his business effectually. The many kind words she had spoken to him, the many kind looks she had given him, as being, she conceived, the friend and preserver of her husband, had made an entire conquest of his heart. Thus, the very love which she bore him, as the person to whom her little family H 2 100 AMELIA. were to owe tlieir preservation and happiness, inspired liim with thoughts of sinking them all in the lowest abyss of ruin and misery ; and while she smiled with all her sweetness on the supposed friend of her husband, she was converting that friend into his most bitter enemy. Friendship, take lieed ; if woman interfere, Be sure the hour of thy destruction's near. These are the lines of Vanbrugh ; and the sentiment is better than the poetry. To say the truth, as a hand- some wife is the cause and cement of many false friend- ships, she is often too liable to destroy the real ones. Thus the object of the colonel's lust very plainly ap- pears ; but the object of his envy may be more difficult to discover. Nature and Fortune had seemed to strive with a kind of rivalship which should bestow most on the colonel. The former had given him person, parts, and constitution, in all which he was superior almost to every other man. The latter had given him rank in life, and riches, both in a very eminent degree. Whom then should this happy man envy ? Here, lest ambition should mislead the reader to search the palaces of the great, we will direct him at once to Gray's-inn-lane ; where in a miserable bed, in a miserable room, he will see a miser- able broken lieutenant, in a miserable condition, with several heavy debts on his back, and without a penny in his pocket. This, and no other, was the object of the colonel's envy. And why ? because this wretch was possessed of the affections of a poor little lamb ; which all the vast flocks that were within the power and reach of the colonel could not prevent that glutton's longing for. And sure this image of the lamb is not improperly adduced on this occasion ; for what was the colonel's desire but to lead this poor lamb, as it were, to the slaughter, in order to purchase a feast of a few days by AMELIA. 101 her final destruction, and to tear her away from the ai-ms of one where she was sure of being fondled and caressed all the days of her life. While the colonel was agitated with these thoughts, his greatest comfort was that Amelia and Booth were now separated ; and his greatest terror was of their coming again together. From wishes, therefore, he began to meditate designs ; and, so far was he from any intention of procuring the liberty of his friend, that he began to form schemes of prolonghig his confinement, till he could procure some means of sending him away far from her ; in which case he doubted not but of succeeding in all he desired. He was forming this plan in his mind when a servant informed him that one Serjeant Atkinson desired to speak with his honour. The serjeant was immediately admitted, and acquainted the colonel that, if he pleased to go and become bail for JVIi*. Booth, another unexceptional house- keeper would be there to join with him. This person the Serjeant had procured that morning, and had, by leave of his wife, given him a bond of indemnification for the purpose. The colonel did not seem so elated with this news as Atkinson expected. On the contrary, instead of making a direct answer to what Atkinson said, the colonel began thus: 'I think, serjeant, Mr. Booth hath told me that you was foster-brother to his lady. She is really a charming woman, and it is a thousand pities she should ever have been placed in the dreadful situation she is now in. There is nothing so silly as for subaltern officers of the araiy to marry, unless where they meet with women of very great fortunes indeed. What can be the event of their marrying otherwise, but entailing misery and beggary on their wives and their posterity ? ' ^ Ah ! Sir,' cries the seijeant, ' it is too late to think of 102 AMELIA. those matters now. To be sure my lady might have married one of the top gentlemen in the country ; for she is certainly one of the best, as well as one of the hand- somest women in the kingdom ; and, if she had been fahly dealt by, would have had a very great fortune into the bargain. Indeed, she is worthy of the greatest prince in the world ; and, if I had been the greatest prince in the world, I should have thought myself happy with such a wife ; but she was pleased to like the lieutenant, and certainly there can be no happiness in marriage without liking.' * Lookye, serjeant,' said the colonel, 'you know very well that I am the lieutenant's friend. I think I have shown myself so.' * Indeed, your honour hath,' quoth the seijeant, ' more than once to my knowledge.' ' But I am angry with him for his imprudence, greatly angry with him for his imprudence ; and the more so as it aifects a lady of so much worth.' ' She is, indeed, a lady of the highest worth,' cries the Serjeant. ' Poor dear lady, I knew her, an't please your honour, from her infancy; and the sweetest- tempered, best-natured lady she is that ever trod on English ground. I have always loved her as if she was my own sister. Nay, she hath very often called me brother ; and I have taken it to be a greater honour than if I was to be called a general officer.' ' What a pity it is,' said the colonel, ' that this worthy creature should be exposed to so much misery by the thoughtless behaviour of a man, who, though I am his friend, I cannot help saying, hath been guilty of im- prudence at least. Why could he not live upon his half-pay ? What had he to do to run himself into debt in this outrageous manner ? ' ' I wish indeed,' cries the serjeant, ' he had been a AMELIA. 103 little more considerative ; but, I hope, this will be a warning to him.' ' How am I sm-e of that,' answered the colonel ; * or what reason is there to expect it ? extravagance is a vice of which men are not so easily cured. I have thought a great deal of this matter, Mr. Seijeant; and, upon the most mature deliberation, I am of opinion that it will be better both for him and his poor lady that he should smart a little more.' ' Yom- honour, Sir, to be sure, is in the right,' replied the Serjeant ; ' but yet. Sir, if you will pardon me for speaking, I hope you will be pleased to consider my poor lady's case. She suffers, all this while, as much or more than the lieutenant ; for I know her so well, that I am certain she will never have a moment's ease till her husband is out of confinement.' ' I know women better than you, Serjeant,' cries the colonel ; ' they sometimes place their affections on a husband as children do on their nurse; but they are both to be weaned. I know you, serjeant, to be a fellow of sense as well as spirit, or I should not speak so freely to you ; but I took a fancy to you a long time ago, and I intend to serve you ; but first I ask you this question, — Is your attachment to Mr. Booth or his lady?' ' Certainly, Sir,' said the serjeant, ' I must love my lady best. Not but I have a great affection for the lieutenant too, because I know my lady hath the same ; and, in- deed, he hath been always very good to me as far as was in his power. A lieutenant, your honour knows, can't do a great deal ; but I have always found him my friend upon all occasions.' ' You say true,' cries the colonel ; ' a lieutenant can do but little ; but I can do much to serve you and will too — But let me ask you one question — Who was the 104 AMELIA. ' lady whom I saw last night with IVIrs. Booth at her ' lodgings?' Here the serjeant blushed, and repeated, ' The lady, 'Sir!' ' Ay, a lady, a woman,' cries the colonel, ' who supped ' with us last night. She looked rather too much like a ' gentlewoman for the mistress of a lodging-house.' The Serjeant's cheeks glowed at this compliment to his wife ; and he was just going to own her when the colonel proceeded : ' I think I never saw in my life so ill-looking, ' sly, demure a b ; I would give something, methinks, * to know who she was.' * I don't know, indeed,' cries the serjeant, in great con- fusion ; ' I know nothing about her.' ' I wish you would inquire,' said the colonel, ' and let ' me know her name, and likewise what she is ; I have a ' strange curiosity to know ; and let me see you again ' this evening exactly at seven.' ' And will not yom- honour then go to the lieutenant * this morning ? ' said Atkinson. ' It is not in my power,' answered the colonel ; ' I am ' engaged another way. Besides, there is no haste in ' this affair. If men will be imprudent, they must suffer ' the consequences. Come to me at seven, and bring me ' all the particulars you can concerning that ill-looking ' jade I mentioned to you ; for I am resolved to know ' who she is. And so good-morrow to you, seijeant ; be ' assured I will take an opportunity to do something for 'you.' Though some readers may, perhaps, think the serjeant not unworthy of the freedom with which the colonel treated him ; yet that haughty officer would have been very backward to have condescended to such familiarity with one of his rank, had he not proposed some design from it. In truth, he began to conceive hopes of making AMELIA. 105 the Serjeant Instrumental to his design on Amelia ; In other words, to convert him Into a pimp; an office In which the colonel had been served by Atkinson's betters ; and which, as he knew it was in his power very well to reward him, he had no apprehension that the serjearit woukl decline ; an opinion which the serjeant might have pardoned, though he had never given the least grounds for It, since the colonel borrowed It from the knowledge of his own heart. This dictated to him, that he, from a bad motive, was capable of desiring to debauch his friend's wife ; and the same heart inspired him to hope that another, from another bad motive, might be guilty of the same breach of friendship In assisting him. Few men, I believe, think better of others than of themselves ; nor do they easily allow the existence of any virtue of which they perceive no traces In their own minds ; for which reason I have observed that it Is extremely diffi- cult to persuade a rogue that you are an honest man ; nor would you ever succeed in the attempt by the strongest evidence, was It not for the comfortable con- clusion which the rogue di'aws, that he, who proves himself to be honest, proves himself to be a fool at the same time. CHAPTER IX. A curious chapter.^ from loJu'ch a curious reader may draw sundry observations. The seijeant retired from the colonel in a very dejected state of mind ; in which, however, we must leave him awhile, and return to Amelia ; who, as soon as she was up, had dispatched Mrs. Atkinson to pay off her former lodgings, and to bring off all clothes and other moveables. 106 AMELIA. The trusty messenger returned without performing her errand ; for Mrs. Ellison had locked up all her rooms, and was gone out very early that morning; and the servant knew not whither she was gone. The two ladies now sat down to breakfast, together with Amelia's two children ; after which, Amelia de- clared she would take a coach and visit her husband. To this motion Mrs. Atkinson soon agreed, and offered to be her companion. To say ti'uth, I think it was reasonable enough ; and the great abhorrence which Booth had of seeing his wife in a bailiff's house, was, perhaps, rather too nice and delicate. When the ladies were both dressed, and just going to send for their vehicle, a great knocking was heard at the door, and presently Mrs. James was ushered into the room. The visit was disagreeable enough to Amelia, as it detained her from the sight of her husband, for which she so eagerly longed. However, as she had no doubt but that the visit would be reasonably short, she resolved to receive the lady with all the complaisance in her power. '/ Mrs. James now behaved herself so very unlike the person that she lately appeared, that it might have sur- prised any one who doth not know, that, besides that of a fine lady, which is all mere art and mummery, every such woman hath some real character at the bottom, in which, whenever nature gets the better of her, she acts. Thus the finest ladies in the world will sometimes love, and sometimes scratch, according to their different natural dispositions, with great fury and violence, though both of these are equally inconsistent with a fine lady's artificial character. Mrs. James then was at the bottom a very good- natured woman ; and the moment she heard of Amelia's AMELIA. 107 misfortune, was sincerely grieved at it. She had acqui- esced on the very first motion with the colonel's design of inviting her to her house ; and this morning at break- fast, when he had acquainted her that Amelia made some difficulty in accepting the offer, very readily undertook to go herself and persuade her friend to accept the invi- tation. She now pressed this matter with such earnestness, that Amelia, who was not extremely versed in the art of denying, was hardly able to refuse her importunity ; nothing, indeed, but her affection to Mrs. Atkinson could have prevailed on her to refuse ; that point, however, she would not give up, and Mrs. James, at last, was con- tented with a promise, that as soon as their affairs were settled, Amelia, with her husband and family, would make her a visit, and stay some time with her in the country, whither she was soon to retire. Having obtained this promise, Mrs. James, after many very friendly professions, took her leave, and stepping into her coach, reassumed the fine lady, and drove away to join her company at an auction. The moment she was gone, Mrs. Atkinson, who had left the room tipon the approach of Mrs. James, returned into It, and was Informed by Amelia of all that had passed. ' Pray, Madam,' said Mrs. Atkinson, ' do this colonel ' and his lady live, as it is called, well together ? ' ' If you mean to ask,' cries Amelia, ' whether they are ^ a very fond couple, I must answer, that I believe they ' are not.' ' I have been told,' says Mrs. Atkinson, ' that there ' have been instances of women who have become bawds ' to their own husbands, and the husbands pimps for ' them.' ' Fie upon it ! ' cries Amelia. ' I hope there are no 108 AMELIA. such people. Indeed, my dear, this is being a little too censorious.' ' Call it what you please,' answered Mrs. Atkinson : it arises from my love to you, and my fears for your danger. You know the proverb of a burnt child ; and, if such a one hath any good nature, it will dread the fire on the account of others as well as on its own'. And, if I may speak my sentiments freely, I cannot think you will be in safety at this colonel's house.' ^ I cannot but believe your apprehensions to be sin- cere,' replied Amelia ; ' and I must thhik myself obliged to you for them : but I am convinced you are entirely in an error. I look on colonel James as the most generous and best of men. He was a friend, and an excellent friend too, to my husband, long before I was acquainted with him, and he hath done him a thousand good offices. What do you say of his behaviour yesterday ? ' ' I wish,' cries Mrs. Atkinson, ' that this behaviour to-day had been equal. What I am now going to undertake is the most disagreeable office of friendship, but it is a necessary one. I must tell you therefore what passed this mornmg between the cdlonel and Mr. Atkinson ; for, though it will hurt you, you ought, on many accounts, to know it.' Here she related the whole, which we have recorded in the preceding chap- ter, and with which the serjeant had acquainted her, while Mrs. James was paying her visit to Amelia. And as the Serjeant had painted the matter rather in stronger colours than the colonel, so Mrs. Atkinson again a little improved on the serjeant. Neither of these good people, perhaps, intended to aggravate any circumstance ; but such is, I believe, the unavoidable consequence of all reports. Mrs. Atkinson, indeed, may be supposed not to see what related to James in the most favourable light, AMELIA. 109 as the Serjeant, witli more honesty than prudence, had su^i^gested to his wife, that the colonel had not the kindest opinion of her, and had called her a sly and demure ; it is true he omitted ill-looking b ; two words which are, perhaps, superior to the patience of any Job in petti- coats that ever lived. He made amends, however, by substituting some other phrases in their stead, not ex- tremely agreeable to a female ear. It appeared to Amelia, from Mrs. Atkinson's relation, that the colonel had grossly abused Booth to the serjeant, aud had absolutely refused to become his bail. Poor Amelia became a pale and motionless statue at this ac- count. At length she cried, ' If this be true, I and * mine are all, indeed, undone. We have no comfort, ' no hope, no friend left. — I cannot disbelieve you. — I ' know you would not deceive me. — Why should you, ' indeed, deceive me ? — But what can have caused this * alteration since last night? — Did I say or do any thing ' to offend him ? ' ' You said, and did rather, I believe, a great deal too ' much to please him,' answered Mrs. Atkinson. ' Be- ' sides he is not in the least offended with you. On the ' contrary, he said many kind things.' ' What can my poor love have done ? ' said Amelia. * He hath not seen the colonel since last night. Some ' villain hath set him against my husband ; he was once ' before suspicious of such a person. Some cruel mon- ' ster hath belied his innocence ! ' ' Pardon me, dear Madam,' said Mrs. Atkinson, * I ' believe the person, who hatli injured the captain with ' this friend of his, is one of the worthiest and best of ' creatures — Nay, do not be sm-prised ; the person I mean ^ is even your fair self; sure you would not be so dull ' in any other case ; but in this, gratitude, humility, ' modesty, every virtue shuts your eyes. 110 AMELIA, * Mortales hebetant visits, ' as Virgil says. What in the world can be more con- ' sistent than his desire to have you at his own house, ' and to keep youi' husband confined in another ? All * that he said, and all that he did yesterday, and, what * is more convincing to me than both, all that he looked ' last night, are very consistent with both these designs.' ' O Heavens ! ' cries Amelia, * you chill my blood with ' horror ! the idea freezes me to death ; I cannot, must ' not, will not think it. Nothing but conviction — Heaven * forbid, I should ever have more conviction ! and did ' he abuse my husband ! what ! did he abuse a poor, ' unhappy, distressed creature ; oppressed, ruined, torn ^ from his children, torn away from his wretched wife ; ' the honestest, worthiest, noblest, tenderest, fondest, * best — ' Here she burst into an agony of grief, which exceeds the power of description. In this situation Mrs. Atkinson was doing her utmost to support her, when a most violent knocking was heard at the door, and immediately the serjeant ran hastily into the room ; bringing with him a cordial, which presently relieved Amelia. What this cordial was, we shall inform the reader in due time. In the mean while, he must sus- pend his curiosity; and the gentlemen at White's may lay wagers, whether it was Ward's pill, or Doctor James's powder. But before we close this chapter, and return back to the bailiff's house, we must do our best to rescue the character of our heroine from the dulness of apprehen- sion, which several of our quick-sighted readers may lay more heavily to her charge than was done by her friend Mrs. Atkinson. I must inform, therefore, all such readers, that it is not because innocence is more blind than guilt that the former AMELIA. Ill often overlooks and tumbles into the pit wliicli the latter foresees and avoids. The truth is, that it is almost im- possible guilt should miss the discovering of all the snares in its way ; as it is constantly prying closely into every corner, in order to lay snares for others. Whereas inno- cence, having no such purpose, walks fearlessly and care- lessly through life ; and is consequently liable to tread on the gins which cunning hath laid to entrap it. To speak plainly, and without allegory or figure, it is not want of sense, but want of suspicion, by which innocence is often betrayed. Again, we often admire at the folly of the dupe, when we should transfer our whole surprise to the astonishing guilt of the betrayer. In a word, many an innocent person hath owed his ruin to this circumstance alone, that the degree of villany was such as must have exceeded the faith of every man who was not himself a villain. CHAPTER X. In idMcIi are many profound secrets of philosojpliy. Booth, having had enough of the author's company the preceding day, chose now another companion. Indeed, the author was not very solicitous of a second interview ; for, as he could have no hope from Booth's pocket, so he was not likely to receive much increase to his vanity from Booth's conversation; for low as this wretch was in virtue, sense, learning, birth, and fortune, he was by no means low in his vanity. This passion, indeed, was so high in him, and at the same time so blinded him to his own demerits, that he hated every man, who did not either flatter him or give him money. In short, he claimed a 112 AMELIA. strange kind of right; either to cheat all his acquaint- ance of their praise, or to pick their pockets of their pence ; in which latter case, he himself repaid very liberally with panegyric. A very little specimen of such a fellow must have satisfied a man of Mr. Booth's temper. He chose, there- fore, now to associate himself with that gentleman of whom Bondum had given so shabby a character. In short, ]\Ir. Booth's opinion of the bailiff was such, that he recommended a man most where he least intended it. Nay, the bailiff, in the present instance, though he had drawn a malicious conclusion, honestly avowed that this was drawn only from the poverty of the person ; which is never, I believe, any forcible disrecommendation to a good mind; but he must have had a very bad mind, indeed, who, in Mr. Booth's circumstances, could have disliked or despised another man, because that other man was poor. Some previous conversation havmg passed between this gentleman and Booth, in which they had both opened their several situations to each other; the former, castmg an affectionate look on the latter, ex- pressed great compassion for his circumstances ; for which Booth thanking him, said, ' You must have a ' great deal of compassion, and be a very good man, ' in such a terrible situation as you describe yourself, ' to have any pity to spare for other people.' ' My affairs. Sir,' answered the gentleman, ' are very ' bad, it is true ; and yet there is one circumstance, which ' makes you appear to me more the object of pity than I ' am to myself; and it is this, that you must from your ' years be a novice in affliction ; whereas I have served a ' long apprenticeship to misery, and ought, by this time, ' to be a pretty good master of my trade. To say tlie ' truth, I believe, liabit teaches men to bear the burthens AMELIA. 113 of tlie mind, as it inures them to bear heavy burthens on their shouklers. Without use and experience, the strongest minds and bodies both will stagger under a weight which habit might render easy, and even con- temptible.' ' There is great justice,' cries Booth, ' in the compari- son ; and, I think, I have myself experienced the truth of it; for I am not that Tyro in affliction which you seem to apprehend me. And, perhaps it is from the very habit you mention that I am able to support my present misfortunes a little like a man.' The gentleman smiled at this, and cried, ' Indeed, cap- tain, you are a young philosopher.' ' I think,' cries Booth, ' I have some pretensions to that philosophy which is taught by misfortunes; and you seem to be of opinion, Sir, that is one of the best schools of philosophy.' ' I mean no more, Sir,' said the gentleman, ' than that in the days of our affliction we are inclined to think more seriouslv than in those seasons of life when we are engaged in the hurrying pursuits of business or pleasure, when we have neither leisure nor inclination to sift and examine things to the bottom. Now there are two considerations, which, from my having long fixed my thoughts upon them, have greatly supported me under all my afflictions. The one is the brevity of life, even at its longest duration, which the wisest of men hath compared to the short dimensions of a span. One of the Eoman poets compares it to the duration of a race : and another, to the much shorter transition of a wave. ' The second consideration is the uncertainty of it. Short as its utmost limits are, it is far from beino- as- sured of reaching those limits. The next day, the next hour, the next moment may be the end of our course. Now of what value is so uncertain, so precarious a VOL. IX, I 114 AMELIA. station ? This consideration, indeed, however lightly it is passed over in our conception, doth, in a great mea- sure, level all fortunes and conditions ; and gives no man a right to triumph in the happiest state, or any reason to repine in the most miserable. Would the most worldly men see this in the light in which they examine all other matters, they would soon feel and acknowledge the force of this way of reasoning; for which of them would give any price for an estate from which they were liable to be immediately ejected? or, would they not laugh at him as a madman who ac- counted himself rich from such an micertain possession ? This is the fountain. Sir, from which I have drawn my philosophy. Hence it is, that I have learnt to look on all those things, which are esteemed the blessings of life, and those which are dreaded as its evils, with such a degree of indifference, that as I should not be elated with possessing the former, so neither am I greatly dejected and depressed by suffering the latter. Is the actor esteemed happier to whose lot it falls to play the principal part, than he who plays the lowest ? and yet the drama may run twenty nights together, and by con- sequence, may outlast our lives ; but, at the best, life is only a little longer drama ; and the business of the great stage is consequently a little more serious than that which is performed at the Theati'e-royal. But, even here, the catastrophes and calamities which are represented are capable of affecting us. The wisest men can deceive themselves into feeling the distresses of a tragedy, though tliey know them to be merely imaginary ; and the children will often lament them as realities : what wonder then, if these tragical scenes, which I allow to be a little more serious, should a little more affect us ? where then is the remedy but in the philosophy I have mentioned ; which, when once by a AMELIA. 115 ' long course of meditation it is reduced to a habit, ' teaches us to set a just value on every thing ; and cures ' at once all eager wishes and abject fears, all violent joy ' and grief concerning objects which cannot endure long, ' and may not exist a moment.' ' You have expressed yourself extremely well,' cries Booth ] ' and I entirely agree with the justice of your ' sentiments ; but, however true all this may be in ' theory, I still doubt its efficacy in practice. And ' the cause of the difterence between these two is this ; ' that we reason from our heads, but act from our hearts : Video meliora, prohoque ; Deteriora sequor. Nothing can differ more widely than wise men and fools in their estimation of things ; but, as both act from their uppermost passion, they both often act alike. What comfort then can your philosophy give to an avaricious man who is deprived of his riches ; or, to an ambitious man who is stripped of his power ? to the fond lover who is torn from his mistress: or, to the tender husband who is dragged from his Avife ? Do you really think, that any meditations on the shortness of life will soothe them in their affiictions? Is not this very shortness itself one of their afilictions? and if the evil they suffer be a temporary deprivation of what they love, will they not think their fate the harder, and lament the more, that they are to lose any part of an enjoyment to which there is so short and so uncertain a period ? ' ' I beg leave, Sir,' said the gentleman, ' to distinguish here. By philosophy, I do not mean the bare knowledge of right and wrong ; but an energy, a habit, as Aristotle calls it; and this I do firmly believe, with him and with the Stoics, is superior to all the attacks of fortune.' i2 IIG AMELIA. He was proceeding, when tlic bailiff came in, and in a surly tone bade tliem both good-morrow; after which, he asked the philosopher, if he was prepared to go to Newgate : for that he must carry him thither that afternoon. The poor man seemed very much shocked with this news. ' I hope,' cries he, ' you will give a little longer ' time, if not till the return of the writ. But I beg you ' particularly not to carry me thither to-day; for I ' expect my wife and children here in the evening.' ' I have nothing to do with wives and children,' cried the bailiff; ' I never desire to see any wives and children ' here. I like no such company.' ' I intreat you,' said the prisoner, ' give me another ' day. I shall take it as a great obligation ; and you ' will disappomt me In the crudest manner in the world, ' if you refuse me.' ' I can't help people's disappointments,' cries the bailiff; ' I must consider myself and my own family. ' I know not where I shall be paid the money that's ^ due already. I can't afford to keep prisoners at my ' own expense.' ' I don't intend it shall be at your expense,' cries the philosopher ; ' my wife is gone to raise money this ' morning; and I hope to pay you all I owe you at ' her arrival. But we intend to sup together to-night ' at your house ; and, if you should remove me now, it ' would be the most barbarous disappointment to us ' both, and will make me the most miserable man alive.' '■ Nay, for my part,' said the bailiff, ' I don't desire ' to do anything barbarous. I know how to treat gentle- ' men with civility as well as another. And when people ' pay as they go, and spend their money like gentlemen, * I am sure nobody can accuse me of any incivility ^ since I have been in the office. And if you intend to AMELIA. 117 be merry to-night, I am not the man tliat will prevent it. Though I say it, you may have as good a supper dressed here as at any tavern in town.' ' Since Mr. Bondum is so kind, captain,' said the philo- sopher, ' I hope for the favour of your company. I assure you, if it ever be my fortune to go abroad mto the world, I shall be proud of the honour of your ac- quaintance.' ^ Indeed, Sir,' cries Booth, ' it is an honom- I shall be very ready to accept ; but as for this evening, I cannot help saying, I hope to be engaged in another place.' ' I promise you, Sir,' answered the other, ' I shall rejoice at your liberty, though I am a loser by it.' ^ Why, as to that matter,' cries Bondum with a sneer, I fancy, captain, you may engage yourself to the gen- tleman without any fear of breaking your word ; for I am very much mistaken if we part to-day.' ' Pardon me, my good friend,' said Booth, 'but I expect my bail every minute.' ' Lookye, Sir,' cries Bondum, ' I don't love to see gentlemen in an error. I shall not take the seijeant's bail; but as for the colonel, I have been with him myself this mornmg (for to be sm'e I love to do all I can for gentlemen) ; and he told me, he could not pos- sibly be here to-day; besides, why should I mince the matter; there is more stuff in the office.' 'What do you mean by stuff?' cries Booth. ' I mean that there is another writ,' answered the bailiff, at the suit of Mrs. Ellison, the gentlewoman that was here yesterday ; and the attorney that was with her is concerned against you. Some officers would not tell you all this ; but I loves to shew civility to gentlemen, while they behave themselves as such. And I loves the gentlemen of the army in particular. I had like to have been in the army myself once ; but I liked the 118 AMELIA. '• commission I have better. Come, captain, let not your ' noble courage be cast down ; what say you to a glass ' of white wine, or a tiff of punch by way of whet?' '• I have told you, Sir, I never drink in the morning,' cries Booth a little peevishly. ' No offence, 1 hope, Sir,' said the bailiff ; ' I hope I have not treated you with any incivility. I don't ask any gentleman to call for liquor in my house, if he doth not choose it ; nor I don't desire any body to stay here longer than they have a mind to. — Newgate, to be sure, is the place for all debtors that can't find bail. I knows what civility is, and I scorn to behave myself unbecoming a gentleman; but I'd have you consider that the twenty-four hours appointed by act of par- liament are almost out ; and so it is time to think of removing. As to bail, I would not have you flatter yourself; for I knows very well there are other things coming against you. Besides, the sum you are already charged with is very large ; and I must see you in a place of safety. My house is no prison, though I lock up for a little time in it. Indeed, when gentlemen are gentlemen, and likely to find bail, I don't stand for a day or two ; but I have a good nose at a bit of carrion, captain ; I have not carried so much canion to New- gate, without knowing the smell of it.' ' I understand not your cant,' cries Booth ; ' but I did not tliink to have offended you so much by refusing to drink in a morning.' ' Offended me. Sir ! ' cries the bailiff. ' Who told you so? Do you think. Sir, if I want a glass of wine, I am under any necessity of asking my prisoners for it ? Damn it, Sir, I'll shew you, I scorn your words. I can afford to treat you with a glass of the best wine in England, if you comes to that' He then pulled out a handful of guineas, saying, ' There Sir, they are AMELIA. 119 ' all my own ; I owe nobody a sliilling. I am no beggar, ' nor no debtor. I am the King's officer, as well as ' you, and I will spend guinea for guinea as long as you ' please.' ' Harkye, rascal,' cries Booth, laying hold of the bailiff's collar. ' How dare you treat me with this ' insolence ? doth the law give you any authority to * insult me in my misfortimes ?' At which words he gave the bailiff a good shove, and threw him from liun. ' Very well, Sir,' cries the bailiff; 'I will swear both ' an assault and an attempt to a rescue. If officers are ' to be used in this manner, there is an end of all law ' and justice. But though I am not a match for you ' myself, I have those below that are.' He then ran to the door, and called up two ill-looking fellows, his fol- lowers, whom, as soon as they entered the room, he ordered to seize on Booth, declaring he would immediately carry him to Newgate ; at the same time pouring out a vast quantity of abuse, below the dignity of history to record. Booth desired the two dirty fellows to stand off, and declared he would make no resistance ; at the same time bidding the bailiff carry him wherever he durst. ' I'll shew you what I dare,' cries the bailiff; and again ordered the followers to lay hold of their prisoner, saying, ' He has assaulted me already, and endeavoured ' a rescue. I shan't trust such a fellow to walk at liberty. '- A gentleman, indeed ! ay, ay, Newgate is the properest ' place for such gentry ; as arrant carrion as ever was ' carried thither.' The fellows then both laid violent hands on Booth, and the bailiff stepped to the door to order a coach; when, on a sudden, the whole scene was changed in an instant ; for now the serjeant came running out of breath into the room ; and seeing his friend the captain roughly 120 AMELIA. handled by two ill-looking fellows, witliout asking any questions stepped briskly up to liis assistance, and in- stantly gave one of the assailants so violent a salute with his fist, that he directly measured his length on the floor. Booth, having by this means his right arm at liberty, was unwilling to be idle, or entirely to owe his rescue from both the ruffians to the seijeant; he therefore imitated the example which his fiiend had set him, and with a lusty blow levelled the other follower with his companion on the ground. The bailiff roared out, ' A rescue, a rescue ! ' to which the Serjeant answered, there was no rescue intended. ' The captain,' said he, ' wants no rescue. Here are ' some friends coming who will deliver him m a better ' manner.' The bailiff swore heartily he would carry him to New- gate in spite of all the friends in the world. ' You carry him to Newgate !' cried the seijeant, with the highest indignation. ' Offer but to lay your hands on him, and I will knock your teeth down your ugly jaws.' Then turning to Booth, he cried, — ' They will be all here within a minute. Sir ; we had much ado to keep my lady from coming herself; but she is at home in good health, longing to see your honour ; and I hope you will be with her within this half-hour.' And now three gentlemen entered the room ; these were an attorney, the person whom the seijeant had pro- cured in the morning to be his bail with colonel James, and lastly, doctor Harrison himself. The bailiff no sooner saw the attorney, with whom he was well acquainted (for the others he knew not), than he began, as the phrase is, to pull in his horns, and ordered the two followers, who were now got again on their legs, to walk down stairs. AMELIA. 121 ' So, captain,' says the doctor, ' when last we parted, ' I believe we neither of us expected to meet in such ' a place as this.' ' Indeed, doctor,' cries Booth, ' I did not expect to ' have been sent hither by the gentleman who did me ' that favour.' ' How so, Sir ?' said the doctor, ' you was sent hither ' by some person, I suppose, to whom you was mdebted. ' This is the usual place, I apprehend, for creditors to ' send their debtors to. But you ought to be more sur- ' prised that the gentleman who sent you thither is come ' to release you. — ]\Ir. Mm-pliy, you will perform all the ' necessary ceremonials.' The attorney then asked the bailiff with how many actions Booth was charged ; and was informed there were five besides the doctor's, which was much the heaviest of all. Proper bonds were presently provided, and the doctor and the Serjeant's friend signed them ; the bailiff, at the instance of the attorney, making no objection to the bail. Booth, we may be assured, made a handsome speech | to the doctor for such extraordinary friendship, withj which, however, we do not think proper to trouble the reader; and now every thing being ended, and the com- pany ready to depart, the bailiff stepped up to Booth, and told him he hoped he would remember civility- money. ' I believe,' cries Booth, ' you mean incivility-money ; ' if there are any fees due for rudeness, I must own you ' have a very just claim.' ' I am sure. Sir,' cries the bailiff, ' I have treated ' your honour with all the respect in the world ; no man, ' I am sm*e, can charge me with using a gentleman '- rudely. I knows what belongs to a gentleman better ; ^ but you can't deny that two of my men have been 122 AMELIA. ' knocked down ; and I doubt not but, as you are a gen- * tleman, you will give them something to drink.' Booth was about to answer with some passion, when the attorney interfered, and whispered in his ear, that it was usual to make a compliment to the officer, and that he had better comply with the custom. ' If the fellow had treated me civilly,' answered Booth, ' I should have no objection to comply with a ' bad custom in his favour ; but I am resolved, I will ' never reward a man for using me ill ; and I will not ' agree to give him a single farthing.' ' 'Tis very well, Sir,' said the bailiff; ' I am rightly ' served for my good-nature ; but if it had been to do ' again, I would have taken care you should not have ' been bailed this day.' Doctor Hamson, to whom Booth referred the cause, after giving him a succinct account of what had passed, declared the captain to be in the right. He said it was a most homd imposition, that such fellows were ever suffered to prey on the necessitous ; but that the example would be much worse to reward them where they had behaved themselves ill. ' And I think,' says he, ' the • bailiff is worthy of great rebuke for what he hath just ' now said ; in which I hope he hath boasted of more ' power than is in him. We do, indeed, with gi*eat justice ' and propriety value ourselves on our freedom, if the ' liberty of the subject depends on the pleasure of such ' fellows as these ! ' ' It is not so neither altogether,' cries the lawyer ; ' but ' custom hath established a present or fee to them at the ' delivery of a prisoner, which they call civility-money, ' and expect as in a manner their due, though in reality ' they have no right.' ' But will any man,' cries doctor Harrison, ' after what ' the captain hath told us, say that the bailiff hath be- AMELIA. 123 haved himself as he ought; and if he had, is he to be rewarded for not acting in an unchristian and inhuman manner ? it is pity, that, instead of a custom of feeing them out of the pocket of the poor and wretched, when they do not behave themselves ill, there was not both a law and a practice to punish them severely when they do. In the present case, I am so far from agreeing to give the bailiff a shillmg, that, if there be any method of punishing him for his rudeness, I shall be heartily glad to see it put into execution ; for there are none whose conduct should be so strictly watched as that of tliese neces- sary evils in society, as their office concerns, for the most part, those poor creatures who cannot do them- selves justice, and as they are generally the worst of men who undertake it.' The bailiff then quitted the room, muttering that he should know better what to do another time ; and shortly after Booth and his friends left the house; but, as they were going out, the author took doctor Harrison aside, and slipped a receipt into his hand, which the doctor returned, saying he never subscribed when he neither knew the work nor the author; but that, if he would call at his lodgings, he would be very willing to give all the encom-agement to merit which was in his power. The author took down the doctor's name and direction, and made him as many bows as he would have done had he carried off the half guinea for which he had been fishing. Mr. Booth then took his leave of the philosopher, and departed with the rest of his friends. AMELIA. BOOK IX. CHAPTEE T. In ivhich the history looks hachwards. Before we proceed farther with our history, it may be proper to look back a little, in order to account for the late conduct of doctor Harrison ; which, however incon- sistent it may have hitherto appeared, when examined to the bottom, will be found, I apprehend, to be truly con- gruous with all the rules of the most perfect prudence, as well as with the most consummate goodness. We have already partly seen in what light Booth had been represented to the doctor abroad. Indeed, the accounts which were sent of the captain, as well by the curate as by a gentleman of the neighbourhood, were much grosser and more to his disadvantage than the doctor was pleased to set them forth in his letter to the person accused. What sense he had of Booth's conduct, was, however, manifest by that letter. Never- theless he resolved to suspend his final judgment till his return ; and, though he censured him, would not absolutely condemn him without ocular demonstration. The doctor, on his return to his parish, found all the accusations which had been transmitted to him confirmed by many witnesses, of which the curate's wife, who had been formerly a friend to Amelia, and still presei*ved the 120 AMELIA. outward appearance of friendship, was the strongest. She introduced all with, ' I am sorry to say it, and it ' is friendship bids me speak ; and it is for their good ' it should be told you;' after which beginnings she never concluded a single speech without some horrid slander and bitter invective. Besides the malicious turn which was given to these affairs in the country, which were owing a good deal to misfortune, and some little perhaps to imprudence, the whole neighbourhood rung with several gross and scandalous lies, which were merely the inventions of his enemies, and of which the scene was laid in London since his absence. Poisoned with all this malice, the doctor came to town ; and, learning where Booth lodged, went to make him a visit. Indeed, it was the doctor, and no other, who had been at his lodgings that evening when Booth and Amelia were walking in the Park ; and concerning which the reader may be pleased to remember so many strange and odd conjectures. Here the doctor saw the little gold watch, and all those fine trinkets with which the noble lord had pre- sented the children ; and which, from the answers given him by the poor ignorant, innocent girl, he could have no doubt had been purchased within a few days by Amelia. This account tallied so well with the ideas he had imbibed of Booth's extravagance in the country, that he firmly believed both the husband and wife to be the vainest, silliest, and most unjust people alive. It was, indeed, almost incredible, that two rational beings should be guilty of such absurdity ; but, monstrous and absurd as it was, ocular demonstration appeared to be the evi- dence against them. The doctor departed from their lodgings enraged at AMELIA. 127 this supposed discovery, and, unhappily for Booth, was engaged to supper tliat very evening with the country gentleman of whom Booth had rented a farm. As the poor captain happened to be the subject of conversation, and occasioned their comparing notes, the account which the doctor gave of what he had seen that evening so in- censed the gentleman, to whom Booth was likewise a debtor, that he vowed he would take a writ out against him the next morning, and have his body alive or dead. And the doctor was at last persuaded to do the same. Mr. IMurphy was thereupon immediately sent for; and the doctor in his presence repeated again what he had seen at his lodo-ino-s as the foundation of his suino^ hira, which the attorney, as we have before seen, had blabbed to Atkinson. But no sooner did the doctor hear that Booth was arrested than the wretched condition of his wife and family began to affect his mind. The children, who were to be utterly undone with their father, were entirely innocent ; and as for Amelia herself, though he thought he had most convincing proofs of very blameable levity, yet his former friendship and affection to her were busy to invent every excuse, till, by very heartily loading the husband, they lightened the suspicion against the wife. In this temper of mind, he resolved to pay Amelia a second visit ; and was on his way to Mrs. Ellison, when the Serjeant met him, and made himself known to him. The doctor took his old servant into a coffee-house, where he received from him such an account of Booth and his family, that he desired the seijeant to shew him presently to Amelia ; and this was the cordial which we mentioned at the end of the ninth chapter of the preceding book. The doctor became soon satisfied conceraing the trinkets which had given him so much uneasiness, and which had brought so much mischief on the head of poor 128 AMELIA. Booth. Amelia likewise o-avc tlie doctor some satis- faction as to what he had heard of her husband's be- haviour in the country ; and assured him, upon her honour, that Booth could so well answer every complaint against his conduct, that she had no doubt but that a man of the doctor's justice and candour would entirely acquit him, and would consider him as an innocent un- fortunate man, who was the object of a good man's compassion, not of his anger or resentment. This worthy clergyman, who was not desirous of find- ing proofs to condemn the captain, or to justify his own vindictive proceedings, but, on the contrary, rejoiced heartily in every piece of evidence which tended to clear up the character of his friend, gave a ready ear to all which Amelia said. To this, indeed, he was induced by the love he always had for that lady, by the good opinion he entertained of her, as well as by pity for her present condition, than which nothing appeared more miserable ; for he found her in the highest agonies of grief and despair, with her two little children crying over their wretched mother. These are, indeed, to a well-disposed mind, the most tragical sights that hmnan nature can furnish, and afford a juster motive to grief and tears in the beholder, than it would be to see all the heroes who have ever mfested the earth, hanged all together in a string. The doctor felt this sight as he ought. He immediately endeavoured to comfort the afflicted ; in which he so well succeeded, that he restored to Amelia sufficient spirits to give him the satisfaction we have mentioned ; after which, he declared he would go and release her husband ; which he accordingly did, in the manner we have above related. AMELLi. 129 CHAPTER II. In zoMch the history goes forward. We now return to that period of our history, to which we had brought it at the end of our last book. Booth and his friends arrived, from the bailiff's, at the Serjeant's lodgings; where Booth immediately ran up stairs to his Amelia ; between whom I shall not attempt to describe the meeting. Nothing certainly was ever more tender or more joyful. This, however, I will observe, that a very few of these exquisite moments, of which the best minds only are capable, do in reality overbalance the longest enjoyments which can ever fall to the lot of the worst. Whilst Booth and his wife were feastinof their souls with the most delicious mutual endearments, tlie doctor was fallen to play with the two little children below stairs. While he was thus engaged, the little boy did somewhat amiss ; upon which the doctor said, ' If you do so any more, I will take your papa away from you again.' — ' Again ! Sir,' said the child, ' why, was it you then that took away my papa before ? ' ' Suppose it was,' said the doctor, ' would not you forgive me ? ' Yes,' cries the child, ' I would forgive you ; because a Christian must forgive every body ; but I should hate you as long as I live.' The doctor was so pleased with the boy's answer, that he caught him in his arms and kissed him ; at which time. Booth and his wife returned. The doctor asked, which of them was their son's instructor in his relie-ion ; Booth answered, that he must confess Amelia had all the merit of that kind. ' I should have rather thought he had ' learnt of his father,' cries the doctor ; ' for lie seems a VOL. IX. K 130 AMELIA. ' good soldier-like Cliristian, and professes to hate his ' enemies with a very good grace.' '• How, Billy ! ' cries Amelia. ' I am sm*e I did not ^ teach you so.' ' I did not say I would hate my enemies, Madam,' cries the boy. ' I only said I would hate papa's enemies ; ^ sure. Mamma, there is no harm in that ; nay, I am sure * there is no harm in it ; for I have heard you say the ^ same thing a thousand times.' The doctor smiled on the child, and chucking him under the chin, told him, he must hate nobody ; and now Mrs. Atkinson, who had provided a dinner for them all, desired tiiem to walk up, and partake of it. And now it was that Booth was first made acquainted with the seijeant's marriage, as was Dr. Hari'ison ; both of whom greatly felicitated him upon it. Mrs. Atkinson, who was, perhaps, a little more con- founded than she would have been had she married a colonel, said, ' If I have done wrong, Mrs. Booth is to answer for it ; for she made the match ; indeed, Mr. Atkinson, you are greatly obliged to the character which this lady gives of you.' ' I hope he will deserve it,' said the doctor ; ' and if the army hath not cor- rupted a good boy, I believe I may answer for him.' While our little company were enjoying that happiness which never fails to attend conversation where all present are pleased with each other, a visitant arrived, who was, perhaps, not very welcome to any of them. This was no other than colonel James, who, entermg the room with much gaiety, went directly up to Booth, embraced liim, and expressed great satisfaction at finding him there ; he then made an apology for not attending him in the morn- ing, which he said had been impossible ; and that he had, with the utmost difficulty, put off some business of great conserpience in order to serve him this afternoon ; ' but I AMELIA. 131 ' am glad on your account,' cried he to Booth, ' that my ' presence was not necessary.' Booth himself was extremely satisfied with this declara- tion, and failed not to return him as many thanks as he would have deserved had he performed his promise ; but the two ladies were not quite so well satisfied. As for the Serjeant, he had slipped out of the room when the colonel entered, not entirely out of that bashfidness which we have remarked him to be tainted with ; but indeed, from what had passed in the morning, he hated the sight of the colonel, as well on the account of his wife as on that of his friend. The doctor, on the contrary, on what he had formerly heard from both Amelia and her husband of the colonel's generosity and friendship, had built so good an opinion of him, that he was very much pleased with seeing him, and took the first opportunity of telling him so. ' Colonel,' said the doctor, ' I have not the happiness of being known ' to you ; but I have long been desirous of an acquaint- ' ance with a gentleman in whose commendation I have ' heard so much from some present.' The colonel made a proper answer to this compliment, and they soon entered into a familiar conversation together ; for the doctor was not difficult of access ; indeed, he held the strange reserve, which is usually practised in this nation between people who are in any degree strangers to each other, to be very unbecomino- the Christian character. The two ladies soon left the room ; and the remainder of the visit, which was not very long, passed in discourse on various common subjects, not worth recording. In tlie conclusion, the colonel invited Booth and his lady, and the doctor, to dine with him the next day. To give colonel James his due commendation, he had shewn a great command of himself, and great presence of mind on this occasion ; for, to speak the plain truth, the k2 132 AMELIA. visit was intended to Amelia alone ; nor did lie expect, or, perhaps, desire, any thing less than to find the captain at home. The great joy wliich he suddenly conveyed into his comitenance at the unexpected sight of his friend, is to be attributed to that noble art which is taup-ht in those ' excellent schools called the several courts of Europe. By this, men are enabled to dress out their countenances as much at their own pleasure as they do their bodies ; and \ to put on friendship with as much ease as they can a laced coat. When the colonel and doctor were gone. Booth ac- quainted Amelia with the invitation he had received. She was so struck with the news, and betrayed such visible marks of confusion and uneasiness, that they could not have escaped Booth's observation, had sus- picion given him the least hint to remark ; but this, indeed, is the great optic glass helping us to discern plainly almost all that passes in the minds of others, without some use of which nothing is more purblind than human nature. Amelia, having recovered from her first perturbation, answered, ' ]\Iy dear, I will dine with you wherever you ' please to lay your commands on me.' — ' I am obliged ' to you, my dear soul,' cries Booth ; ' your obedience * shall be very easy ; for my command will be, that you ' shall always follow your own inclinations.' ' My incli- * nations,' answered she, ' would, I am afraid, be too ' unreasonable a confinement to you; for they would ' always lead me to be with you and your children, ' with at most a single friend or two, now and then.' ' O my dear ! ' replied he, ' large companies give us a ' greater relish for our own society when we return to ' it ; and we shall be extremely merry, for doctor Har- ' rison dines with us.' ' I hope you will, my dear,' cries she; 'but I own I should have been better pleased to AMELIA. 133 ' have enjoyed a few days with yourself and the children, ' with no other person but Mrs. Atkinson, for whom I ' have conceived a violent affection, and who would have * given us but little interruption. However, if you have ' promised, I must undergo the penance.' ' Nay, child,' cried he, ' I am sure I would have refused, could I have ' guessed it had been in the least disagreeable to you ; ' though I know your objection.' — ' Objection ! ' cries Amelia, eagerly, ' I have no objection.' ' Nay, nay,' said he, ' come, be honest, I know your objection, ' though you are unwilling to own it.' * Good Heavens I ' cried Amelia, frightened, ' what do you mean ? what ' objection?' 'Why,' answered he, 'to the company of ' Mrs. James ; and 1 must confess she hath not behaved ' to you lately as you might have expected; but you ' ought to pass all that by for the sake of her husband, ' to whom we have both so many obligations ; who is ' the worthiest, honest, and most generous fellow in the ' universe, and the best friend to me that ever man had.' Amelia who had far other suspicions, and began to fear that her husband had discovered them, was highly pleased, when she saw him taking a wrong scent. She gave, therefore, a little into the deceit, and acknowledged the truth of what he had mentioned; but said that tlie pleasure she should have in complying with his desires, would highly recompense any dissatisfaction which might arise on any other account ; and shortly after ended the conversation on this subject with her cheerfully promis- ing to fulfil his promise. In reality, poor Amelia had now a most unpleasant task to undertake ; for she thought it absolutely neces- sary to conceal from her husband the opinion she had conceived of the colonel. For, as she knew the cha- racters, as well of her husband as of his friend, or rather enemy (both being often synonymous in the language of 134 AMELIA. tlie world), she had the utmost reason to apprehend some- thing very fatal might attend her husband's entertaining the same thought of James which filled and tormented her own breast. And as she knew that nothino- but these thouo:hts could justify the least unkind, or, indeed, the least reserved behaviour to James, who had, in all appearance, conferred the greatest obligations upon Booth and herself, she was reduced to a dilemma, the most dreadful that can attend a virtuous woman, as it often gives the highest triumph, and sometimes no little advantage, to the men of professed gallantry. In short, to avoid giving any umbrage to her husband, Amelia was forced to act in a manner which she was conscious must give encouragement to the colonel ; a situation which, perhaps, requires as great prudence and delicacy, as any in which the heroic part of the female character can be exerted. CHAPTER III. A co7iversation between doctor Harrison and others. The next day, Booth and his lady, with the doctor, met at colonel James's, where colonel Bath likewise made one of the company. Nothing very remarkable passed at dinner, or till the ladies withdrew. During this time, however, the beha- viour of colonel James was such as gave some uneasiness to Amelia, who well understood his meaning, though the particulars were too refined and subtle to be observed by any other present. When the ladies were gone, which was as soon as AMELIA. 135 Amelia could prevail on Mrs. James to depart, colonel Bath, who had been pretty brisk with champagne at dinner, soon began to display his magnanimity. ' My ' brother tells me, young gentleman,' said he to Booth, ' that you have been used very ill lately by some rascals ; ' and I have no doubt but you will do yourself justice.' Booth answered, that he did not know what he meant. ' Since I must mention it then,' cries the colonel, ' I ' hear you have been arrested ; and I think you know * what satisfaction is to be required by a man of honour.' ' I beg. Sir,' says the doctor, ' no more may be men- ' tioned of that matter. I am convinced, no satisfaction ' will be required of the captain, till he is able to ' give it. ' I do not understand what you mean by able,' cries the colonel, — To which the doctor answered, that it was of too tender a nature to speak more of. ' Give me yom- hand, doctor,' cries the colonel ; ' I see ' you are a man of honour, though you wear a gown. ' It is, as you say, a matter of a tender nature. Nothing, ' indeed, is so tender as a man's honour. Curse my liver, ' if any man — I mean, that is, if any gentleman, was to ' arrest me — I would as surely cut his throat as — ' ' How, Sir ! ' said the doctor, ' would you compensate ' one breach of the law by a much greater, and pay your ' debts by committing mmxler ? ' ' Why do you mention law between gentlemen ? ' says the colonel. — ' A man of honour wears his law by his ' side ; and can the resentment of an affront make a gen- ' tleman guilty of murder ? and what greater affront can ' one man cast upon another, than by arresting him ? I ' am convinced, that he who would put up an arrest, ' would put up a slap in the face.' Here the colonel looked extremely fierce, and the divine stared with astonishment at this doctrine ; when 13G AMELIA. Booth, wlio well knew the impossibility of opposing the coloners humour with success, began to play with it ; and having first conveyed a piivate wink to the doctor, he said, there might be cases undoubtedly where such an affront ought to be resented ; but that there were others, where any resentment was impracticable : ' As for in- ' stance,' said he, ' where the man is arrested by a ' woman.' ' I could not be supposed to mean that case,' cries the colonel ; ' and you are convinced I did not mean it.' ' To put an end to this discourse at once. Sir,' said the doctor, ' I was the plaintiff, at whose suit this gen- ' tleman was arrested.' ^ Was you so, Sir ! ' cries the colonel ; ' then I have ' no more to say. Women and the clergy are upon the ' same footing. The long-robed gentry are exempted ' from the laws of honour.' ^ I do not thank you for that exemption, Sir,' ciies the doctor; 'and if honour and fighting are, as they seem to ' be, synonymous words with you, I believe there are ' some clergymen, who, in defence of their religion, or ' their country, or their friend, the only justifiable causes ' of fighting, except bare self-defence, would fight as ' bravely as yourself, colonel ; and that without being ' paid for it.' ' Sir, you are privileged,' says the colonel, with great dignity ; ' and you have my leave to say what you please. ' I respect your order, and you cannot offend me.' ' I will not offend you, colonel,' cries the doctor ; ' and ' our order is very much obliged to you, since you profess * so much respect to us, and pay none to our Master.' ' What master. Sir ! ' said the colonel. ' That Master,' answered the doctor, ' wlio hath ex- ' pressly forbidden all that cutting of throats, to which ' you discover so much inclination.' AMELIA. 137 ' ! your servant, Sir/ said the colonel ; ' I see what ' yon are driving at ; but you shall not persuade me to ' think that reliaion forces me to be a coward.' * I detest and despise the name as much as you can,* cries the doctor; ' but you have a wrong idea of the word, colonel. What were all the Greeks and Romans ? were these cowards ? and yet, did you ever hear of this butchery, which we call duellmg, among them ?' ' Yes, indeed, have I,' cries the colonel. ' What else is all Mr. Pope's Homer full of, but duels ? Did not^ what's his name, one of the Agamemnons fight with that paltry rascal Paris ? and Diomede with, what d'ye call him there •, and Hector with, I forget his name, he that was Achilles' s bosom-friend; and afterwards with Achilles himself? Nay, and in Dryden's Virgil, is there any thing almost besides fighting ?' ^ You are a man of learning, colonel,' cries the doctor ; but—' ' I thank you for that compliment,' said the colonel. — • No, Sir, I do not pretend to learning ; but I have some little reading, and I am not ashamed to own it.' ' But are you sure, colonel,' cries the doctor, ' that you have not made a small mistake ? for I am apt to be- lieve, both Mr. Pope and Mr. Dryden (though I cannot say I ever read a word of either of them), speak of wars between nations, and not of private duels; for of the latter, I do not remember one single instance in all the Greek and Roman story. In short, it is a modern custom, introduced by barbarous nations since the times of Christianity ; though it is a direct and audacious defiance of the Christian law, and is conse- quently much more sinful m us, than it would have been in the heathens.' ' Drink about, doctor,' cries the colonel ; ' and let us 138 AMELIA. ' call a new cause ; for I perceive we shall never agree on ' this. You are a churchman, and I don't expect you to ' speak your mind/ ' We are both of the same church, I hope,' cries the doctor. ' I am of the Church of England,' Sir, answered the colonel ; ' and will fight for it to the last drop of my ' blood.' ' It is very generous in you, colonel,' cries the doctor, ' to fight so zealously for a religion by which you are to ^ be damned.' ' It is well for you, doctor,' cries the colonel, ' that you * wear a gown ; for by all the dignity of a man, if any ^ other person had said the words you have just uttered, ' I would have made him eat them Ay, d — n me, and ' my sword into the bargain.' Booth began to be apprehensive that this dispute might grow too warm ; in which case he feared that the colonel's honour, together with the champagne, might hurry him so far as to forget the respect due and which he professed to pay to the sacerdotal robe. Booth, therefore, interposed between the disputants, and said that the colonel had very rightly proposed to call a new subject ; for that it was im- possible to reconcile accepting a challenge with the Chris- tian religion, or refusing it with the modern notion of honour. ' And you must allow it, doctor,' said he, ' to be ' a very hard injunction for a man to become infamous ; ' and more especially for a soldier, who is to lose his bread ' into the bargain.' ' Ay, Sir,' says the colonel, with an air of triumph, ' What say you to that ? ' ' Why, I say,' cries the doctor, ' that it is much harder ' to be damned on the other side.' ' That may be,' said the colonel ; ' but d — n me, if I ' would take an affront of any man breathing for all that. AMELIA. 139 ' And yet I believe myself to be as good a Christian as ' wears a head. My maxim is, never to give an affront, ' nor ever to take one ; and I say, that is the maxim of a ' good Christian ; and no man shall ever persuade me to ' the contrary.' ' Well, Sir,' said the doctor, ' since that is your ' resolution, I hope no man will ever give you an ' affront.' ' I am obliged to you for your hope, doctor,' cries the colonel, with a sneer ; ' and he that doth will be obliged ' to you for lending him your gown ; for, by the dignity * of a man, nothing out of petticoats, 1 believe, dares ' affront me.' Colonel James had not hitherto joined in the discourse. In truth, his thoughts had been otherwise employed ; nor is it very difficult for the reader to guess what had been the subject of them. Being waked, however, from his reverie, and having heard the two or three last speeches, he turned to his brother, and asked him, why he would introduce such a topic of conversation before a gentleman of Dr. Harrison's character ? ' Brother,' cried Bath, ' I own it was wrong, and I ask ' the doctor's pardon ; I know not how it happened to * arise ; for you know, brother, I am not used to talk of ' these matters. They are generally poltroons that do. ' I think I need not be beholden to my tongue to declare I ' am none. I have shewn myself in a line of battle. I be- ' lieve there is no man will deny that ; I believe I may ' say no man dares deny that I have done my duty.' The colonel was thus proceeding to prove that his prowess was neither the subject of his discourse, nor the object of his vanity, when a servant entered and sum- moned the company to tea with the ladies ; a summons which colonel James instantly obeyed, and was followed by all the rest. 140 AMELIA. But as tlie tea-table conversation, tlioiigli extremely delightful to those who are engaged in it, may probably appear somewhat dull to the reader, we will here put an end to the chapter. CHAPTER IV. A dialogue between Booth and Amelia, The next morning, early. Booth went by appointment, and waited on colonel James; whence he returned to Amelia in that kind of disposition which the great master of human passions would describe in Andromache, when he tells us sbe cried and smiled at the same instant. Amelia plainly perceived the discomposure of his mind, in which the opposite affections of joy and grief were struggling for the superiority, and begged to know the occasion ; upon which Booth spoke as follows : ' My dear,' said he, ' I . had no intention to conceal from you wliat hath passed this morning between me and the colonel, who hath oppressed me, if I may use that expression, with obligations. Sure never man had such a friend ; for never was there so noble, so generous a heart — I cannot help this ebullition of gratitude, I really cannot.' — Here he paused a moment, and wiped lis eyes, and then proceeded: ' You know, my dear, how gloomy the prospect was yesterday before our eyes, how inevitably ruin stared me in the face ; and the di'eadful idea of having entailed beggary on my Amelia and her posterity, racked my mind ; for, though by the goodness of the doctor I had regained my liberty, the debt yet remained ; and if that worthy AMELIA. 141 man had a design of forgiving me liis share, this must have been my utmost hope ; and the condition in which I must still have found myself need not to be expatiated on. In what light then shall I see, in what words shall I relate, the colonel's kindness ! O my dear Amelia ! he hath removed the whole gloom at once, hath driven all despair out of my mind, and hath filled it with the most sanguine, and, at the same time, the most reasonable hopes of making a comfortable pro- vision for yourself and my dear children. In the first place, then, he will advance me a sum of money to pay off all my debts ; and this on a bond to be repaid only when I shall become colonel of a regiment, and not before. In the next place, he is gone this very morning to ask a company for me, which is now vacant in the West-Indies ; and as he intends to push this with all his interest, neither he nor I have any doubt of his success. Now, my dear, comes the third, which, though perhaps it ought to give me the gi*eatest joy, such is, I own, the weakness of my nature, it rends my very heartstrings asunder. — I cannot mention it, for I know it will give you equal pain — though I know on all proper occasions you can exert a manly reso- lution. You will not, I am convinced, oppose it, what- ever you must suffer in complying O my dear Amelia! I must suffer likewise; yet I have resolved to bear it — You know not what my poor heart hath suffered since he made the proposal It is love for you alone which could persuade me to submit to it Consider our situation ; consider that of our children ; reflect but on those poor babes whose future happiness is at stake, and it must arm your resolution. It is your interest and theirs that reconciled me to a pro- posal, which, when the colonel first made it, struck me with the utmost horror ; he hath, indeed, from these 142 AMELIA. motives, persuaded me Into a resolution wliich I tliouglit impossible for any one to have persuaded me into O my dear Amelia ! let me intreat you to give me up to the good of your children ; as I have promised the colonel to give you up to their interest and your own. If you refuse these terms we are still undone ; for he insists absolutely upon them Think then, my love, however hard they may be, necessity compels us to submit to them. I know in what light a woman, who loves like you, must consider such a proposal ; and yet how many instances have you of women, who, from the same motives, have submitted to the same ! ' ' What can you mean, Mr. Booth ? ' cries Amelia, trembling. ' Need I explain my meaning to you more ? ' answered Booth. — ' Did I not say, I must give up my Amelia ? ' ' Give me up ! ' said she. ' For a time only, I mean,' answered he : ' for a short time perhaps. The colonel himself will take care it shall not be long — for I know his heart ; I shall scarce have more joy in receiving you back, than he will have in restoring you to my arms. In the mean time, he will not only be a father to my children, but a husband to you.' ' A husband to me ! ' said Amelia. ' Yes, my dear ; a kind, a fond, a tender, an affectionate husband. If I had not the most certain assurances of this, doth my Amelia think I could be prevailed on to leave her ? No, my Amelia, he is the only man on earth who could have prevailed on me ; but I know his house, his purse, his protection, will be at your com- mand. And as for any dislike you have conceived to his wife, let not that be any objection ; for I am con- vinced he will not suffer her to insult you ; besides, she is extremely well-bred, and how much soever she may AMELIA. 143 * hate you in her heart, she will at least treat you with ' civility. ' Nay, the invitation is not his, but her's; and I am ' convinced they will both behave to you with the ' greatest friendship : his I am sure will be sincere, as to ' the wife of a fr'iend entrusted to his care ; and her's will, ' from good-breeding, have not only the appearances, but ' the effects of the truest friendship.' ' I understand you, my dear, at last,' said she, (indeed she had rambled into very strange conceits from some parts of his discourse) 'and I will give you my resolution ' in a word 1 will do the duty of a wife ; and that is, ' to attend her husband wherever he goes.' Booth attempted to reason with her, but all to no purpose. She gave, indeed, a quiet hearing to all he said, and even to those parts which most displeased her ears ; I mean those in which he exaggerated the great goodness and disinterested generosity of his friend ; but her resolution remained inflexible, and resisted the force of all his arguments with a steadiness of opposition, which it would have been almost excusable m liim to have construed into stubbornness. The doctor arrived in the midst of the dispute ; and, having heard the merits of the cause on both sides, delivered his opinion in the following words : ' I have always thought it, my dear children, a matter ' of the utmost nicety, to interfere in any differences * between husband and wife ; but, since you both desire ' me, with such earnestness, to give you my sentiments ' on the present contest between you, I will give you my * thoughts as well as I am able. In the first place, then, ' can any thing be more reasonable than for a wife to ' desire to attend her husband? It is, as my favourite ' child observes, no more than a desire to do her duty ; ' and I make no doubt but that is one great reason of her 144 AMELIA. '' insisting on it. And how can you yourself oppose it ? ' Can love be its own enemy ; or can a husLand, who is * fond of his wife, content himself almost on any account ' with a long absence from her ? ' You speak like an angel, my dear doctor Harrison,' answered Amelia ; ' I am sure, if he loved as tenderly as * I do, he could on no account submit to it.' ' Pardon me, child,' cries the doctor, ' there are some ' reasons which would not only justify his leaving you, * but which must force him, if he hath any real love ' for you, joined with common sense, to make that elec- ' tion. If it was necessary, for instance, either to your ' good, or to the good of your children, he would not * deserve the name of a man, I am sure not that of a * husband, if he hesitated a moment. Nay, in that case, * I am convinced, you yourself would be an advocate ' for what you now oppose. I fancy therefore I mistook ' him when I apprehended he said, that the colonel made ' his leaving you behind as the condition of getting him ' the commission ; for I know my dear child hath too ' much goodness, and too much sense, and too much ' resolution, to prefer any temporary indulgence of her ' own passions to the solid advantages of her whole * family.' ' There, my dear,' cries Booth, ' I knew what opinion ' the doctor would be of. Nay, I am certain, there is ' not a wise man in the kingdom who would say otlier- * -wise.' ' Don't abuse me, young gentleman,' said the doctor, ' with appellations I don't deserve.' ^ I abuse you, my dear doctor ! ' cries Booth. ' Yes, my dear Sir,' answered the doctor ; ' you in- ' sinuated slily that I was wise, which, as the world ' understands the phrase, I should be ashamed of; and ' my comfort is, that no one can accuse me justly of it ; AMELIA. 145 T have just given an instance of the contrary, by throwing away my advice.' ' I hope, Su-,' cries Booth, ' that will not be the case.' ' Yes, Sir,' answered the doctor. ' I know it will be the case in the present instance ; for either you Avill not go at all, or my little turtle here will go with you.' ' You are in the right, doctor,' cries Amelia. ' I am sorry for it,' said the doctor ; ' for then, I assure you, you are in the wrong.' ' Indeed,' cries Amelia, ' if you knew all my reasons, you would say they were very strong ones.' ' Very probably,' cries the doctor — ' The knowledge that they are in the wrong is a very strong reason to some women to continue so.' * Nay, doctor,' cries Amelia, ' you shall never persuade me of that. I will not believe that any human being ever did an action merely because they knew it to be wrong. ' ' I am obliged to you, my dear child,' said the doctor, for declaring your resolution of not being persuaded. Your husband would never call me a wise man again, if, after that declaration, I should attempt to persuade you.' ' Well, I must be content,' cries Amelia, ' to let you think as you please.' ' That is very gracious, indeed,' said the doctor. ' Surely, in a country where the church suffers others ' to think as they please, it would be very hard if they ' had not themselves the same liberty. And yet, as ' unreasonable as the power of controlling men's ' thoughts *is represented, I will shew you how you ' should control mine whenever you desire it.' ' How, pray ! ' cries Amelia. ' I should greatly esteem ' that power.' ' Why, whenever you act like a wise woman,' cries the VOL. IX. L 146 AMELIA. doctor, ' you will force me to think you so ; and, when- ever you are pleased to act as you do now, I shall be obliged, whether I will or no, to think as I do now.' ' Nay, dear doctor,' cries Booth, ' I am convinced my Amelia will never do any thing to forfeit your good opinion. Consider but the cruel hardship of what she is to undergo, and you will make allowances for the difficulty she makes in complying. To say the truth, when I examine my own heart, I have more obliga- tions to her than appear at first sight ; for, by obliging me to find arguments to persuade her, she hath assisted me in conquering myself. Indeed, if she had shewn more resolution, I should have shewn less.' ' So you think it necessary then,' said the doctor, that there should be one fool at least in every married couple. A mighty resolution truly.! and well worth your valuing yourself upon, to part with your wife for a few months, in order to make the fortune of her and your children. When you are to leave her too in the care and protection of a friend that gives credit to the old stories of friendship, and doth an honour to human nature. What, in the name of goodness, do either of you think that you have made an union to endure for ever? How will either of you bear that separation which must some time or other, and perhaps very soon, be the lot of one of you ? Have you forgot that you are both mortal ? — As for Christianity, I see you have resigned all pretensions to it ; for I make no doubt but that you have so set your hearts on the happiness you enjoy here together, that neither of you ever think a word of hereafter.' Amelia now burst into tears ; upon which Booth begged the doctor to proceed no farther. Indeed, he would not have wanted the caution ; for, however blunt he appeared in his discourse, he had a tenderness of heart which is AMELIA. 147 rarely found among men ; for which I know no other reason, than that true goodness is rarely found among them ; for I am firmly persuaded, that the latter never possessed any human mind in any degree, without being attended by as large a portion of the former. Thus ended the conversation on this subject ; what followed is not worth relating, till the doctor carried oif Booth with him to take a walk in the Park. CHAPTER V. A conversation between Amelia and doctor Harrison^ with the result. Amelia being left alone, began to consider seriously of her condition ; she saw it would be very difficult to resist the importunities of her husband, backed by the authority of the doctor; especially as she well knew how unreason- able her declarations must appear to every one who was ignorant of her real motives to persevere in it. On the other hand, she was fully determined, whatever might be the consequence, to adhere firmly to her resolution of not accepting the colonel's invitation. When she had turned the matter every way in her mind, and vexed and tormented herself with much uneasy reflection upon it, a thought at last occurred to her, which immediately brought her some comfort. This was, to make a confidant of the doctor, and to impart to him the whole truth. This method, indeed, appeared to her now to be so advisable, that she wondered she had not liit upon it sooner ; but it is the nature of despair to blind us to all the means of safety, however easy and apparent they may be. l2 148 AMELIA. Having fixed lier purpose in her mind, she wrote a short note to tlie doctor, in which she acquainted him that she had something of great moment to impart to him, which must be an entire secret from her husband, and begged that she might have an opportunity of com- municating it as soon as possible. Doctor Harrison received the letter that afternoon, and immediately complied with Amelia's request in visiting her. He found her drhiking tea with her husband and Mrs. Atkinson, and sat down and joined the company. Soon after the removal of the tea-table, Mrs. Atkinson left the room. The doctor then turning to Booth, said, ' I hope, captain, you have a true sense of the obedience ' due to the church, though our clergy do not often ' exact it. However, it is proper to exercise our power ' sometimes, in order to remind the laity of their duty. ' I must tell you, therefore, that I have some private '• business with your wife ; and I expect your immediate ' absence.' ' Upon my word, doctor,' answered Booth, ' no Popish ' confessor, 1 firmly believe, ever pronounced his will ' and pleasure with more gravity and dignity ; none ' therefore was ever more immediately obeyed than you ' shall be.' Booth then quitted the room, and desired the doctor to recall him when his business with the lady was over. Doctor Harrison promised he would ; and then turning to Amelia he said, ' Thus far. Madam, I have obeyed ' your commands, and am now ready to receive that ' important secret which you mention in your note.' Amelia now informed her friend of all she knew, all she had seen and heard, and all that she suspected of the colonel. The good man seemed greatly shocked at the relation, and remained in a silent astonishment. — Upon which, Amelia said, ' Is villainy so rare a thing, Sir, AMELIA. 149 * that It sliould so mncli surprise you?' 'No cliild,' cries lie ; ' but I am shocked at seeing It so artfully dis- guised under the appearance of so much virtue; and, to confess the truth, I believe my own vanity Is a little hurt in having been so grossly imposed upon. Indeed, I had a very high regard for this man ; foi*, besides the great character given him by your husband, and the many facts I have heard so much redounding to his honour, he hath the fairest and most promising appearance I have ever yet beheld — A good face, they say, is a letter of recommendation. , O Nature, Nature, why art thou so dishonest, as ever to send men with these false recommendations into the world ! ' ' Indeed, my dear Sir, I begin to grow entirely sick of it,' cries Amelia : ' for sure all mankind almost are villains in their hearts.' ' Fie, child,' cries the doctor. ' Do not make a con- clusion so much to the dishonour of the o-reat Creator. The nature of man is far from being in Itself evil 5 it abounds with benevolence, charity, and pity, covet- ing praise and honour, and shunning sliame and disgrace. Bad education, bad habits, and bad customs, debauch our nature, and drive it headlong as It were into vice. The governors of the world, and I am afraid the priesthood are answerable for the badness of It. Instead of discouraging wickedness to the utmost of their power, both are too apt to connive at It. In the great sin of adultery, for Instance; hath the government provided any law to punish it ? or, doth the priest take any care to correct it ? on the contrary, is the most notorious practice of It any det- riment to a man's fortune, or to his reputation In the world? doth It exclude him from any preferment in the state, I had almost said In the church ? Is it any blot in his escutcheon? any bar to his honour? 150 AIIELIA. * is he not to be found every day in the assemblies of ' women of the highest quality ? in the closets of the ' greatest men, and even at the tables of bishops ? ' What wonder then, if the community in general treat ' this monstrous crime as matter of jest, and that men ' give way to the temptations of a violent appetite, ' when the indulgence of it is protected by law and ' countenanced by custom ? I am convinced there are ' good stamina in the nature of this very man ; for he ' hath done acts of friendship and generosity to your ' husband, before he could have any evil design on ' your chastity ; and in a Christian society, which I no ' more esteem this nation to be, than I do any part of ' Turkey, I doubt not but this very colonel would have ' made a worthy and valuable member.' ' Indeed, my dear Sir,' cries Amelia, ' you are the ' wisest as well as best man in the world — ' ' Not a word of my wisdom,' cries the doctor. ' I ' have not a grain — I am not the least versed in the ' Chrematistic'-' art, as an old friend of mine calls it. ' I know not how to get a shilling, nor how to keep it ' in my pocket, if I had it.' ' But you understand human nature to the bottom,' answered Amelia •, ' and yom- mind is the treasury of all ancient and modern learning.' 'You are a little flatterer,' cries the doctor; 'but I ' dislike you not for it. And to shew you I don't, I will ' return your flattery ; and tell you, you have acted with ' great prudence in concealing this affair from your ' husband ; but you have drawn me into a scrape ; for ' I have promised to dine with this fellow again to- ' morrow ; and you have made it impossible for me to ' keep my word.' * The art of getting wealth is so called by Aristotle in his Politics. AMELIA. 151 ' Nay but, clear Sir,' cries Araelia, ' for Heaven's sake take care. If you shew any kind of disrespect to the colonel, my husband may be led into some suspicion — especially after our conference.' ' Fear nothing, child. I will give him no hint ; and that I may be certain of not doing it I will stay away. You do not think, I hope, that I will join in a cheer- ful conversation with such a man ; that I will so far betray my character as to give any countenance to such flagitious proceedings. Besides my promise was only conditional; and I do not know whether I could otherwise have kept it ; for I expect an old friend every day who comes to town twenty miles on foot to see me ; whom I shall not part with on any account ; for as he is very poor, he may imagine I treat him with disrespect.' ' Well, Sir,' cries Amelia, ' I must admire you, and love you for your goodness.' ' Must you love me?' cries the doctor. 'I could cure you now in a minute if I pleased.' ' Indeed, I defy you. Sir,' said Amelia. ' If I could but persuade you,' answered he, ' that I thought you not handsome, away would vanish all ideas of goodness in an instant. Confess honestly, would they not ? ' ' Perhaps I might blame the goodness of your eyes,' eplied Amelia; ' and that is perhaps an honester con- fession than you expected. But do, pray. Sir, be serious ; and give me your advice what to do. Con- sider the difficult game I have to play ; for I am sure, after what I have told you, you would not even suffer me to remain under the roof of this colonel.' ' No, indeed, would I not,' said the doctor, ' whilst I have a house of my own to entertain you.' ' But how to dissuade my ^^hu sband,' continued sh o^ without giving him any suspicion of the real cause, the 152 AMELIA. consequences of his guessing at wliicli I tremble to think upon.' ' I will consult my pillow upon it,' said the doctor ; and in the morning you shall see me again. In the mean tmie be comforted, and compose the perturbations of your mind.' ' Well, Sir,' said she, ' I put my whole trust in you.' ' I am sorry to hear it ;' cries the doctor. ' Your inno- cence may give you a very confident trust m a much more powerful assistance. However, I will do all I can to serve you ; and now, if you please, we will call back your husband ; for, upon my word, he hath shewn a good Catholic patience. And where is the honest Ser- jeant and his wife ? I am pleased with the behaviour of you both to that worthy fellow, in opposition to the custom of the world ; which, instead of being formed on the precepts of our religion to consider each other as brethren, teaches us to regard those who are a degi-ee below us, either in rank or fortune, as a species of beings of an inferior order in the creation.' The captain now returned into the room, as did the seijeant and Mrs. Atkinson ; and the two couple, with the doctor, spent the evening together in great mirth and festivity ; for the doctor was one of the best companions in the world ; and a vein of cheerfulness, good humour, and pleasantry, ran through his conversation, with which it was impossible to resist being pleased. AMELIA. 153 CHAPTER VI. Containing as surjjrising an accident as isjperliaps recorded in history. Booth had acquainted the seijeant with the gi*eat good- ness of colonel James, and with the cheerful prospects which he entertained from it. This Atkinson, behind the curtam, communicated to his wife. The conclusion which she drew from it need scarce be hinted to the reader. She made, indeed, no scruple of plainly and bluntly telling her husband, that the colonel had a most manifest intention to attack the chastity of Amelia. This thoughf gave the poor serjeant great uneasiness, and, after having kept him long awake, tormented him in his sleep with a most horrid dream, in which he imagined that he saw the colonel standing by the bed- side of Amelia, with a naked sword in his hand, and threatened to stab her instantly, unless she complied with liis desires. Upon this, the serjeant started up in bed, and catching his wife by the throat, cried out, ' D — n ' you, put up your sword this instant, and leave the room, ' or by Heaven I'll drive mine to your heart's blood ! ' This rough treatment immediately roused Mrs. Atkinson from her sleep, who no sooner perceived the position of her husband, and felt his hand grasping her throat, than she gave a violent shriek, and presently fell into a fit. Atkinson now waked likewise, and soon became sen- sible of the violent agitations of his wife. He imme- diately leaped out of bed, and running for a bottle of water, began to sprinkle her very plentifully ; but all to no purpose, she neither spoke, nor gave any symptoms of recovery. Atkinson then began to roar aloud ; upon 154 AMELIA. which Booth, who lay under him, jumped from his bed, and ran up with the hghted candle in his hand. The seijeant had no sooner taken the candle, than he ran with it to the bed-side. Here he beheld a sight which almost deprived him of his senses. The bed appeared to be all over blood, and his wife weltering in the midst of it. Upon this the Serjeant, almost in a frenzy, cried out, ' O ' Heavens ! I have killed my wife. I have stabbed her ! ' I have stabbed her ! ' ' What can be the meaning of ' all this?' said Booth. ' O Sir !' cries the serjeant, ' I ' dreamt I was rescuing your lady from the hands of ' colonel James, and I have killed my poor wife.' Here he threw himself upon the bed by her, caught her in his arms, and behaved like one frantic with despair. By this time, Amelia had thrown on a wrapping-gown, and was come up into the room, where the seijeant and his wife were lying on the bed, and Booth standing like a motionless statue by the bedside. Amelia had some difficulty to conquer the effects of her own surprise on this occasion ; for a more ghastly and horrible sight than the bed presented could not be conceived. Amelia sent Booth to call up the maid of the house, in order to lend her assistance ; but, before his return, Mrs. Atkinson began to come to herself; and soon after, to the inexpressible joy of the serjeant, it was discovered she had no wound. Indeed, the delicate nose of Amelia soon made that discovery, which the grosser smell of the serjeant, and perhaps his fright, had prevented him from making; for now it appeared that the red liquor with which the bed was stained, though it may, perhaps, some- times run through the veins of a fine lady, was not what is properly called bloo4 { but was, indeed, no other than cherry-brandy, a bottle of which Mrs. Atkinson always kept in her room to be ready for immediate use ; and to which she used to apply for comfort in all her afflictions. AMELIA. 155 This the poor seijeant, in his extreme hurry, had mistaken for a bottle of water. Matters were now soon accommo- dated, and no other mischief appeared to be done, miless to the bed-clothes. Amelia and Booth returned back to their room 5 and Mrs. Atkinson rose from her bed, in order to equip it with a pair of clean sheets. And thus this adventure would have ended without producing any kind of consequence, had not the words which the seijeant uttered in his frenzy, made some slight impression on Booth ; so much, at least, as to awaken his curiosity ; so that in the morning when he arose, he sent for the Serjeant, and desired to hear the particulars of this dream, since Amelia was concerned in it. The seijeant at first seemed unwilling to comply, and endeavoured to make excuses. This, perhaps, increased Booth's curiosity, and he said, ' Nay, I am resolved to hear it. Why, you simpleton, do you imagine me weak enough to be affected by a dream, however terrible it may be ? ' ' Nay, Sir,' cries the serjeant, ' as for that matter, dreams have sometimes fallen out to be true. — One of my own, I know, did so, concerning your honour ; for, when you courted my young lady, I dreamt you was married to her ; and yet it was at a time when neither I myself, nor any of the country, thought you would ever obtain her. But, Heaven forbid this di'eam should ever come to pass.' ^ Why, what was this dream ? ' cries Booth. ' I insist on knowing.' ' To be sure. Sir,' cries the seijeant, ' I must not re- fuse you ; but, I hope, you will never think any more of it. Why then. Sir, I dreamt th^t your honour was gone to the West-Indies, and had left my lady in the care of colonel James ; and last night, I dreamt the colonel came to my lady's bed-side, offeruig to ravish her \ and 156 A3IELIA. with a drawn sword in his hand, threatening to stab her that moment, unless she would comply with his desires. How I came to be by, I know not; but I dreamt I rushed upon him, caught him by the throat, and swore I would put him to death, unless he instantly left the room. — Here I waked, and this was my dream. I never paid any regard to a dream in my life — but, indeed, I never dreamt any thing so very plain as this. It ap- peared downright reality. I am sure I have left the marks of my fingers in my wife's throat. I would not have taken a hundred pounds to have used her so.' ^ Faith,' cries Booth, ' it was an odd dream — and not so easily to be accounted for, as that you had formerly of my marriage ; for as Shakspeare says, Dreams denote a foregone conclusion. Now it is impossible you should ever have thought of any such matter as this.' ' However, Sir,' cries the seijeant, ' it is in your honour's power to prevent any possibility of this dream's coming to pass, by not leaving my lady to the care of the colonel; if you must go from her, certainly there are other places where she may be with great safety ; and since my wife tells me that my lady is so very unwilling, whatever reasons she may have, I liope your honour will oblige her.' ' Now I recollect it,' cries Booth, ' ]\Irs. Atkinson hath once or twice dropped some disrespectful words of the colonel. He hath done something to disoblige her.' ' He hath indeed. Sir,' replied the Serjeant: ' he hath said that of her which she doth not deserve, and for which, if he had not been my superior officer, I would have cut both his ears off. — Nay, for that matter, he can speak ill of otlier people besides her.' ' Do you know, Atkinson,' cries Booth, very gravely, ' that you are talking of the dearest friend I have '? ' ' To be honest then,' answered the Serjeant, ' I do not AMELIA. 157 '• think so. If I did, I sliould love him much better than ' I do.' ' I must and will have this explained,' cries Booth. ' I have too good an opinion of you, Atkinson, to think ' you Avould drop such things as you have without some ' reason — and I will know it.' ' I am sorry I have dropped a word,' cries Atkinson. ' I am sure I did not intend it ; and your honour hath ' drawn it from me unawares.' ' Indeed, Atkinson,' cries Booth, ' you have made me ' very uneasy, and I must be satisfied.' ' Then, Sir,' said the serjeant, ' you shall give me ' your word of honour ; or I will be cut into ten thousand ' pieces before I will mention another syllable.' ' What shall I promise,' said Booth. ^ That you will not resent any thing I shall lay to ' the colonel,' answered Atkinson. ' Besent ! — -Well, I give you my honour,' said Booth. The Serjeant made him bind himself over and over again ; and then related to him the scene which formerly passed between the colonel and himself, as far as con- cerned Booth himself; but concealed all that more immediately related to Amelia. ' Atkinson,' cries Booth, ' I cannot be angry with '■ you ; for I know you love me, and I have many obli- ' gations to you; but you have done wrong in censuring ' the colonel for what he said of me. I deserved all ' that he said; and his censures proceeded from his ' friendship.' ' But^ it was not so kind. Sir,' said Atkinson, ' to say ' such things to me who am but a serjeant, and at ' such a time too.' ' I will hear no more,' cries Booth. ' Be assured you ' are the only man I would forgive on this occasion ; ' and I forgive you only on condition you never speak 158 AMELIA. ' a word more of this nature. — Tins silly dream hath ' intoxicated you.' ' I have done, Sir,' cries the serjeant. ' I know my * distance, and whom I am to obey; but I have one ' favour to beg of your honour, never to mention a word ' of what I have said to my lady ; for I know she never ' would forgive me; I know she never would, by what ' my wife hath told me. Besides, you need not mention ' it. Sir, to my lady ; for she knows it already, and a ' great deal more.' Booth presently parted from the serjeant, having de- sired him to close his lips on this occasion ; and repaired to liis wife, to whom he related the Serjeant's dream. Amelia turned as white as snow, and fell into so violent a trembling, that Booth plainly perceived her emotion, and immediately partook of it himself. — ' Sure, ' my dear,' said he, staring wildly, ' there is more in ^ this than I know. A silly dream could not so dis- ' compose you. I beg you, I enti-eat you to tell me — ' — hath ever colonel James — ' At the very mention of the colonel's name, Amelia fell on her knees, and begged her husband not to frighten her. ' What do I say, my dear love,' cried Booth, ' that can frighten you ? ' ' Nothing, my dear,' said she. — ' But my spirits are so discomposed with the dreadful scene I saw last night, that a dream, which, at another time I should have laughed at, hath shocked me. Do but promise me that you will not leave me behind you, and I am easy.' ' You may be so,' cries Booth ; ' for I will never deny you anything. — But make me easy too. I must know, if you have seen anything in colonel James to displease you.' AMELIA. 159 ' Why should you suspect It ? ' cries Amelia. ' You torment me to death,' cries Booth. ' By Heavens ! ' I will know the truth. Hath he ever said or done any ' thing which you dislike ? ' ' How, my dear,' said Amelia, * can you imagine I ' should dislike a man who is so much your friend? ' Think of all the obligations you have to him, and then ' you may easily resolve yourself. Do you think, because * I refuse to stay behind you in his house, that I have ' any objection to him ? — No, my dear, had he done a ' thousand times more than he hath, was he an angel ' instead of a man, I would not quit my Billy. — There's ' the sore, my dear, there's the misery to be left by you.' Booth embraced her with the most passionate rap- tures, and looking on her with inexpressible tenderness, cried, ' Upon my soul, I am not worthy of you. — I '■ am a fool, and yet you cannot blame me.— If the * stupid miser hoards, with such care, his worthless ' treasure ; if he watches it with such anxiety ; if every ' apprehension of another's sharing the least part, fills ' his soul with such agonies : O Amelia ! what must be ' my condition, what terrors must I feel, while I am ' watching over a jewel of such real, such inestimable 'worth?' ' I can, with great truth, return the compliment,' cries Amelia. ' I have my treasure too ; and am so ' much a miser that no force shall ever tear me from it.' ' I am ashamed of my folly,' cries Booth ; ' and yet ' it is all from extreme tenderness. Nay, you yourself are ' the occasion. — Why will you ever attempt to keep a ' secret from me? Do you think I should have resented ' to my friend his just censure of my conduct?' ' What censure, my dear love?' cries Amelia. 'Nay, the seijeant hath told me all,' cries Booth. — ' Nay, and that he hath told it to you — Poor soul ! thou ICO AMELIA. coiildst not endure to hear me accused, tliougli never so justly, and by so good a friend. Indeed, my dear, I have discovered the cause of that resentment to the colonel, which you could not hide from me. — I love you, I adore you for it. Indeed, I could not forgive a slighting word on you. — But why do I compare things so unlike ? what the colonel said of me was just and true ; every reflection on my Amelia must be false and villainous.' The discernment of Amelia was extremely quick ; and she now perceived what had happened, and how much her husband knew of the truth. She resolved therefore to humour him, and fell severely on colonel James for what he had said to the serjeant, which Booth endea- voured all he could to soften ; and thus ended this afPair, which had brought Booth to the very brink of a dis- covery, which must have given him the highest torment, if it had not produced any of those tragical effects which Amelia apprehended. CHAPTER VII. In winch tlie Author appears to he master of that profound learning., called The Knowledge of the Toion. Mrs. James now came to pay a morning visit to Amelia. She entered the room with her usual gaiety, and, after a slight preface, addressing herself to Booth, said, she had been quarrelling with her husband on his account. 'I ^ know not,' said she, ' what he means by thinkmg of send- ' ing you the Lord knows whither. I have insisted on his ' asking something for you nearer home. And it would be ^ the hardest tiling in the world, if he should not obtain it. AMELIA. 161 * Are we resolved never to encourage merit, but to throw *" away all our preferments on those who do not deserve ' them ? What a set of contemptible wretches do we see ' strutting about the town in scarlet ! ' Booth made a very low bow, and modestly spoke in disparagement of himself. To which she answered, ' Indeed, Mr. Booth, you have merit. I have heard ' it from my brother, who is a judge of those matters ; ' and I am sure cannot be suspected of flattery. He ' is your friend as well as myself; and we will never ' let Mr. James rest till he hath got you a commission ' in England.' Booth bowed again, and was offering to speak, but she interrupted him, saying, * I will have no thanks, nor no ' fine speeches. If I can do you any service, I shall ' think I am only paying the debt of friendship to my ' dear Mrs. Booth.' Amelia, who had long since forgot the dislike she had taken to ]\Ii's. James at her first seeing her in town, had attributed it to the right cause, and had begun to resume her former friendship for her, expressed very warm senti- ments of gratitude on this occasion. She told IVIi-s. James she should be eternally obliged to her if she could succeed m her kind endeavours ; for that the thoughts of parting again with her husband had given her the utmost con- cern. ' Indeed,' added she, * I cannot help saying, he ' hath some merit in the service ; for he hath received ' two dreadful wounds in it, one of which very greatly ' endangered his life ; and I am convinced, if his preten- ' sions were backed with any interest, he would not fail ' of success.' ' They shall be backed with interest,' cries Mrs. James, ' if my husband hath any. He hath no favour to ask for ' himself, nor for any other friend that I know of; and, ' indeed, to grant a man his just due ought hardly to be VOL. IX. M 162 AMELIA. ' thought a favour. Eesume your okl gaiety, therefore, ' my dear Emily. Lord ! I remember the time when ' you was much the gayer creature of the two. But you ' make an arrant mope of yourself by confining yourself ' at home. One never meets you any where. Come, you ' shall go with me to the Lady Betty Castleton's. ' Indeed, you must excuse me, my dear,' answered Amelia, ' I do not know Lady Betty.' ' Not know Lady Betty ! how is that possible ? — But ' no matter, I will introduce you — She keeps a morning ' rout *, hardly a rout, indeed ; a little bit of a drum — only ' four or five tables. — Come, take your capuchin •, you ' positively shall go — Booth, you shall go with us too. ' Though you are with your wife, another woman will '• keep you in countenance.' ' La ! child,' cries Amelia, ' how you rattle ! ' ' I am in spirits,' answered Mrs. James, ' this morn- ' iug ; for I won four rubbers together last night ; and '• betted the things, and won almost every bet. I am in ' luck, and we will contrive to be partners — Come.' ' Nay, child, you shall not refuse Mrs. James/ said Booth. ' I have scarce seen my children to day,' answered Amelia. ' Besides, I mortally detest cards.' '- Detest cards ! ' cries Mrs. James. ' How can you ' be so stupid ? I would not live a day without them — ' Nay, indeed, I do not believe I should be able to exist. ' Is there so delightful a sight in the world as the four ' honours in one's own hand, unless it be three natural ' aces at brag And you really hate cards V ' Upon reflection,' cries Amelia, ' I have sometimes ' had great pleasure in them — in seeing my children build ' houses with them. My little boy is so dexterous, that ' he will sometimes build up the whole pack.' ' Indeed, Booth,' cries Mrs. James, ' this good woman AMELIA. 163 * of yours is strangely altered since I knew her first ; but * she will always be a good creature.' ' Upon my word, my dear,' cries Amelia, ' you are * altered too very greatly ; but I doubt not to live to ' see you alter again, when you come to have as many ' children as I have.' ' Oliildren ! ' cries Mrs. James, * you make me shudder. ' How can you envy me the only circumstance which ' makes matrimony comfortable ?' ' Indeed, my dear,' said Amelia, ' you injure me ; for ' I envy no woman's happiness in marriage.' At these words, such looks passed between Booth and his wife, as, to a sensible by-stander, would have made all the airs of Mrs. James appear in the highest degree con- temptible, and would have rendered herself the object of compassion. Nor could that lady avoid looking a little silly on the occasion. Amelia now, at the earnest desire of her husband, accoutred herself to attend her friend ; but first she insisted on visiting her children, to whom she gave several hearty kisses, and then recommending them to the care of Mrs. Atkinson, she and her husband accompanied Mrs. James to the rout ; where few of my fine readers will be displeased to make part of the company. The two ladies and Booth then entered an apartment beset with card-tables, like the rooms at Bath and Tun- bridge. Mrs. James immediately introduced her friends to Lady Betty, who received them very civilly, and pre- sently engaged Booth and Mrs. James in a party at whist ; for, as to Amelia, she so much declined playing, that, as the party could be filled without her, she was permitted to sit by. And now who should make his appearance but the noble peer, of whom so much honourable mention hath already been made in this history. He walked directly M 2 164 AMELIA. up to Amelia, and addressed her with as perfect a con- fidence as if he had not been in the least conscious of having in any manner displeased her ; though the reader will hardly suppose that Mrs. Ellison had kept any thing a secret from him. Amelia was not, however, so forgetful. She made him a very distant courtesy, would scarce vouchsafe an answer to any thing he said, and took the first opportunity of shifting her chair, and retiiing from him. Her behaviour, indeed, was such, that the peer plainly perceived, that he should get no advantage by pursuing her any farther at present. Instead, therefore, of at- tempting to follow her, he turned on his heel, and addressed his discourse to another lady, though he could not avoid often casting his eyes towards Amelia as long as she remained in the room. Fortune, which seems to have been generally no great friend to Mr. Booth, gave him no extraordinary marks of her favour at play. He lost two full rubbers, which cost five guineas ; after which, Amelia, who was uneasy at his lordship's presence, begged him in a whisper to return home; with which request he directly complied. Nothing, I think, remarkable happened to Booth, un- less the renewal of his acquaintance with an officer whom he had known abroad, and who made one of his party at the whist-table. The name of this gentleman, with whom the reader will hereafter be better acquainted, was Trent. He had formerly been in the same regiment with Booth, and there was some intimacy between them. Captain Trent ex- pressed great delight in meeting his brother officer, and both mutually promised to visit each other. The scenes winch had passed the preceding night and that morning, had so confused Amelia's thoughts, that in the hurry in which she was carried off" by Mrs. James, she AMELIA. 165 had entirely forgot her appointment with Dr. Harrison. When she was informed at her return home, that the doctor had been to wait upon her, and had expressed some anger at her being gone out, she became greatly uneasy, and begged her husband to go to the doctor's lodgings, and malce her apology. But lest the reader should be as angry with the doctor as he had declared himself with Amelia, we think proper to explain the matter. Nothing then was farther from the doctor's mind than the conception of any anger to- wards Amelia. On the contrary, when the girl answered him, that her mistress was not at home, the doctor said with great good humour, ' How ! not at home ! then tell ' your mistress she is a giddy vagabond, and I will come ' to see her no more till she sends for me.' — This the poor girl, from misunderstanding one word, and half forgetting the rest, had construed into great passion, several very bad words, and a declaration that he would never see Amelia any more. CHAPTER Vni. In which two stra7igers make their appearance. Booth went to the doctor's lodgings, and found him engaged with his country friend and his son, a young gentleman who was lately in orders; both whom the doctor had left to keep his appointment with Amelia. After what we mentioned at the end of the last chapter, we need take little notice of the apology made by Booth, or the doctor's reception of it, which was in his peculiar manner. ' Your wife,' said he, ' is a vain hussy 166 AMELIA. * to think herself woi*th my anger; but tell her, I have ' the vanity myself to think I cannot be angry without a ' better cause. And yet tell her, I intend to punish her ' for her levity ; for if you go abroad, I have determined *" to take her down with me into the country, and make ' her do penance there till you retm'n.' ' Dear Sir,' said Booth, ' I know not how to thank you, * if you are in earnest.' ' I assure you then I am in earnest,' cries the doctor ; * but you need not thank me, however, since you know ' not how.' ' But would not that, Sir/ said Booth, ' be shewing a * slight to the colonel's invitation ? and you know I have ' so many obligations to him.' ' Don't tell me of the colonel,' cries the doctor ; ' the church is to be first served. Besides, Sir, I have ' priority of right, even to you yourself. You stole my ' little lamb from me : for I was her first love.' ' Well, Sir,' cries Booth, ^ if I should be so unhappy ' to leave her to any one, she must herself detemiine ; ' and, I believe, it will not be difficult to guess where her ' choice will fall ; for of all men, next to her husband, T ' believe, none can contend with Dr. Harrison in her ' favour.' ' Since you say so,' cries the doctor, — ' fetch her hither ^ to dinner with us ; for I am at least so good a Christian ' to love those that love me — I will shew you my ' daughter, my old friend ; for I am really proud of her ' — and you may bring my grandchildren with you, if ' you please.' Booth made some compliments, and then went on his errand. As soon as he was gone, the old gentleman said to the doctor, ' Pray, my good friend, Avhat daughter is ^ this of yours ? I never so much as heard that you was ' married.' AMELIA. 167 ' And what then ? ' cries the doctor, ' did you ever hear ' that a Pope was married ? and yet some of them have ' had sons and daughtei-s, I believe ; but, however, this ^ young gentleman will absolve me without obliging me ' to penance.' ' I have not yet that power,' answered the young clergyman ; ' for I am only in deacon's orders.' 'Are you not?' cries the doctor; 'why then I will absolve myself. You are to know then, my good friend, that this young lady was the daughter of a neighbour of mme, who is since dead, and whose sins I hope are forgiven ; for she had too much to answer for on her child's account. Her father was my intimate acquaintance and friend ; a worthier man, indeed, I believe, never lived. He died suddenly when his children were infants ; and, perhaps, to the suddenness, of his death it was owing, that he did not recommend any care of them to me. However, I, in some measure, took that charge upon me; and particularly of her whom I call my daughter. Indeed, as she grew up, she discovered so many good qualities, that she wanted not the remembrance of her father's merit to recommend her. I do her no more than justice, when I say, she is one of the best creatures I ever knew. She hath a sweetness of temper, a generosity of spirit, an openness of heart — in a word, she hath a true Christian dis- position. I may call her an Israelite indeed, in whom there is no guile.' ' I wish you joy of your daughter,' cries the old gentle- man ; ' for to a man of your disposition, to find out an adequate object of your benevolence, is, I acknowledge^ to find a treasure.' ' It is, indeed, a happiness,' cries the doctor. ' The greatest difiiculty,' added the gentleman, ' which ' persons of your turn of mind meet with, is in finding 168 AMELIA. ' proper objects of their goodness ; for nothing sure can * be more irksome to a generous mind than to discover ' that it hath thrown away all its good offices on a soil '• that bears no other fruit than ingratitude.' ' I remember,' cries the doctor, ' Phocylides saith, Mr) KaKOV eu tp^yjg' ainipiiv lerov £^' £vi TTOvrt^).* * But he speaks more like a philosopher than a Christian. ' I am more pleased with a French writer, one of the * best, indeed, that I ever read, who blames men for ' lamenting the ill return which is so often made to the ' best offices I A true Christian can never be disap- ' pointed, if he doth not receive his reward in this world ; * the labourer might as well complain, that he is not paid * his hire in the middle of the day.' ' I own, indeed,' said the gentleman, ' if we see it in ' that light — ' f ' And in what light should we see it?' answered the doctor. ' Are we like Agrippa, only almost Christians ? * or, is Christianity a matter of bare theory, and not a ' rule for our practice ? ' ' Practical, undoubtedly ; undoubtedly practical,' cries the gentleman. ' Your example might indeed have con- ^ vinced me long ago, that we ought to do good to every ' one.' '• Pardon me, father,' cries the young divine, ' that is * rather a heathenish than a Christian doctrine. Homer, ^ I remember, introduces in his Iliad one Axylus, of ' whom he says, ' ' ^iXog 8' j'iv avOpiOTTOKTl TlavTaa yap 0tXt£(TK£V.J ' But Plato, who of the heathens came nearest to the * To do a kindness to a bad man, is like sowing your seed in the sea. •j- D'Esprit. I He was a friend to mankind, for he loved them all. AMELIA. 169 * Clirlstian philosophy, condemned this as impious doc- ' trine : so Eustathius tells us, folio 474.' ' I know he doth,' cries the doctor, ' and so Barnes tells ' us, in his note upon the place ; but if you remember the ' rest of the quotation as well as you do that from Eusta- ' tliius, you might have added the observation which Mr. ' Dryden makes in favour of this passage, that he found ' not in all the Latin authors so admirable an instance of ' extensive humanity. You might have likewise remem- ' bered the noble sentiment, with which Mr. Barnes ends * his note, the sense of which is taken from the fifth ' chapter of Matthew, Mt-yS' ayaOolcri kukoTcfi t Itt' avSpa virtue, in direct opposition to the plain and positive precepts of religion, and tending manifestly to give a sanction to ruffians, and to protect them in all the ways of impudence and villany ? ' ' All this, I believe, is very true,' cries Amelia ; ' but yet you know, doctor, the opinion of the world.' ' You talk simply, child,' cries the doctor. ' What is the opmion of the world opposed to religion and virtue? but you are in the wTong. It is not the opinion of the world ; it is the opinion of the idle, ignorant, and profligate. It is impossible it should be the opinion of one man of sense, who is in earnest in his belief of our religion. Chiefly, indeed, it hath been upheld by the nonsense of women ; who, either from their extreme cow^ardice, and desire of protection, or, as Mr. Bayle thinks, from their excessive vanity, have been always forward to countenance a set of hectors and bravoes, and to despise all men of modesty and sobriety; though these are often, at the bottom, not only the better, but the braver men.' ' You know, doctor,' cries Amelia, ' I have never presumed to argue with you ; your opinion is to me always instruction, and your word a law.' ' Indeed, child,' cries the doctor, * I know you are a good woman ; and yet I must observe to you, that this very desire of feeding the passion of female vanity with the heroism of her man, old Homer seems to make the characteristic of a bad and loose woman. He intro- duces Helen upbraiding her gallant with having quitted the fight, and left the victory to Menelaus, and seeming to be sorry that she had left her husband, only because he was the better duellist of the two ; but in how 320 AMELIA. different a light doth he represent the tender and chaste love of Andromache to her worthy Hector ! she dissuades him from exposing himself to danger, even in a just cause. This is indeed a weakness ; but it is an amiable one, and becoming the true feminine character; but a woman who, out of heroic vanity (for so it is), would hazard not only the life, but the soul too of her husband in a duel, is a monster, and ought to be painted in no other character but that of a Fury.' ' I assure you, doctor,' cries Amelia, ' I never saw this matter in the odious light in which you have truly represented it before. I am ashamed to recollect what I have formerly said on this subject. — And yet, whilst the opinion of the world is as it is, one would wish to comply as far as possible — especially as my husband is an of&cer of the army. If it can be done therefore mth safety to his honour — ' ' Again honour ! ' cries the doctor, ' indeed I will not suffer that noble word to be so basely and barba- rously prostituted. I have known some of these men of honour, as they call themselves, to be the most arrant rascals in the universe.' ' Well, I ask your pardon,' said she, — ' Eeputation then, if you please — or any other word you like better — you know my meaning very well.' ' I do know your meaning,' cries the doctor, ' and Virgil knew it a great while ago. The next time you see your friend Mrs. Atkinson, ask her what it was made Dido fall in love with ^neas.' '- Nay, dear Sir,' said Amelia, ' do not rally me so un- mercifully ; think where my poor husband is now.' ' He is,' answered the doctor, ' where I will presently be with him. In the mean time, do you pack up every thing in order for your journey to-morrow ; for, if you AMELIA. 321 ' are wise, you will not trust yonr linsband a day longer ' in this town — therefore to packing.' Amelia promised she would — though indeed she wanted not any warning for her journey on this account ; for, when she had packed up herself in the coach, she packed up her all. However, she did not think proper to mention this to the doctor; for, as he was now in pretty good humour, she did not care to venture again discomposing his temper. The doctor then set out for Gray's Inn-lane; and, as soon as he was gone, Amelia began to consider of her incapacity to take a journey in her present situation without even a clean shift. At last she resolved, as she was possessed of seven guineas and a half, to go to her friend and redeem some of her own and her husband's linen out of captivity ; indeed, just so much as would render it barely possible for them to go out of town with any kind of decency. And this resolution she immediately executed. As soon as she had finished her business with the pawnbroker, (if a man who lends under thirty ])er cent. deserves that name,) he said to lier, ' Pray, Madam, did ' you know that man who was here yesterday when you ' brought the picture"?' Amelia answered in the nega- tive. ' Indeed, Madam,' said the broker, ' he knows * you, though he did not recollect you while you were ' here, as your hood was drawn over your face ; but ^ the moment you was gone, he begged to look at ' the picture, which I, thinking no harm, permitted. ' He had scarce looked upon it, when he cried out — By ' heaven and earth it is her picture ! He then asked ^ me if I knew you — Indeed, says I, I never saw the ' lady before.' In this last particular, however, the pawnbroker a little savoured of his profession, and made a small deviation VOL. IX. Y 322 AMELIA. from the truth ; for when the man had asked him if he knew the lady, he answered she was some poor midone woman, who had pawned all her clothes to him the day before ; and I suppose, says he, this picture is the last of her goods and chattels. This hint we thought proper to give the reader, as it may chance to be material. Amelia answered coldly, that she had taken so very little notice of the man, that she scarce remembered he was there. ' I assure you, Madam,' says the pawnbroker, ' he hath ' taken very great notice of you ; for the man changed ' countenance upon what I said, and presently after ' begged me to give him a dram. Oho ! thinks I to ' myself, are you thereabouts ? I would not be so much ^ in love with some folks, as some people are, for more ' interest than I shall ever make of a thousand pounds.' Amelia blushed, and said, with some peevishness, That she knew nothing of the man; but supposed he was some impertinent fellow or other. ' Nay, Madam,' answered the pawnbroker, ' I assure ' you he is not worthy your regard. He is a poor ' wretch, and I believe I am possessed of most of his ' moveables. However, I hope you are not offended ; ' for, indeed, he said no harm ; but he was very strangely ' disordered, that is the ti'utli of it.' Amelia was very desirous of putting an end to this conversation, and altogether as eager to return to her children ; she therefore bundled up her things as fast as she could, and, calling for a hackney-coach, directed the coachman to her lodgings, and bid him drive her home with all the haste he could. AMELIA. 523 CHAPTER IV. In which Dr. Harrison visits colonel James. The doctor, when lie left Amelia, intended to go directly to Booth ; but he presently changed his mind, and deter- mined first to call on the colonel, as he thought it was proper to put an end to that matter before he gave Booth his liberty. The doctor found the two colonels, James and Bath, together. They both received him very civilly ; for James was a very well-bred man ; and Bath always shewed a particular respect to the clergy, he being indeed a perfect good Christian, except in the articles of fighting and swearing. Our divine sat some time without mentioning the subject of his errand, in hopes that Bath would go away ; but when he found no likelihood of that (for indeed Bath was of the two much the most pleased with his company) he told James that he had something to say to him relating to Booth, which he believed he ;night speak before his brother. ' Undoubtedly, Sir,' said James ; ' for there can be no secrets between us which my brother may not hear.' ^ I come then to you, Sir,' said the doctor, ' from the most unhappy woman in the world, to whose affiictions you have very greatly and very cruelly added, by send- ing a challenge to her husband, which hath very luckily fallen into her hands ; for had the man, for whom you designed it, received it, I am afraid you would not have seen me upon this occasion.' ' If I writ such a letter to Mr. Booth, Sir,' said James, you may be assured I did not expect this visit in answer to it.' Y 2 324 AMELIA. ' I do not think you did,' cries the doctor; 'but you have great reason to thank heaven for ordering this matter conti'ary to your expectations. I know not what trifle may have drawn this challenge from you; but, after what I have some reason to know of you, Sir, I must plainly tell you, that, if you had added to your guilt already committed against this man that of having his blood upon your hands, your soul would have become as black as hell itself.' ' Give me leave to say,' cries the colonel, ' this is a language which I am not used to hear; and, if your cloth was not yoiu- protection, you should not give it me with impunity. After what you know of me, Sir ! What do you presume to know of me to my dis- advantage ? ' ' You say my cloth is my protection, colonel,' an- swered the doctor, ' therefore pray lay aside your anger ; I do not come with any design of affronting or offend- ing you.' *" Very well,' cries Bath, ' that declaration is sufficient from a clergyman, let him say what he pleases.' ' Indeed, Sir,' says the doctor very mildly, ' I consult equally the good of you both, and, in a spiritual sense, more especially yours ; for you know you have injured this poor man.' ' So far on the contrary,' cries James, 'that I have been his greatest benefactor. I scorn to upbraid him ; but you force me to it. Nor have I ever done him the least injury.' ' Perhaps not,' said the doctor; 'I will alter what I have said. — But for this I apply to youi' honour. — Have you not intended him an injury, the very intention of which cancels every obligation ? ' ' How, Sir ? ' answered the colonel — ' What do you * mean ? ' AMELIA. 325 ' My meaning,' replied the doctor, ' is almost too tender ' to mention — Come, colonel, examine yom- own heart; ' and then answer me, on your honour, if you have not ' intended to do him the highest wrong which one man ' can do another ? ' ' I do not know what you mean by the question,' an- swered the colonel. ' D — n me, the question is very transparent,' cries Bath. ' From any other man it would be an affront with the strongest emphasis, but from one of the doctor's cloth it demands a categorical answer.' ' I am not a Papist, Sir,' answered colonel James, ' nor am I obliged to confess to my priest. But, if you have any thing to say, speak openly — for I do not understand your meaning.' ' I have explained my meaning to you already,' said the doctor, ' in a letter I wrote to you on the subject — a subject which I am sorry I should have any occasion to write upon to a Christian.' ' I do remember now,' cries the colonel, ' that I re- ceived a very impertinent letter, something like a sermon, against adultery ; but I did not expect to hear the author own it to my face.' ' That brave man, then. Sir,' answered the doctor, stands before you who dares own he wrote that letter, and dares affirm, too, that it was writ on a just and strong foundation. But, if the hardness of your heart could prevail on you to treat my good intention with contempt and scorn, what, pray, could induce you to shew it, nay, to give it Mr. Booth ? What motive could you have for that, unless you meant to insult him, and to provoke your rival to give you that oppor- tunity of putting him out of the world, which you have since wickedly sought by your challenge ? ' ' I give him the letter ! ' said the colonel. 32 G AMELIA. '• Yes, Sir,' answered the doctor, ' he shewed me tlie ' letter, and affirmed that you gave it him at the mas- ' querade.' ' He is a lying rascal then,' said the colonel, very pas- sionately. ' I scarce took the trouble of reading the * letter, and lost it out of my pocket.' Here Bath interfered, and explained this affair in the manner in which it happened, and with which the reader is already acquainted. He concluded by great eulogiums on the performance, and declared it was one of the most enthusiastic (meaning perhaps ecclesiastic) letters that ever was written. ' And d — n me,' says he, ^ if I do not respect the author with the utmost emphasis ' of thinking.' The doctor now recollected what had passed with Booth, and perceived he had made a mistake of one colonel for another. This he presently acknowledged to colonel James, and said that the mistake had been his and not Booth's. Bath now collected all his gravity and dignity, as he called it, into his countenance, and addressmg himself to James, said — ' And was that letter writ to you, brother ? — I hope you never deserved any suspicion of this kmd.' ' Brother,' cries James, ' I am accountable to myself for my actions, and shall not render an account either to you or to that gentleman.' 'As to me, brother,' answered Bath, ' you say right ; but I think this gentleman may call you to an account ; nay, I think it is his duty to do so. And let me tell you, brother, there is one much greater than he to whom you must give an account. Mrs. Booth is really a fine woman, a lady of most imperious and majestic presence. I have heard you often say that you liked her ; and, if you have quarrelled with her husband upon AMELIA. 327 ' this account, by all the dignity of man, I think you ' ought to ask liis pardon.' ' Indeed, brother,' cries James, ' I can bear this no ' longer — you will make me angry presently.' ' Angry ! brother James,' cries Bath — ' angiy ! — I love ' you, brother, and have obligations to you. I will say ' no more — but I hope you know I do not fear making ' any man angry.' James answered, he knew it well ; and then the doctor apprehending that while he was stopping up one breach, he should make another, presently interfered, and turned the discourse back to Booth. ' You tell me, Sir,' said he to James, ' that my gown is my protection ; let it then at least protect me where I have had no design in offend- ing ; where I have consulted your highest welfare, as in truth I did in writing this letter. And if you did not in the least deserve any such suspicion, still you have no cause for resentment. Caution against sin, even to the innocent, can never be unwholesome. But this I assure you, whatever anger you have to me, you can have none to poor Booth, who was entirely ignorant of my writing to you, and who, I am certain, never entertained the least suspicion of you ; on the contrary, reveres you with the highest esteem, and love and gratitude. Let me therefore reconcile all matters between you, and bring you together before he hath even heard of this challenge.' ' Brother,' cries Bath, ' I hope I shall not make you angry — I lie when I say so ; for I am mdifferent to any man's anger — Let me be an accessary to what the doctor hath said. I think I may be trusted with matters of this nature, and it is a little unkind that, if you intended to send a challenge, you did not make me the bearer. But, indeed, as to what appears to me, this matter may be very well made up ; and as Mr. 328 AMELIA. ' Booth doth not know of the challenge, I don't see why ' he ever should, any more than yonr giving him the lie '• just now *, but that he shall never have from me ; nor, I ' believe, from this gentleman ; for indeed, if he should, it ' would be incumbent upon him to cut your throat.' ' Lookye, doctor,' said James, ' I do not deserve the ' unkind suspicion you just now tlii'ew out against me. ' I never thirsted after any man's blood ; and, as for what ' hath passed since this discovery hath happened, I may, ' perhaps, not think it worth my while to trouble myself ' any more about it.' The doctor was not contented with perhaps, he insisted on a firm promise, to be bound with the colonel's honour. This at length he obtained, and then departed well satisfied. In fact, the colonel was ashamed to avow the real cause of the quarrel to this good man, or, indeed, to his brother Bath, who would not only have condemned him equally with the doctor, but would possibly have quar- relled with liim on his sister's account, whom, as the reader must have observed, he loved above all things; and in plain truth, though the colonel was a brave man, and dared to fight, yet he was altogether as willing to let it alone ; and this made him now and then give a little way to the wrongheadedness of colonel Bath, who, with all the other principles of honour and humanity, made no more of cutting the tln'oat of a man upon any of his punctilios than a butcher doth of killing sheep. AMELIA. 32 1) CHAPTER V. Wliat passed at the hailiff's house. The doctor now set forwards to his friend Booth, and, as he passed by the door of his attorney in the way, he called upon him, and took him mth hun. The meeting between him and Booth need not be expatiated on. The doctor was really angry, and though he deferred his lecture to a more proper opportunity, yet as he was no dissembler (indeed, he was incapable of any disguise) he could not put on a show of that heartiness with which he had formerly used to receive his friend. Booth at last began himself in the following manner : Doctor, I am really ashamed to see you ; and, if you knew the confusion of my soul on this occasion, I am sure you would pity rather than upbraid me — And yet I can say, with great sincerity, I rejoice in this last instance of my shame, since I am like to reap the most solid advantage from it.' The doctor stared at this, and Booth thus proceeded : ' Since I have been in this wretched place I have employed my time almost entirely in reading over a series of sermons, which are contained in that book,' (meaning Dr. Barrow's works, which then lay on the table before him) ' in proof of the Christian religion, and so good an effect have they had upon me, that I shall, I believe, be the better man for them as long as I live. I have not a doubt (for I own I have had such) which remains now unsatisfied. — If ever an angel might be thought to guide the pen of a writer, surely the pen of that great and good man had such an assistant.' The doctor readily concurred in the praises of Dr. Barrow, and added — ' You say you 330 AMELIA. have had your doubts, young gentleman ; indeed, T did not know that — And pray, what were your doubts?' Whatever they were. Sir,' said Booth, ' they are now satisfied, as I believe those of every impartial and sen- sible reader will be, if he will, with due attention, read over these excellent sermons.' ' Very well,' answered the doctor, ' though I have conversed, I find, with a false brother hitherto, 1 am glad you are recon- ciled to truth at last, and I hope your future faith will have some influence on your future life.' ' I need not tell you. Sir,' replied Booth, ' that will always be the case, where faith is sincere, as I assure you mine is. Indeed, I never was a rash disbeliever ; my chief doubt was founded on this, that, as men appeared to me to act entirely from their passions, their actions could have neither merit nor demerit.' ' A very worthy conclusion truly,' cries the doctor ; ' but if men act, as I believe they do, from their passions, it would be fair to conclude that religion to be true which applies immediately to the strongest of these passions, hope and fear ; choosing rather to rely on its rewards and punishments than on that native beauty of virtue, which some of the ancient philosophers thought proper to recommend to their dis- ciples. — But we will defer this discourse till another opportunity ; at present, as the devil hath thought proper to set you free, I will try if I can prevail on the bailiff to do the same.' The doctor had not really so much money in town as Booth's debt amounted to, and therefore, though he would otherwise very willingly have paid it, he was forced to give bail to the action. For which purpose, as the bailiff" was a man of great form, he was obliged to get another person to be bound with him. This person, however, the attorney undertook to procure, and immediately set out in quest of him. AMELIA. 331 During his absence, the bailiff came into the room, and, addressing himself to the doctor, said, ' I think, Sir, your ' name is doctor Harrison.' The doctor immediately ac- knowledged his name. Indeed, the bailiff had seen it to a bail-bond before. ' Why then, Sh,' said the bailiff, ' there is a man above, in a dying condition, that desires ' the favour of speaking to you ; I believe he wants you ' to pray by him.' The bailiff himself was not more ready to execute his office on all occasions for his fee, than the doctor was to execute his for nothing. Without making any farther in- quiry therefore into the condition of the man, he imme- diately went up stairs. As soon as the bailiff returned down stairs, which was immediately after he had lodged the doctor in the room, Booth had the curiosity to ask him, who this man was. Why, I don't know much of him,' said the bailiff', ' I had him once in custody before now, I remember it was when your honour was here last ; and now I remember, too, he said that he knew your honour very well. In- deed, I had some opinion of him at that time ; for he spent his money very much like a gentleman; but I have discovered since, that he is a poor fellow, and worth nothing. He is a mere shy-cock, I have had the stuff about me this week, and could never get at him till this morning ; nay, I don't believe we should ever have found out his lodgings, had it not been for the attorney that was here just now, who gave us information. And so we took him this morning by a comical way enough. F(n' we dressed up one of my men in women's clothes, who told the people of the house that he was his sister, just come to town; for we were told by the attorney that he had such a sister, upon which he was led up stairs ; and so kept the door-a-jar till I and another rushed hi. Let me tell you, captain, there are as good 332 AMELIA. stratagems made use of in om* business as any in the army.' ' But pray, Sir,' said Booth, ' did not you tell me this morning that the poor fellow Avas desperately wounded ; nay, I think you told the doctor that he was a dying man ? ' ' I had like to have forgot that,' cries the bailiff. — ' No- tliing would serve the gentleman but that he must make resistance, and he gave my man a blow with a stick ; but I soon quieted him by giving him a wipe or two with a hanger. Not that, I believe, I have done his business neither ; but the fellow is faint-hearted, and the surgeon, I fancy, frightens him more than he need. — But, however, let the worst come to the worst, the law is all on my side, and it is only se fendendo. The attorney, that was here just now, told me so, and bid me fear nothing ; for that he would stand my friend, and undertake the cause ; and he is a devilish good one at a defence at the Old-Bailey, I promise you. I have known him bring off several that every body thought would have been hanged.' ' But suppose you should be acquitted,' said Booth ; would not the blood of this poor wretch lie a little heavy at your heart ? ' ' Why should it, captain ? ' said the bailiff. ' Is it not all done in a lawful way ? Why will people resist the law when they know the consequence ? to be sure, if a man was to kill another, in an unlawful manner as it were, and what the law calls murder, that is quite and clear another thing. I should not care to be convicted of murder any more than another man. Why now, captain, you have been abroad in the wars, they tell me, and, to be sure, must have killed men in your time. Pray, was you ever afraid afterwards of seeing their ghosts ? ' AMELIA. 333 ' That Is a different affali',' cries Booth ; ' but I woiikl ' not kill a man in cold blood for all the world.' ' There is no difference at all, as I can see,' cries the bailiff. ' One is as much in the way of business as the ' other. When gentlemen behave themselves like unto ' gentlemen I know how to treat them as such, as well as ' any officer the king hath. — And when they do not, why ' they must take what follows, and the law doth not call ' it murder.' Booth very plainly saw that the bailiff had squared Ills conscience exactly according to law, and that he could not easily subvert his way of thinking. He therefore gave up the cause, and desired the bailiff to expedite the bonds, which he promised to do, saying, he hoped he had used him with proper civility this time, if he had not the last, and that he should be remembered for it. But, before we close this chapter, we shall endeavour to satisfy an inquiry, which may arise in our most favourite readers (for so are the most curious), how it came to pass, that such a person, as was doctor Harrison, should employ such a fellow as this Murphy ? The case then was thus : this Murphy had been clerk to an attorney, in the very same town in which the doctor lived, and, when he was out of his time, had set up with a character fair enough, and had married a maid-servant of Mrs. Harris, by which means he had all the business to which that lady and her friends, in wdilch number was the doctor, could recommend him. Murphy went on with his business, and thrived very well, till he happened to make an unfortunate slip, in which he was detected by a brother of the same calling. But though we call this by the gentle name of a slip, in respect to its being so extremely common, it was a matter in which the law, if it had ever come to its ears, would 334 AMELIA. have passed a very severe censure, being, indeed, no less than perjury and subornation of perjury. Tliis brother attorney, being a very good-natured man, and unwilling to bespatter his own profession, and considering, perhaps, that the consequence did in no wise affect the public, who had no manner of interest in the alternative, whether A in whom the right was, or B to whom Mr. Murphy, by the means aforesaid, had transferred it, succeeded in an action ; we mention this particular, because, as this brother attorney was a very violent party man, and a professed stickler for the public, to suffer any injury to have been done to that would have been highly inconsistent with his principles. This gentleman, therefore, came to ]\Ir. Murphy, and, after shewing him that he had it in his power to convict him of the aforesaid crime, very generously told him, that he had not the least delight in bringing any man to destruction, nor the least animosity against him. All that he insisted upon was, that he would not live in the same town or county with one who had been guilty of such an action. He then told Mr. ]\Iurphy that he would keep the secret on two conditions ; the one was, that he immediately quitted that county; the other was, that he should convince him he deserved this kindness by his gratitude, and that Murphy should transfer to the other all the business which he then had in those parts, and to which he could possibly recommend him. It is the observation of a very wise man that it is a very common exercise of wisdom in this world, of two evils to choose the least. The reader, therefore, cannot doubt but that Mr. Murphy complied with the alternative proposed by this kind brother, and accepted the terms on which secrecy was to be obtained. This happened while the doctor was abroad, and with all this, except the departure of Murphy, not only tlie AMELIA. 335 doctor, but tlie whole town (save his aforesaid brother alone) were to this day unacquainted. The doctor, at his return, hearing that Mr. Murphy was gone, apphed to the other attorney in his affairs, who still employed this Murphy as his agent in town, partly, perhaps, out of good will to him, and partly from the recommendation of Miss Harris ; for as he had mar- ried a servant of the family, and a particular favourite of her's, there can be no wonder that she, who was entirely ignorant of the afiPair above related, as well as of his conduct in town, should continue her favour to him. It will appear, therefore, I apprehend, no longer strange, that the doctor, who had seen this man but three times since his removal to town, and then conversed with him only on business, should remain as ignorant of his life and character, as a man generally is of the character of the hackney-coachman who drives him. Nor doth it reflect more on the honour or understanding of the doctor, under these circumstances, to employ Murphy, than it would if he had been driven about the town by a thief or a murderer. CHAPTER VI. What passed hetiveen the doctor and the sick man. We left the doctor in the last chapter with the wounded man, to whom the doctor, in a very gentle voice, spoke as follows : '• I am sorry, friend, to see you in this situation, and ' am very ready to give you any comfort or assistance ' within my power.' ' I thank you kindly, doctor,' said the man. ' Indeed 33G AMELIA. ' I should not have presumed to have sent to you, had I '• not known your character ; for though I believe I am ' not at all known to you, I have lived many years in ' that town where you yourself had a house *, my name is ' Robinson. I used to write for the attorneys in those ' parts, and I have been employed on your business in my ' time.' ' I do not recollect you, nor your name,' said the doctor ; ' but consider, friend, your moments are precious, ' and your business, as I am informed, is to offer up ' your prayers to that great Being, before whom you ' are shortly to appear. — But, first, let me exhort you ' earnestly to a most serious repentance of all your sins.' ' O doctor ! ' said the man — ' Pray, what is your ' opinion of a death-bed repentance ? ' ' If repentance is sincere,' cries the doctor, ' I hope, ' through the mercies and merits of our most powerful ' and benign Intercessor, it will never come too late.' ' But do not you think, Sir,' cries the man, ' that in ' order to obtain forgiveness of any great sin we have ' committed, by an injury done to our neighbours, it is ' necessary, as far as in us lies, to make all the amends '• we can to the party injured, and to undo, if possible, ' the injury we have done.' ' Most undoubtedly,' cries the doctor ; ' our pretence ' to repentance would otherwise be gross hypocrisy, and ' an impudent attempt to deceive and impose upon our ' Creator himself.' ' Indeed, I am of the same opinion,' cries the penitent; ' and I think farther, that this is thrown in ray way, and ' hinted to me by that great Being ; for an accident ' happened to me yesterday, by which, as things have ' fallen out since, I think I plainly discern the hand of ' Providence. I went yesterday. Sir, j^ou must know ' to a pawnbroker's, to pawn tlie last moveable, which. AMELIA. 337 except the poor clothes you see on my back, I am worth in the world. While I was there, a young lady came in to pawn her picture. She had disguised herself so much, and pulled her hood so over her face, that I did not know her while she staid, which was scarce three minutes. As soon as she was gone, the pawnbroker, taking the picture in his hand, cried out — Upon my word^ this is the handsomest face I ever saw in my life. I desired him to let me look on the picture, which he readily did — and I no sooner cast my eyes upon it, than the strong resemblance struck me, and I knew it to be Mrs. Booth.' ' Mrs. Booth ! what Mrs. Booth ? ' cries the doctor. ' Captain Booth's lady ; the captain who is now below,' said the other. ' How ! ' cries the doctor, with great impetuosity. ' Have patience,' said the man, ' and you shall hear ' all. I expressed some surprise to the pawnbroker, and ' asked the lady's name. He answered, that lie knew not ' her name ; but that she was some undone wretch, who ' had the day before left all her clothes with him in pawn. ' My guilt immediately flew in my face, and told me I ' had been accessory to this lady's undoing. The sudden ' shock so affected me, that, had it not been for a dram ' which the pawnbroker gave me, I believe I should have ' sunk on the spot.' ' Accessory to her undoing ! how accessory ?' said the doctor. ' Pray tell me, for I am impatient to hear.' ' I will tell you all, as fast as I can,' cries the sick man. ' You know, good doctor, that Mrs. Harris of our ' town had two daughters, this Mrs. Booth and another. ' Now, Sir, it seems the other daughter had, some way ' or other, disobliged her mother, a little before the old ' lady died ; therefore she made a will, and left all her ' fortune, except one thousand pounds, to Mrs. Booth ; to VOL. IX. z 338 AMELIA. '■ which will Mr. Murphy, myself, and another, who is ' now dead, were the witnesses. Mrs. Harris afterwards ' died suddenly ; upon which it was contrived by her ' other daughter and Mr. Murphy to make a new will, ' in which Mrs. Booth had a legacy of ten pounds, and '■ all the rest was given to the other. To this will, ' Murphy, myself, and the same third person, again set our hands.' ' Good Heaven ! how wonderful is thy providence,' cries the doctor — ' IMurpliy, say you ? ' ' He himself. Sir,' answered Eobinson ; ' ]\Iui'phy, who ' is the greatest rogue, I believe, now in the world.' ' Pray, Sir, proceed,' cries the doctor. ' For this service. Sir,' said Eobinson, ' myself and the ' third person, one Carter, received two hundred pounds ' each. What reward Murphy himself had, I know not. ' Carter died soon afterwards ; and from that time, at *" several payments, I have by threats extorted above a ' hundred pounds more. — And this, Sir, is the whole ' truth, which I am ready to testify, if it would please ' Heaven to prolong my life.' — ' I hope it will,' cries the doctor ; ' but something must ' be done for fear of accidents — I will send to counsel ' immediately to know how to secure your testimony. — ' Whom can I get to send? — Stay, ay — he will do — but ' I know not where his house or his chambers are — I will ' go myself — but I may be wanted here.' While the doctor was in this violent agitation the surgeon made his appearance. The doctor stood still in a meditating posture, while the surgeon examined his patient. After which, the doctor begged him to declare his opinion, and whether he thought the wounded man in any immediate danger of death. ' I do not know,' answered the surgeon, ' what you call immediate. He ' may live several days — nay, he may recover. It is A3IELIA. 339 ' impossible to give any certain opinion in these cases.' He then launched forth into a set of terms, which the doctor, with all his scholarship, could not understand. To say the truth, many of them were not to be found in any dictionary or lexicon. One discovery, however, the doctor made, and that was, that the surgeon was a very ignorant, conceited fellow, and knew nothing of his profession. He re- solved, therefore, to get better advice for the sick ; but this he postponed at present, and applying himself to the surgeon, said. He should be very much obliged to him, if he knew where to find such a counsellor, and would fetch him thither. ' I should not ask such a ' favour of you, Sir,' says the doctor, ' if it was not on ' business of the last importance, or if I could find any ' other messenger.' ' I fetch — Sir ! ' said the surgeon very angrily. ' Do ' you take me for a footman, or a porter ? I don't know ' who you are ; but I believe you are full as proper to go ^ on such an errand as I am ' (for as the doctor, who was just come off his journey, was very roughly dressed, the surgeon held him in no great respect). The surgeon then called aloud from the top of the stairs, ' Let my ' coachman draw up,' and strutted off without any ceremony, telling his patient he would call again the next day. At this very instant arrived Murphy with the other bail, and finding Booth alone, he asked the bailiff at the door, what was become of the doctor ? ' Why the doc- ' tor,' answered he, 'is above stairs, praying with .' ' How ! ' cries Murphy. ' How came you not to carry ' him directly to Newgate, as you promised me?' 'Why, ' because he was wounded,' cries the bailiff. ' I thought ' it was charity to take care of him ; and, besides, why ' should one make more noise about the matter than is z 2 340 AMELIA. ' necessary ? ' ' And doctor Harrison with him ? ' said Murphy. ' Yes, he is/ said the bailiff ; ' he desired to ' speak with the doctor very much, and they have been ' praying together ahuost this hour.' — ' All is up, and ' undone,' cries Murphy. ' Let me come by, I have ' thought of something which I must do immediately.' Now as by means of the surgeon's leaving the door open, the doctor heard Murphy's voice, naming Eobinson peevishly, he drew softly to the top of the stairs, where he heard the foregoing dialogue ; and, as soon as Murphy had uttered his last words, and was moving downwards, the doctor immediately sallied from his post, running as fast as he could, and crying, ' Stop the villain, stop ' the thief.' The attorney wanted no better hint to accelerate his pace; and having the start of the doctor, got down stairs, and out into the street; but the doctor was so close at his heels, and being in foot the nimbler of the two, he soon overtook him, and laid hold of him, as he would have done on either Broughton or Slack in the same cause. Tliis action in the street, accompanied with the fre- quent cry of stop thief by the doctor, during the chase, presently drew together a large mob, who began, as is usual, to enter immediately upon business, and to make strict inquiry into the matter, in order to proceed to do justice in their summary way. Murphy, who knew well the temper of the mob, cried out, ' If you are a bailiff, shew me your writ. Gentle- ' men, he pretends to arrest me here without a writ/ Upon this, one of the sturdiest and forwardest of the mob, and who by a superior strength of body, and of lungs, presided in this assembly, declared he would suffer no such thing. ' D — n me,' says he, ' away to ' the pump with the catchpole directly — shew me your AMELIA. 341 ' writ, or let tlie gentleman go — you shall not arrest ' a man contrary to law.' He then laid his hands on the doctor, who still fast griping the attorney, cried out: ' He is a villain — I am ' no bailiff, but a clergyman, and this lawyer is guilty * of forgery, and hath ruined a poor family.' ' How ! ' cries the spokesman — ' a lawyer ! — that alters * the case.' — ' Yes, faith,' cries another of the mob, * it is lawyer * Murphy. I know him very well.' ' And hath he ruined a poor family? like enough, ' faith, if he's a lawyer. — Away with him to the justice ' immediately.' The bailiff now came up, desuing to know what was the matter? to whom doctor Harrison answered that he had arrested that villain for forgery. ' How can you arrest him,' cries the bailiff, ' you are no officer, nor have any warrant? Mr. Murphy is a gentleman, and he shall be used as such.' ' Nay, to be sure,' cries the spokesman, ' there ought to be a warrant ; that's the truth on't.' ' There needs no warrant,' cries the doctor. ' I accuse him of felony; and I know so much of the law of England, that any man may arrest a felon, without any warrant whatever, This villain hath undone a poor family ; and I will die on the spot before I part with him.' ' If the law be so,' cries the orator, ' that is another matter. And to be sure, to ruin a poor man is the greatest of sins. And being a lawyer, too, makes it so much the worse — He shall go before the justice, d — n me if he shan't go before the justice. I says the word, he shall.' ' I say he is a gentleman, and shall be used according ' to law,' cries the bailiff; ' and though you are a clergy- 342 AMELIA. ' man,' said he to Harrison, ' you don't shew yourself ' as one by your actions.' ' That's a bailiff,' cries one of the mob — ' one lawyer ' will always stand by another ; but I think the clergy- ' man is a very good man, and acts becoming a clergy- ' man, to stand by the poor.' At which words the mob all gave a great shout, and several cried out: ' Bring him along, away with him ^ to the justice.' And now a constable appeared, and with an authori- tative voice, declared what he was, produced his staff, and demanded the peace. The doctor then delivered his prisoner over to the officer, and charged him with felony; the constable received him ; the attorney submitted ; the bailiff was hushed ; and the waves of the mob immediately subsided. The doctor now balanced with himself how he should proceed ; at last he determined to leave Booth a little longer in captivity, and not quit sight of Murphy, before he had lodged him safe with a magistrate. They then all moved forwards to the justice ; the constable and his prisoner marching first, the doctor and the bailiff fol- lowing next, and aliout five thousand mob (for no less number were assembled in a very few minutes) following in the procession. They found the magistrate just sitting down to his dinner; however, when he was acquainted with the doctor's profession, he immediately admitted him, and heard his business. Which he no sooner perfectly un- derstood, with all its circumstances, than he resolved, though it was then very late, and he had been fatigued all the morning with public business, to postpone all refreshment till he had discharged his duty. He ac- cordingly adjourned the prisoner and his cause to the bailiff's house, whither he himself, with the doctor, AMELIA. 343 immediately repaired, and whither the attorney was followed by a much larger number of attendants than he had been honoured with before. CHAPTER VII. In which the history draws towards a conclusion. Nothing could exceed the astonishment of Booth at the behaviour of the doctor, at the time wdien he sallied forth in the pursuit of the attorney; for which it was so impossible for him to account in any manner what- ever. He remained a long time in the utmost torture of mind, till at last the bailiff's wife came to him, and asked him, if the doctor was not a madman ? and, in truth, he could hardly defend him from that imputation. While he was in this perplexity, the maid of the house brought him a message fi'om Robinson, desiring the favour of seehig him above stairs. With this he immediately complied. AVhen these two w^ere alone together, and the key turned on them (for the bailiff's wife was a most careful person, and never omitted that ceremony in the absence of her husband, having always at her tongue's end that excellent proverb of Safe bind, safe find), Robinson, looking steadfastly upon Booth, said, ' I believe, Sir, ' you scarce remember me.' Booth answered, that he thought he had seen his face somewhere before; but could not then recollect when or where. ' Indeed, Sir,' answered the man, ' it was a place which ' no man can remember with pleasure. But do you not 344 AMELIA. ' remember a few weeks ago, that you had the mlsfor- ' tune to be m a certam prison in this town, where you * lost a trifling sum at cards to a fellow-prisoner ? ' This hint sufficiently awakened Booth's memory, and he now recollected the features of his old friend Robin- son. He answered him a little surlily, ' I know you ' now very well ; but I did not imagine you would ever ' have reminded me of that transaction/ ^ Alas, Sir ! ' answered Robinson, ' whatever happened '• then was very ti'ifling, compared to the injuries I have ■^ ^ done you ; but, if my life be spared long enough, I ^ will now undo it all ; and, as I have been one of your ' worst enemies, I will now be one of your best friends.' He was just entering upon his story, when a noise was heard below, which might be almost compared to what have been heard in Holland, when the dykes have given way, and the ocean in an inundation breaks in upon the land. It seemed, indeed, as if the whole world was bursting into the house at once. Booth was a man of great firmness of mind, and he had need of it all at this instant. As for poor Robinson, the usual concomitants of guilt attended him, and he began to tremble in a violent manner. The first person, who ascended the stairs, was the doctor, who no sooner saw Booth, than he ran to him, and embraced him, crying, ' My child, I wish you joy * with all my heart. Your sufferings are all at an end ; ' and Providence hath done you the justice at last, which ' it will, one day or other, render to all men. — You ' will hear all presently ; but I can now only tell you, ' that your sister is discovered, and the estate is your ' own.' Booth was in such confusion, that he scarce made any answer ; and now appeared the justice and his clerk, and immediately afterwards the constable with his prisoner, A3IELIA. 345 the bailiff, and as many more as could possibly crowd up stairs. The doctor now addressed hunself to the sick man, and desired him to repeat the same information before the justice, which he had made already ; to which Robinson readily consented. While the clerk was taking down the information, the attorney expressed a very impatient desire to send in- stantly for his clerk ; and expressed so much uneasiness at the confusion in which he had left his papers at home, that a thought suggested itself to the doctor, that if his house was searched, some lights and evidence, relatmg to this affair, would certainly be found ; he therefore desired the justice to gi-ant a search-warrant immediately, to search his house. The justice answered, that he had no such power. That if there was any suspicion of stolen goods, he could grant a warrant to search for them. ^ How, Sir,' said the doctor, ' can you grant a waiTant ' to search a man's house for a silver teaspoon, and not ^ in a case like this, where a man is robbed of his whole ' estate ? ' ' Hold, Sir,' says the sick man, ' I believe I can answer ' that point ; for I can swear he hath several title-deeds ' of the estate now in his possession, which I am sure ' were stolen from the right owner.' The justice still hesitated. He said, title-deeds savoured of the reality, and it was not felony to steal them. If, indeed, they were taken away in a box, then it would be felony to steal the box. '• Savour of the reality ! savour of the fartality,' said the doctor. ' I never heard such incomprehensible non- ' sense. This is impudent as well as childish, trifling ' with the lives and properties of men.' ' Well, Sir,' said Robinson, ' I now am sure I can do 34G AMELIA. * his business ; for I know lie hath a silver cup in his * possession, which is the property of this gentleman ' (meaning Booth) and how he got it but by stealth, let ^ him account if he can.' ' That will do,' cries the justice, with great pleasure. ' That will do ; and if you will charge him on oath with ' that, I will instantly grant my warrant to search his ' house for it.' ' And I will go and see it executed,' cries the doctor ; for it was a maxim of his, that no man could descend below himself, in doing any act which may con- tribute to protect an innocent person, or to bring a rogue to the gallows. The oath was instantly taken, the warrant signed, and the doctor attended the constable in the execution of it. The clerk then proceeded in taking the information of Eobinson, and had just finished it, when the doctor re- turned with the utmost joy in his countenance, and de- clared that he had sufl&cient evidence of the fact in his possession. He had indeed two or three letters from Miss Harris, in answer to the attorney's frequent de- mands of money for secrecy, that fully explained the whole villainy. The justice now asked the prisoner what he had to say for himself, or whether he chose to say any thing in his own defence. ' Sir,' said the attorney, with great confidence, ' I am not to defend myself here. It will be of no service to me ; for I know you neither can, nor will discharge me. But I am exti'emely innocent of all this matter, as I doubt not but to make appear to the satisfaction of a court of justice.' The legal previous ceremonies were then gone through, of binding over the prosecutor, &c., and then the attorney was committed to Newgate ; whither he was escorted amidst the acclamations of the populace. AMELIA. 347 When Murphy was departed, and a little calm restored in the house, the justice made his compliments of con- gratulation to Booth ; who, as well as he could in his present tumult of joy, returned his thanks to both the magistrate and the doctor. They were now all preparing to depart, when Mr. Bondum stepped up to Booth, and said : ' Hold, Sir, you have forgot one thing — ^you have ' not given hail yet.' This occasioned some distress at this time; for the attorney's friend was departed ; but when the justice heard this, he immediately offered himself as the other bondsman ; and thus ended the affair. It was now past six o'clock, and none of the gentlemen had yet dined. They very readily, therefore, accepted the magistrate's invitation, and went altogether to his house. And now the very first thing that was done, even be- fore they sat down to diimer, was to dispatch a messenger to one of the best surgeons in town, to take care of Robinson ; and another messenger to Booth's lodgings to prevent Amelia's concern at their staying so long. The latter however, was to little purpose ; for Amelia's patience had been worn out before, and she had taken a hackney-coach, and driven to the bailiff's, where she arrived a little after the departure of her husband, and was thence directed to the justice's. Though there was no kind of reason for Amelia's fright at hearing that her husband and doctor Harrison was gone before the justice ; and though she indeed imagined that they were there in the light of com- plainants, not of offenders ; yet so tender were her fears for her husband, and so much had her gentle spirits been lately agitated, that she had a thousand appre- hensions of she knew not what. When she arrived therefore at the house, she ran directly into the room. 348 AMELIA. where all tlie company were at dinner, scarce knowing what she did, or whither she was going. She found her husband in such a situation, and dis- covered such cheerfulness in his countenance, that so violent a turn was given to her spirits, that she was just able, with the assistance of a glass of water, to support herself. She soon, however, recovered her calmness, and in a little time began to eat what might indeed be almost called her breakfast. The justice now wished her joy of what had happened that day ; for which she kindly thanked him, apprehend- ing he meant the liberty of her husband. His worship might perhaps have explained himself more largely, had not the doctor given him a timely wink, for this wise and good man was fearful of making such a discovery all at once to Amelia, lest it should overpower her ; and luckily the justice's wife was not well enough acquainted with the matter to say anything more on it than barely to assure the lady that she joined in her husband's congratulation. Amelia was then in a clean white gown, which she had that day redeemed, and was, indeed, dressed all over with great neatness and exactness ; with the glow there- fore which arose in her features from finding her hus- band released from his captivity, she made so charming a figure, that she attracted the eyes of the magistrate and of his wife, and they both agreed, when they were alone, that they had never seen so charming a creature; nay. Booth himself afterwards told her that he scarce ever remembered her to look so extremely beautiful as she did that evening. AVhether Amelia's beauty, or the reflection on the remarkable acts of justice he had performed, or what- ever motive filled the magistrate with extraordinary good-humour, and opened his heart and cellars, I will not determine ; but he gave them so hearty a welcome, AMELIA. 349 and tliey were all so pleased with each other, that Amelia, for that one night, trusted the care of her children to the woman where they lodged, nor did the company rise from table till the clock struck eleven. They then separated. Amelia and Booth having been set down at their lodgings, retired into each other's arms ; nor did Booth that evening, by the doctor's advice, men- tion one word of the grand affair to his wife. CHAPTER VIII. Thus this history draws nearer to a conclusion. In the morning early Amelia received the following letter from Mrs. Atkinson : ' The surgeon of the regiment, to which the captain my husband lately belonged, and wdio came this evening to see the captain, hath almost frightened me out of my wits by a strange story of your husband being com- mitted to prison by a justice of peace for forgery. For Heaven's sake send me the truth. If my husband can be of any service, weak as he is, he will be carried in a chair to serve a brother officer for whom he hath a regard, which I need not mention. Or if the sum of twenty pounds will be of any service to you, I will wait upon you with it the moment I can get my clothes on, the morning you receive this ; for it is too late to send to-night. The captain begs his hearty service and re- spects, and believe me, * Dear Madam, ' Your ever affectionate friend, ' And humble servant, ' F. Atkinson.' 350 AMELIA. When Amelia read this letter to Booth, they were both equally surprised, she at the commitment for forgery, and he at seeing such a letter from Mrs. Atkinson; for he was a stranger yet to the reconciliation that had hap- pened. Booth's doubts were first satisfied by Amelia, from which he received great pleasure ; for he really had a very great affection and fondness for Mr. Atkinson, who, indeed, so well deserved it. ' Well, my dear,' said he to Amelia, smiling, ' shall we accept this generous offer ? ' ' O fy, no certainly,' answered she. ' Why not,' cries Booth, ' it is but a trifle ; and yet it will be of great service to us ?' * But consider, my dear,' said she, ' how ill these poor people can spare it.' ' They can spare it for a little while,' said Booth, ' and we shall soon pay it them again.' ' When, my dear ? ' said Amelia. ' Do, my dear Will, consider our wretched circumstances. I beg you let us go into the country immediately, and live upon bread and water, till fortune pleases to smile upon us.' ' I am convinced that day is not far off,' said Booth. However, give me leave to send an answer to Mrs. Atkinson, that we shall be glad of her company imme- diately to breakfast.' ' You know I never contradict you,' said she, ' but I assure you it is contrary to my inclinations to take this money.' * Well, suffer me,' cries he, ' to act this once conti-ary to your inclinations.' He then writ a short note to Mrs. Atkinson, and dispatched it away immediately ; which, when he had done, Amelia said, ' I shall be glad of Mrs. Atkinson's company to breakfast ; but yet I wish you would oblige me in refusing this money. Take five guineas only. That is indeed such a sum, as. AMELIA. 351 ' if we never should pay it, would sit light on our mind. ' The last persons in the world from whom I would ' receive favours of that sort are the poor and generous.' ' You can receive favours oidy from the generous,' cries Booth : ' and, to be plain with you, there are very ' few who are generous that are not poor.' "" ' What think you,' said she, 'of Dr. Harrison?' ' I do assure you,' said Booth, ' he is far from being ' rich. The doctor hath an income of little more than ' six hundred pounds a year ; and I am convinced he ' gives away four of it. Indeed, he is one of the best ' economists in the world ; but yet I am positive he never ' was at any time possessed of five hundred pounds since ' he hath been a man. Consider, dear Emily, the late ' obligations we have to this gentleman ; it would be ' unreasonable to expect more, at least at present ; my ' half-pay is mortgaged for a year to come. — How then ' shall we live?' ' By our labour,' answered she ; ' I am able to labour, ' and I am sure I am not ashamed of it.' ' And do you really think you can support such a life ? ' ' I am sure I could be happy in it,' answered Amelia. ' And why not I as well as a thousand others, who have ' not the happiness of such a husband to make life ' delicious ? why should I complain of my hard fate, ' while so many who are much poorer than I, enjoy ' theirs. Am I of a superior rank of being to the wife ' of the honest labourer? am I not partaker of one ' common nature with her ? ' ' My angel,' cries Booth, ' it delights me to hear you ' talk thus, and for a reason you little guess ; for I am ' asvsured that one, who can so heroically endure ad- ' versity, will bear prosperity with equal greatness of ' soul ; for the mind, that cannot be dejected by the ' former, is not likely to be transported with the latter.' 352 AMELIA. ' If it had pleased Heaven/ cried she, ' to have tried ' me, I think, at least I hope, I should have preserved my * humility.' ' Then, my dear,' said he, ' I will relate you a dream ' I had last night. You know you lately mentioned a ' dream of yours.' ' Do so,' said she, ' I am attentive.' ' I dreamt,' said he, ' this night that we were in the most miserable situation imaginable. Indeed, in the situation we were yesterday morning, or rather worse ; that I was laid in a prison for debt, and that you wanted a morsel of bread to feed the mouths of your hungry children. At length (for nothing you know is quicker than the transition in dreams) Dr. Harrison methought came to me, with cheerfulness and joy in his counte- nance. The prison doors immediately flew open ; and Dr. Harrison introduced you, gayly though not richly dressed. That you gently chid me for staying so long; all on a sudden appeared a coach with four horses to it, in which was a maid-servant with our two children. We both immediately went into the coach, and taking our leave of the doctor, set out towards your country- house ; for yours, I dreamt it was. — I only ask you now, if this was real, and the transition almost as sudden, could you support it ? ' Amelia was gomg to answer, when Mrs. Atkinson came into the room, and after very little previous ceremony presented Booth with a bank note, which he received of her, saying, he would very soon repay it ; a promise that a little offended Amelia, as she thought he had no chance of keeping it. The doctor presently arrived, and the company sat down to breakfast, during which Mrs. Atkinson enter- tained them with the history of the doctors that had attended her husband, by whose advice Atkinson was AMELIA. 353 recovered fi'om every thing bnt the weakness which his distemper had occasioned. When the tea-table was removed, Booth told the doctor, that he had acquainted his wife with a dream he had last nig'ht. ' I dreamt, doctor,' said he, ' that she was restored ' to her estate.' ' Very well,' said the doctor ; ' and, if I am to be the ' Oniropolis, I believe the dream will come to pass. To ' say the truth, I have rather a better opinion of dreams ' than Horace had. Old Homer says they come from ' Jupiter ; and as to your dream, I have often had it, in ' my waking thoughts, that some time or other that ' roguery (for so I was always convinced it was) would ' be brought to light ; for the same Homer says, as you, ' Madam, (meaning Mrs. Atkinson) very well know, E'/ttejO yap Tf kol uvtik^ ^OXv/xiriog sk tT(Xe(T11 health and happmess, when he is going a joimiey home of ten miles from a common acquaintance, as if he was leaving his nearest friend or relation on a voyage to the East-Indies. Having thus briefly considered our reader in the cu'- cumstance of a private visit, let us now take him into a public assembly, where, as more eyes will be on his behaviour, it cannot be less his interest to be instructed. AVe have, indeed, already formed a general picture of the chief enormities committed on these occasions ; we shall here endeavour to explain more particularly the rules of an opposite demeanour, which we may divide into three sorts, viz. our behaviour to om- superiors, to our equals, and to our inferiors. In our behaviour to our superiors, two extremes are to be avoided; namely, an abject and base servility, and an impudent and encroaching freedom. When the well- bred Hyperdulus approaches a nobleman m any public place, you would be persuaded he was one of the meanest of his domestics ; his cringes fall little short of prostra- tion ; and his whole behaviour is so mean and servile, that an Eastern monarch would not require more humili- ation from his vassals. On the other side, Anaschyntus, whom fortunate accidents, without any pretensions from his birth, have raised to associate with his betters, shakes my lord duke by the hand, with a familiarity savouring not only of the most perfect intimacy, but the closest alliance. The former behaviour properly raises our contempt, the latter our disgust. Hyperdulus seems worthy of wearing his lordship's livery ; Anaschyntus deserves to be turned out of his service for his impudence. Between these two is that golden mean, which declares a man ready to ac- quiesce in allowing the respect due to a title by the laws and customs of his f ountry, but impatient of any insult, and disdaining to purchase the intimacy with, and favour 378 AN ESS AT of a superior, at the expense of conscience or honour. As to the question, Who are our superiors ? I shall endea- vour to ascertain them, when I come, in the second place, to mention our behaviour to our equals. The first in- struction on this head being carefully to consider who are such; every little superiority of fortune or profession being too apt to intoxicate men's minds, and elevate them in their own opinion, beyond their merit or pretensions. Men are superior to each other in this our country by title, by birth, by rank in profession, and by age ; very little, if any, being to be allowed to fortune, though so much is generally exacted by it, and commonly paid to it. Mankind never appear to me in a more despicable light than when I see them, by a simple as w^ell as mean ser- vility, voluntarily concurring in the adoration of riches, without the least benefit or prospect from them. Respect and deference are perhaps justly demandable of the obliged, and may be, with some reason at least, from expectation, paid to the rich and liberal from the necessi- tous ; but that men should be allured by the glittering of wealth only to feed the insolent pride of those who wdll not in return feed their hunger ; that the sordid niggard should find any sacrifices on the altar of his vanity seems to arise from a blinder idolatry, and a more bigoted and senseless superstition, than any which the sharp eyes of priests have discovered in the human mind. All gentlemen, therefore, who are not raised above each other by title, birth, rank in profession, age, or actual obligation, being to be considered as equals, let us take some lessons for their behaviour to each other in public, from the following examples ; in which we shall discern as well what we are to select, as what we are to avoid. Authades is so absolutely abandoned to his own humour, that he never gives it up on any occasion. If Seraphina herself, whose charms one would imagine ON CONVERSATION. 379 should infuse alacrity into the limbs of a cripple sooner than the Bath waters, was to offer herself for his partner, he would answer, he never danced, even though the ladies lost their ball by it. Nor doth this denial arise from incapacity ; for he was in his youth an excellent dancer, and still retains sufftcient knowledge of the art, and sufficient abilities in his limbs to practise it ; but from an affectation of gravity, which he will not sacri- fice to tlie eagerest desire of others. Dyskolus hath the same aversion to cards; and though competently skilled in all games, is by no importunities to be prevailed on to make a third at ombre, or a fourth at whist and quadrille. He will suffer any company to be disappointed of their amusement, rather than submit to pass an hour or two a little disagreeably to himself. The refusal of Philautus is not so general ; he is very ready to engage, provided you will indulge him in his favourite game, but it is impossible to persuade him to any other. I should add, both these are men of fortune, and the consequences of loss or gain, at the rate they are desired to engage, very trifling and inconsiderable to them. The rebukes these people sometimes meet with, are no more equal to their deserts than the honour paid to Cha- ristus, the benevolence of whose mind scarce permits him to indulge his own will, unless by accident. Though neither his age nor understanding incline him to dance, nor will admit his receiving any pleasure from it, yet would he caper a whole evening, rather than a fine young lady should lose an opportunity of displaying her charms by the several genteel and amiable attitudes which this exercise affords the skilful of that sex. And though cards are not adapted to his temper, he never once baulked the inclinations of others on that account. But as there are many who will not in the least in- stance mortify their humour to purchase the satisfaction 380 AN ESSAY of all mankind, so there are some wlio make no scruple of satisfying their own pride and vanity, at the expence of the most cruel mortification of others. Of this kind is Agroicus, who seldom goes to an assembly, but he affronts half his acquaintance, by overlooking or disre- garding them. As this is a very common offence, and indeed much more criminal, both in its cause and effect, than is generally imagined, I shall examine it very minutely ; and I doubt not but to make it appear, that there is no behaviour (to speak like a philosopher) more contemptible, nor, in a civil sense, more detestable, than his. The first ingredient in this composition is pride, which, according to the doctrine of some, is the universal pas- sion. There are others who consider it as the foible of great minds ; and others again, who will have it to be the very foundation of greatness; and, perhaps, it may of that greatness which we have endeavoured to expose in many parts of these works; but to real greatness, which is the union of a good heart with a good head, it is almost diametrically opposite, as it generally pro- ceeds from the depravity of both, and almost certainly from the badness of the latter. Indeed, a little obser- vation will shew us, that fools are the most addicted to this vice; and a little reflection will teach us, that it is incompatible with true understanding. Accordingly we see, that while the wisest of men have constantly lamented the im.becility and imperfection of their own natm-e, the meanest and weakest have been trumpeting forth their own excellences, and triumphing in their own sufficiency. Pride may, I think, be properly defined, the pleasure we feel in contemplating our own superior merit, on comparing it with that of others. That it arises from this supposed superiority is evident; for however great ON CONVERSATION. 381 you admit a man's merit to be, if all men were eqiml to him, there would be no room for pride. Now if it stop here, perhaps, there is no enormous harm in it, or at least, no more than is common to all other folly ; every species of which is always liable to produce every species of mischief ; folly I fear it is ; for should the man estimate rightly on this occasion, and the balance should fairly turn on his side in this particular instance ; should he be indeed a great orator, poet, general ; should he be more wise, witty, learned, young, rich, healthy, or in whatever instance he may excel one, or many, or all ; yet, if he examine himself thoroughly, will he hnd no reason to abate his pride ? is the quality, in which he is so eminent, so generally or justly esteemed? is it so entirely his own ; doth he not rather owe his superiority to the defects of others, than to his own perfection ? or, lastly, can he find in no part of his character a weakness which may counterpoise this merit, and whicli as justly, at least, threatens him with shame, as this entices him to pride? I fancy if such a scrutiny was made (and nothing so ready as good sense to make it), a proud man would be as rare, as in reality he is a ridiculous monster. But suppose a man, on this com- parison, is (as may sometimes happen) a little partial to hhnself, the harm is to himself, and he becomes only ridiculous from it. If I prefer my excellence in poetry to Pope or Young ; if an inferior actor should, in his opinion, exceed Quin or Garrick ; or a sign-post painter set himself above the inimitable Hogarth ; we become only ridiculous by our vanity : and the persons themselves, who are thus humbled in the comparison, would laugh with more reason than any other. Pride therefore, hitherto, seems an inoffensive weakness only, and entitles a man to no worse an appellation than that of a fool ; but it will not stop here ; though fool be 3S2 AN ESSAY perhaps no desirable term, the proud man will deserve worse •, he is not contented with the admiration he pays himself; he now becomes arrogant, and requires the same respect and preference from the world ; for pride, though the greatest of flatterers, is by no means a profitable servant to itself; it resembles the parson of the parish more than the squire, and lives rather on the tithes, oblations, and contributions it collects from others, than on its own demesne. As pride therefore is seldom without arrogance, so is this never to be found without insolence. The arrogant man must be insolent, in order to attain his own ends ; and to convince and remind men of the superiority he affects, will naturally, by ill words, actions, and gestures, endeavour to throw the despised person at as much distance as possible from him. Hence proceeds that supercilious look, and all those visible indignities with which men behave in public, to those whom they fancy their inferiors. Hence the very notable custom of deriding and often denying the nearest relations, friends, and acquaintance, in poverty and distress; lest we should anywise be levelled with the wretches we despise, either in their own imagination, or in the conceit of any who should behold familiarities pass between us. But besides pride, folly, arrogance, and insolence, there is another simple (which vice never willingly leaves out of any composition), and this is ill-nature. A good- natured man may indeed (provided he is a fool) be proud, but arrogant and insolent he cannot be ; unless we will allow to such a still greater degree of folly, and ignorance of human nature; which may indeed entitle them to forgiveness, in the benign language of scripture, because they know not what they do. For when we come to consider the effect of this behaviour on tlie person who suffers it, we may perhaps ON CONVERSATION. 383 have reason to conclude, that murder Is not a much more cruel injury. What is the consequence of this contempt? or, indeed, what is the design of it, but to expose the object of it to shame ? a sensation as uneasy, and almost intolerable, as those which arise from the severest pains inflicted on the body ; a convulsion of tlie mind (if I may so call it) which immediately produces symptoms of universal disorder in the whole man ; which hath sometimes been attended with death itself, and to which death hath, by great multitudes, been with much alacrity preferred. Now, what less than the highest degree of ill nature can permit a man to pamper his own vanity at the price of another's shame? Is the glutton, who, to raise the flavour of his dish, puts some birds or beast to exquisite torment, more cruel to the animal, than this our proud man to his own species. This character then is a composition made up of those odious, contemptible qualities, pride, folly, arrogance, insolence, and ill-nature. I shall dismiss it with some general observations, which will place it in so ridiculous a light, that a man must hereafter be possessed of a very considerable portion, either of folly or impudence, to assume it. First, it proceeds on one grand fallacy ; for whereas this wretch is endeavouring, by a supercilious conduct, to lead the beholder into an opinion of his superiority to the despised person, he inwardly flatters his own vanity with a deceitful presumption, that this his con- duct is founded on a general preconceived opinion of this superiority. Secondly, this caution to preserve it plainly indicates a doubt that the superiority of our own characters is very slightly established : for which reason we see it chiefly practised by men who have the weakest pretensions to 384 AN ESSA Y the reputation they aim at ; and, indeed, none was ever freer from it than that noble person whom we have ah'eady mentioned in this essay, and who can never be mentioned but with honour, by those who know him. Thirdly, this opinion of our superiority is commonly very erroneous. Who hath not seen a general behave in this supercilious manner to an officer of lower rank, who hath been greatly his superior in that very art, to his ex- cellence in which the general ascribes all his merit. Parallel instances occur in every other art, science, or profession. Fourthly, men who excel others in trifling instances, frequently cast a supercilious eye on their superiors in the highest. Thus the least pretensions to pre-eminence in title, birth, riches, equipages, dress, &c., constantly overlook the most noble endowments of virtue, honour, wisdom, sense, wit, and every other quality, which can truly dignify and adorn a man. Lastly, the lowest and meanest of our species are the most strongly addicted to this vice. Men who are a scandal to their sex, and women who disgrace human nature; for the basest mechanic is so far from beino; exempt, that he is generally the most guilty of it. It visits alehouses and gin-shops, and whistles in the empty heads of fiddlers, mountebanks, and dancing- masters. To conclude a character on which we have already dwelt lon2:er than is consistent with the intended measure of this essay, this contempt of others is the ti'uest symptom of a base and a bad heart. While it suggests itself to the mean and the vile, and tickles their little fancy on every occasion, it never enters the great and good mind but on the strongest motives ; nor is it then a welcome guest, affording only an ON CONVERSATION. 385 uneasy sensation, and brings always with it a mixture of concern and compassion. We will now proceed to inferior criminals in society. Tlieoretus, conceiving that the assembly is only met to see and admire him, is uneasy unless he engrosses the eyes of the whole company. The giant doth not take more pains to be viewed ; and, as he is unfortunately not so tall, he carefully deposits himself in the most con- spicuous place ; nor will that suffice, he must walk about the room, though to the great disturbance of the com- pany ; and if he can purchase general observations at no less rate, will condescend to be ridiculous ; for he prefers being laughed at to being taken little notice of. On the other side, Dusopius is so bashful that he hides himself in a corner ; he hardly bears being looked at, and never quits the first chair he lights upon, lest he should expose himself to public view. He trembles when you bow to him at a distance, is shocked at hearing his own voice, and would almost swoon at the repetition of his name. The audacious Anedes, who is extremely amorous in his inclinations, never likes a Avoman, but his eyes ask her the question, without considering the confusion he often occasions to the object ; he ogles and languishes at every pretty woman in the room. As there is no law of morality which he would not break to satisfy liis desires, so is there no form of civility which he doth not violate to communicate them. When he gets possession of a woman's hand, which those of stricter decency never give him but with reluctance, he considers himself as its master. Indeed, there is scarce a familiarity which he will abstain from, on the slightest acquaintance, and in the most public place. Seraphina herself can make no impression on the rough temper of Agroicus ; neither her quality, nor her beauty, can exact the least complacence VOL. IX. c c 386 AN ESS A Y from him ; and he would let her lovely limbs ache, rather than offer her his chair ; while the gentle Lyperus tumbles over benches, and overthrows tea-tables, to take up a fan or a glove; he forces you as a good parent doth his child, for your own good ; he is absolute master of a lady's will, nor will allow her the election of standing or sitting in his company. In short, the impertinent civility of Lyperus is as troublesome, though, perhaps, not so offensive, as the brutish rudeness of Agroicus. Thus we have hinted at most of the common enormi- ties committed in public assemblies to our equals ; for it would be tedious and difficult to enumerate all ; nor is it needful ; since from this sketch we may trace all others, most of which, I believe, will be found to branch out from some of the particulars here specified. I am now, in the last place, to consider our behaviour to our inferiors, in which condescension can never be too strongly recommended ; for as a deviation on this side is much more innocent than on the other, so the pride of man renders us much less liable to it. For besides that we are apt to over-rate our own perfections, and under- value the qualifications of our neighbours, we likewise set too high an esteem on the things themselves, and con- sider them as constituting a more essential difference be- tween us than they really do. The qualities of the mind do, in reality, establish the truest superiority over one another ; yet should not these so far elevate our pride, as to inflate us with contempt, and make us look down on our fellow creatm-es, as on animals of an inferior order; but that the fortuitous accident of birth, the acquisition of wealth, \^ith some outward ornaments of dress, should inspire men with an insolence capable of treating the rest of mankind with disdain, is so preposterous, that nothing less than daily experience could give it credit. If men were to be rightly estimated, and divided into ON CONVERSATION. 387 subordinate classes, according to tlie superior excellence of their several natures, perhaps the lowest class of either sex would be properly assigned to those two disgracers of the human species, commonly called a beau, and a fine lady; for if we rate men by the faculties of the mind, in what degree must these stand ? nay, admitting the quali- ties of the body were to give the pre-eminence, how many of those whom fortune hath placed in the lowest station, must be ranked above them ? If dress is their only title, sure even the monkey, if as well dressed, is on as high a footing as the beau. — But, perhaps, I shall be told, they challenge their dignity from birth : that is a poor and mean pretence to honour, when supported with no other. Persons who have no better claim to supe- riority, should be ashamed of this ; they are really a disgrace to those very ancestors from whom they would derive their pride, and are chiefly happy in this, that they want the very moderate portion of understanding which would enable them to despise themselves. And yet, who so prone to a contemptuous carriage as these ! I have myself seen a little female thing which they have called My Lady, of no greater dignity in the order of beings than a cat, and of no more use in society than a butterfly; whose mien would not give even the idea of a gentlewoman, and whose face would cool the loosest libertine; with a mind as empty of ideas as an opera, and a body fuller of diseases than an hospital — I have seen this thing express contempt to a woman who was an honour to her sex, and an ornament to the creation. To confess the truth, there is little danger of the pos- sessor's ever undervaluing this titular excellence. Not that I would withdraw from it that deference which the policy of government hath assigned it. On the contrary, I have laid down the most exact compliance with this c c 2 388 AN ESSA V respect, as a fundamental in good-breeding ; nay, I insist only that we may be admitted to pay it, and not treated with a disdain even beyond what the eastern monarchs shew to their slaves. Surely it is too high an elevation, when, instead of treating the lowest human creature, in a Christian sense, as our brethren, we look down on such as are but one rank, in the civil order, removed from us, as unworthy to breathe even the same aii', and regard the most distant communication with them as an indignity and disgrace offered to ourselves. This is considering the difference not in the individual, but in the very species; a height of insolence hnpious in a Christian society, and most absurd and ridiculous in a trading nation. I have now done with my first head, in which I have treated of good-breeding, as it regards our actions. I shall, in the next place, consider it with respect to our words ; and shall endeavour to lay down some rules, by observing which our well-bred man may, in his discourse as well as actions, contribute to the happiness and well- being of society. Certain it is, that the highest pleasure which we are capable of enjoying in conversation, is to be met with only in the society of persons whose understanding is pretty near on an equality with our own; nor is this equality only necessary to enable men of exalted genius, and extensive knowledge, to taste the sublimer pleasures of communicating their refined ideas to each other; but it is likewise necessary to the inferior happiness of every subordinate degree of society, down to the very lowest. For instance ; we will suppose a conversation between Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, and three dancing-masters. It will be acknowledged, I believe, that the heel sophists would be as little pleased with the company of the philo- sophers, as the philosophers with theirs. ON CONVERSATION. 389 It would be greatly, therefore, for the Improvement and happiness of conversation, if society could be formed on this equality; but as men are not ranked in this world by the different degrees of their understanding, but by other methods, and consequently all degrees of under- standing often meet in the same class, and must ex necessitate frequently converse together, the impossibi- lity of accomplishing any such Utopian scheme very plainly appears. Here therefore is a visible, but un- avoidable perfection in society itself. But as we have laid it dovni as a fundamental, that the essence of good breeding is to contribute as much as possible to the ease and happiness of mankind, so will it be the business of our well-bred man to endea- vour to lessen this imperfection to his utmost, and to bring society as near to a level at least as he is able. Now there are but two ways to compass this, viz. by raising the lower, and by lowering what is higher. Let us suppose then, that very imequal company I have before mentioned met; the former of these is apparently impracticable. Let Socrates, for instance, institute a discourse on the nature of the soul, or Plato reason on the native beauty of virtue, and Aristotle on his occult qualities — What must become of om' dancing- masters? Would they not stare at one another with sur- prise ? and, most probably, at our philosophers with con- tempt ? Would they have any pleasure in such society ? or would they not rather wish themselves in a dancing- school, or a green-room at the play-house? What, there- fore, have our philosophers to do, but to lower themselves to those who cannot rise to them ? And surely there are subjects on which both can converse. Hath not Socrates heard of harmony ? Hath not Plato, who draws virtue in the person of a fine woman, any idea of the gracefulness of attitude? and 390 AN ESSAY hath not Aristotle himself written a book on motion ? In short, to be a little serious, there are many topics on which they can at least be intelligible to each other. How absurd then must appear the conduct of Ceno- doxus, who having had the advantage of a liberal educa- tion, and having made a pretty good progress in literature, constantly advancing learned subjects in common con- versation. He talks of the Classics before the ladies, and of Greek criticisms among fine gentlemen. What is this less than an insult on the company, over whom he thus affects a superiority, and whose time he sacri- fices to his vanity ? Wisely different is the amiable conduct of Sophronus ; who, though he exceeds the former in knowledge, can submit to discourse on the most trivial matters, rather than introduce such as his company are utter strangers to. He can talk of fashions and diversions among the ladies ; nay, can even condescend to horses and dogs with country gentlemen. This gentleman, who is equal to dispute on the highest and abstrusest points, can likewise talk on a fan, or a horse-race; nor had ever any one, who was not himself a man of learning, the least reason to conceive the vast knowledge of Sophro- nus, unless from the report of others. Let us compare these together. Cenodoxus proposes the satisfaction of his own pride from the admiration of others ; Sophronus thinks of nothing but their amuse- ment. In the company of Cenodoxus, every one is rendered uneasy, laments his own want of knowledge, and longs for the end of the dull assembly; with Sophronus all are pleased, and contented with them- selves in their knowledge of matters which they find worthy the consideration of a man of sense. Admi- ration is involuntarily paid the former ; to the latter ON CONVERSATION. 391 it is given joyfully. The former receives it with envy and hatred ; the latter enjoys it as the sweet fruit of good-will. The former is shunned ; the latter courted by all. This behaviour in Cenodoxus may, in some measure, account for an observation we must have frequent occa- sion to make ; that the conversation of men of very moderate capacities is often preferred to that with men of superior talents ; in which the world act more wisely than at first they may seem ; for, besides that backward- ness in mankind to give their admiration, what can be duller, or more void of pleasure, than discourses on subjects above our comprehension? It is like listening to an unknown language; and, if such company is ever desired by us, it is a sacrifice to our vanity, which im- poses on us to believe that we may by these means raise the general opinion of our own parts and knowledge, and not from that cheerful delight which is the natural result of an agi-eeable conversation. There is another very common fault, equally destruc- tive of this delight, by much the same means; though it is far from owing its original to any real superiority of parts and knowledge : this is discoursing on the mys- teries of a particular profession, to which all the rest of the company, except one or two, are utter strangers. Lawyers are generally guilty of this fault, as they are more confined to the conversation of one another; and I have known a very agreeable company spoiled, where there have been two of these gentlemen present, who have seemed rather to think themselves in a court of justice, than in a mixed assembly of persons, met only for the entertainment of each other. But it is not sufficient that the whole company under- stand the topic of their conversation; they should be likewise equally interested in every subject not tending 392 AN ESSA Y to their general information or amusement; for these are not to be postponed to the relation of private affairs, much less of the particular grievance or misfortune of a single person. To bear a share in the afflictions of another is a degree of friendship not to be expected in a common acquaintance; nor hath any man a right to indulge the satisfaction of a weak and mean mind by the comfort of pity, at the expence of the whole com- pany's diversion. The inferior and unsuccessful members of the several professions, are generally guilty of this fault; for, as they fail of the reward due to their great merit, they can seldom refrain from reviling then* su- periors, and complaining of then' own hard and unjust fate. Farther; as a man is not to make himself the subject of the conversation, so neither is he to engross the whole to himself. As every man had rather please others by what he says, than be himself pleased by what they say; or, in other words, as every man is best pleased with the consciousness of pleasing, so should all have an equal opportunity of aiming at it. This is a right which we are so offended at being deprived of, that though I remember to have known a man reputed a good companion, who seldom opened his mouth in com- pany, unless to swallow his liquor; yet I have scarce ever heard that appellation given to a very talkative person, even when he hath been capable of entertaining, unless he hath done this with buffoonery, and made the rest amends, by partaking of their scorn together with their admiration and applause. A well-bred man, therefoi'e, will not take more of the discourse than falls to his share ; nor ia this will he shew any violent impetuosity of temper, or exert any loudness of voice, even in arguing ; for the information of the company, and the conviction of his antagonist, ON CONVERSATION. 393 are to be his apparent motives; not the hidiilgence of his own pride, or an ambitious desire of victory ; which latter, if a wise man shoukl entertain, he will be sure to conceal with his utmost endeavour; since he must know, that to lay open his vanity in public, is no less absurd than to lay open his bosom to an enemy, whose drawn sword is pointed against it ; for every man hath a dagger in his hand ready to stab the vanity of another, wherever he perceives it. Having now shewn, that the pleasure of conversation must arise from the discourse being on subjects levelled to the capacity of the whole company ; from being on such in which every person is equally interested; from every one's being admitted to his share in the discourse ; and lastly, from carefully avoidmg all noise, violence, and impetuosity ; it might seem proper to lay down some particular rules for the choice of those subjects which are most likely to conduce to the cheerful delights proposed from this social communication ; but as such an attempt might appear absurd, from the infinite variety, and per- haps too dictatorial in its nature, I shall confine myself to rejecting those topics only which seem most foreign to this delight, and which are most likely to be attended with consequences rather tending to make society an evil, than to procure us any good from it. And first, I shall mention that which I have hitherto only endeavoured to restrain within certain bounds, namely, Arguments ; but which, if they were entirely banished out of company, especially from mixed assem- blies, and where ladies make part of the society, it would, I believe, promote their happiness : they have been some- times attended with bloodshed, generally with hatred from the conquered party towards his victor ; and scarce ever with conviction. Here I except jocose arguments, which often produce much mirth; and serious disputes 394 AN ESSAY between men of learning (when none but such are in-e- sent), which tend to the propagation of knowledge and the edification of the company. Secondly, Slander ; which, however frequently used, or however savoury to the palate of ill-nature, is ex- tremely pernicious. As it is often unjust, and highly injurious to the person slandered ; and always dangerous, especially in large and mixed companies ; where some- times an undesigned offence is given to an innocent rela- tion or friend of such person, who is thus exposed to shame and confusion, without having any right to resent the affront. Of this there have been very tragical in- stances*, and I have myself seen some very ridiculous ones, but which have given great pain, as well to the person offended, as tohim who hath been the innocent occasion of giving the offence. Thirdly, all general Eeflections on countries, religions, and professions, which are always unjust. If these are ever tolerable, they are only from the persons who with some pleasantry ridicule their own country. It is very common among us to cast sarcasms on a neighbouring nation, to which we have no other reason to bear an an- tipathy, than what is more usual than justifiable, because we have injm'ed it : but sure such general satire is not founded on truth ; for I have known gentlemen of that nation possessed with every good quality which is to be wished in a man, or required in a friend. I remember a repartee made by a gentleman of this country, which, though it was full of the severest wit, the person to whom it was directed could not resent, as he so plainly deserved it. He had with great bitterness inveighed against this whole people ; upon which, one of them who was present, very coolly answered, ' I don't know, Sir, whether I have ' not more reason to be pleased with the compliment 3'ou ' pay my country, than to be angry with what you say ON CONVERSATION. 395 ' against It ; since, by your abusing us all so heavily, you ^ have plainly implied you are not of it.' This exposed the other to so much laughter, especially as he was not unexceptionable in his character, that I believe he was sufficiently punished for his ill-mannei-ed satire. Fourtlily, Blasphemy, and irreverent mention of re- ligion. I will not here debate what compliment a man pays to his own understanding by the profession of in- fidelity ; it is sufficient to my purpose, that he runs a risk of giving the crudest offence to persons of a different temper ; for if a loyalist would be greatly affronted by hearing any indecencies offered to the person of a tem- poral prince, how much more bitterly must a man, who sincerely believes in such a being as the Almighty, feel any irreverence, or insult shewn to his name, his honour, or his institution ? And notwithstanding the impious character of the present age, and especially of many among those whose more immediate business it is to lead men, as well by example as precept, into the ways of piety, there are still sufficient numbers left, who pay so honest and sincere a reverence to religion, as may give us a reasonable expectation of finding one at least of this stamp in every large company. A fifth particular to be avoided, is Indecency. We are not only to forbear the repeating of such words as would •give an immediate affront to a lady of rejDutation ; but the raising of any loose ideas tending to the offence of that modesty, which, if a young woman hath not some- thing more than the affectation of, she is not worthy the regard even of a man of pleasure, provided he hath any delicacy in his constitution. How inconsistent with good- breeding it is to give pain and confusion to such, is suffi- ciently apparent ; all double-entendres, and obscene jests, are therefore carefully to be avoided before them. But suppose no ladies present, nothing can be meaner, lower, 396 ■ AN ESSA Y and less productive of rational mirth, tlian tliis loose conversation. For my own part, I cannot conceive how the idea of jest or pleasantry came ever to be annexed to one of our highest and most serious pleasures. Nor can I help observing, to the discredit of such merriment, that it is commonly the last resource of impotent wit, the weak strainings of the lowest, silliest, and dullest fellows in the world. Sixthly, you are to avoid knowingly mentioning any thing which may revive in any person the remembrance of some past accident ; or raise an uneasy reflection on a present misfortune, or corporal blemish. To maintain this rule nicely, perhaps, requires great delicacy; but it is absolutely necessary to a well-bred man. I have ob- served numberless breaches of it ; many, I believe, pro- ceeding from negligence and inadvertency ; yet I am afraid some may be too justly imputed to a malicious desire of triumphing in our own superior happiness and perfections ; now, when it proceeds from this motive, it is not easy to imagine any thing more criminal. Under this head I shall caution my well-bred reader against a common fault, much of the same nature ; which is, mentioning any particular quality as absolutely essen- tial to either man or woman, and exploding all those who want it. This renders every one uneasy, who is in the least self-conscious of the defect. I have heard a boor of fashion declare in the presence of women remarkably plain, that beauty was the chief perfection of that sex ; and an essential, without which no woman was worth re- garding. A certain method of putting all those in tlie room, who are but suspicious of their defect that way, out of countenance. I shall mention one fault more, which is, not paying a proper regard to the present temper of the company, or the occasion of their meeting, in introducing a topic of ON CONVERSATION. 397 conversation, by which as great an absurdity is some- times committed, as it would be to smg a dirge at a wedding, or an epithalamium at a funeral. Thus I have, I think, enumerated most of the principal errors whicli we are apt to fall into in conversation ; and though, perhaps, some particulars worthy of remark may have escaped me, yet an attention to what I have here said, may enable the reader to discover them. At least I am persuaded, that, if the rules I have now laid down were strictly observed, our conversation would be more perfect, and the pleasure resulting from it purer, and more unsullied, than at present it is. But I must not dismiss this subject without some ani- madversions on a particular species of pleasantry, which, though I am far from being desirous of banishing from conversation, requires, most certainly, some reins to govern, and some rule to direct it. The reader may perhaps guess, I mean Eaillery ; to which I may apply the fable of the lap-dog and the ass ; for while in some hands it diverts and delights us with its dexterity and gentleness, in others, it paws, daubs, offends and hurts. The end of conversation being the happiness of man- kind, and the chief means to procure their delight and pleasure ; it follows, I think, that nothing can conduce to this end, which tends to make a man uneasy and dis- satisfied with himself, or which exposes him to the scorn and contempt of others. I here except that kind of raillery, therefore, which is concerned in tossing men out of their chairs, tumbling them into water, or any of those handicraft jokes which are exercised on those notable persons, commonly known by the name of buffoons ; who are contented to feed their belly at the price of their br — ch, and to carry off the wine and the p — ss of a great man together. This I pass by, as well as all 398 AN ESSAY remarks on tlie genius of the great men themselves, who are (to fetch a phrase from school, a phrase not impro- perly mentioned on this occasion) great dabs of this kind of facetiousness. But leaving all such persons to expose human nature among themselves, I shall recommend to my well-bred man, who aims at raillery, the excellent character given of Horace by Persius. Omne vafer vitium ridenti Flaccus amico Tangit, et admissus circimi ijrcecordia ludit, Callidus excusso 'populum susj)endere naso. Thus excellently rendered by the late ingenious translator of that obscure author. Yet could slirewd Horace, witli disportive wit, Eally liis friend, and tickle while he bit ; Winning access, he play'd around the heart, And gently touching, prick'd the tainted part. The crowd he sneer'd ; but sneer'd with such a grace, It pass'd for downright innocence of face. The raillery which is consistent with good-breeding, is a gentle animadversion on some foible ; which, while it raises a laugh in the rest of the company, doth not put the person rallied out of countenance, or expose him to shame and contempt. On the contrary, the jest should be so delicate, that the object of it should be capable of joining in the mirth it occasions. All great vices therefore, misfortunes, and notorious blemishes of mind or body, are improper subjects of raillery. Indeed, a hint at such is an abuse, and an affront which is sure to give the person (unless he be one shameless and abandoned) pain and uneasiness, and should be received with contempt, instead of applause, by all the rest of the company. Again ; the nature and quality of the person are to be ON CONVERSATION. 399 considered. As to the first, some men will not bear any raillery at all. I remember a gentleman, who declared, ' He never made a jest, nor would ever take one.' I do not, indeed, greatly recommend such a person for a com- panion ; but at the same time, a well-bred man, who is to consult the pleasure and happiness of the whole, is not at liberty to make any one present uneasy. By the quality, I mean the sex, degree, profession, and circum- stances ; on which head I need not be very particular. With regard to the two former, all raillery on ladies and superiors should be extremely fine and gentle ; and with respect to the latter, any of the rules I have above laid down, most of which are to be applied to it, will afford sufficient caution. Lastly, A consideration is to be had of the persons before whom we rally. A man will be justly uneasy at bemg reminded of those railleries in one company, which he would very patiently bear the imputation of in another. Instances on this head are so obvious, that they need not be mentioned. In short, the whole doctrine of raillery is comprised in this famous line : * Quid de quoque viro, et cui dicas, saepe caveto.' Be cautious what you say, of whom and to lohom. And now methinks I hear some one cry out, that such restrictions are, in effect, to exclude all raillery from conversation; and to confess the truth, it is a weapon from which many persons will do wisely in totally ab- staining ; for it is a weapon which doth the more mischief, by how much the blunter it is. The sharpest wit there- fore is only to be indulged the free use of it ; for no more than a very slight touch is to be allowed ; no hack- ing, nor bruising, as if they were to hew a carcass for hounds, as Shakspeare phrases it. 400 AN ESS AY Nor is it sufficient that it be sharp, it must be used hkewise with the utmost tenderness and good-nature; and as the nicest dexterity of a gladiator is shewn in being able to hit without cutting deep, so is this of our raillier, who is rather to tickle than wound. True raillery indeed consists either in playing on pec- cadillos, which, however they may be censured by some, are not esteemed as really blemishes in a character in the company where they are made the subject of mirth ; as too much freedom with the bottle, or too much indulgence with women, &c. Or, secondly, in pleasantly representing real good qualities in a false light of shame, and bantering them as ill ones. So generosity may be treated as prodigality ; economy as avarice, true courage as fool-hardiness; and so of the rest. Lastly, in ridiculing men for vices and faults which they are known to be free from. Thus the cowardice of A le, the dulness of Ch d, the unpoliteness of D ton, may be attacked without danger of offence ; and thus Lyt n may be censured for whatever vice or folly you please to impute to him. And however limited these bounds may appear to some, yet, in skilful and witty hands, I have known raillery, thus confined, afford a very diverting, as well as inoffensive entertainment to the whole company. I shall conclude this essay with these two observations, which I think may be clearly deduced from what hath been said. First, that every person who indulges his ill-nature or vanity, at the expence of others ; and in introducing uneasiness, vexation, and confusion into society, how- ever exalted or high-titled he may be, is thoroughly ill-bred. Secondly, that whoever from the goodness of his dis- ON conversation: 401 position or understanding, endeavours to Ills utmost to cul- tivate the good-humour and happiness of others, and to contribute to the ease and comfort of all his acquaintance, however low In rank fortune may have placed him, or however clumsy he may be in his figure or demeanour, hath, in the truest sense of the word, a claim to good- breeding. VOL. IX. D D AN ESSAY ON THE KNOWLEDGE OP THE CHARACTERS OF MEN. D D 2 AN ESSAY ON THR KNOWLEDGE OP THE CHARACTERS OF MEN. I HAVE often tliouglit it a melanclioly instance of the great depravity of human nature, that, whilst so many men have employed their utmost abilities to invent systems, by which the artful and cunning part of man- kind may be enabled to impose on the rest of the world, few or none should have stood up the champions of the innocent and undesigning, and have endeavoured to arm them against imposition. Those who predicate of man in general, that he is an annual of this or that disposition, seem to me not suffi- ciently to have studied human nature ; for that immense variety of characters, so apparent in men even of the same climate, religion, and education, which gives the poet a sufficient licence, as I apprehend, for saying that, Man differs more from man, than man from beast, could hardly exist, unless the distinction had some ori- ginal foundation in nature itself. Nor is it perhaps a 406 AN ESSAY ON THE « less proper predicament of the genius of a tree, that it will flourish so many years, loves such a soil, bears such a fruit, &c. than of man in general, that he is good, bad, fierce, tame, honest, or cunning. This original difference will, I think, alone account for that very early and strong inclination to good or evil, I which distinguishes different dispositions in children, in their first infancy ; in the most uninformed savages, who can be thought to have altered their nature by no rules, nor artfully acquired habits ; and lastly, in persons, who, from the same education, &c. might be thought to have directed nature the same way ; yet, among all these, there subsists, as I have before hinted, so manifest and extreme a difference of inclination or character, that almost obliges us, I think, to acknowledge some unac- quired, original distinction, in the nature or soul of one man, from that of another. Thus without asserting, in general, that man is a de- ceitful animal ; we may, I believe, appeal for instances of deceit to the behaviour of some children and savages. When this quality therefore is nom-ished and improved by education, in which we are taught rather to conceal vices, than to cultivate virtues ; when it hath sucked in the instruction of politicians, and is instituted in the Art of thriving, it will be no wonder that it should grow to that monstrous height to which we sometimes see it arrive. This Art of thriving being the very reverse of that doctrine of the Stoics, by which men were taught to consider themselves as fellow citizens of the world, and to labour jointly for the common good, without any private distinction of their own : whereas this, on the contrary, points out to every individual liis own parti- cular and separate advantage, to which he is to sacrifice the interest of all others ; which he is to consider as his Summum Bonvm^ to pursue Avith his utmost diligence CHARACTERS OF MEN. 407 and indiistiy, and to acquire by all means whatever. Now when this noble end is once established, deceit must immediately suggest itself as the necessary means ; for, as it impossible that any man endowed with rational faculties, and being in a state of freedom, should will- ingly agree, without some motive of love or friendship, absolutely to sacrifice his own interest to that of another, it becomes necessary to impose upon him, to persuade him, that his own good is designed, and that he will be a gainer by coming into those schemes, which are, in reality, calculated for his destruction. And this, if I mistake not, is the very essence of that excellent art, called the Art of Politics. Thus while the crafty and designing part of mankind, consulting only their own separate advantage, endeavour to maintain one constant imposition on others, the whole world becomes a vast masquerade, where the greatest part appear disguised mider false vizors and habits ; a very few only shomng their own faces, who become, by so doing, the astonishment and ridicule of all the rest. But however cunning the disguise be which a masquer- ader wears ; however foreign to his age, degree, or cir- cumstance, yet if closely attended to, he very rarely escapes the discovery of an accurate observer ; for Nature, which unwillingly submits to the imposture, is ever en- deavouring to peep forth and show herself; nor can the cardinal, the friar, or the judge, long conceal the sot, the gamester, or the rake. In the same manner will those disguises, wliich are worn on the greater stage, generally vanish, or prove ineffectual to impose the assumed for the real character upon us, if we employ sufficient diligence and attention in the scrutiny. But as this discovery is of infinitely greater consequence to us ; and as, perhaps, all are not equally qualified to make it, I shall venture to set down 408 AN ESS A Y ON THE some few rules, the efficacy (I had almost said infalli- bility) of which, I have myself experienced. Nor need any man be ashamed of wanting or receiving instructions on this head ; since that open disposition, which is the surest indication of an honest and upright heart, chiefly renders us liable to be imposed on by craft and deceit, and principally disqualifies us for this discovery. Neither will the reader, I hope, be offended, if he should here find no observations entirely new to him. Nothing can be plainer, or more known, than the general rules of morality, and yet thousands of men are thought well employed in reviving our remembrance, and enforc- ing our practice of them. But though I am convinced there are many of my readers whom I am not capable of instructing on this head, and who are, indeed, fitter to give than receive instructions, at least from me, yet this essay may perhaps be of some use to the young and un- experienced, to the more open, honest, and considering part of mankind, who, either from ignorance or inatten- tion, are daily exposed to all the pernicious designs of that detestable fiend, hypocrisy. I will proceed, therefore, without farther preface, to those diagnostics which Nature, I apprehend, gives us of the diseases of the mind, seeing she takes such pains to ^ discover those of the body. And first, I doubt whether the old adage of Fronti nulla fides^ be generally well understood ; the meaning of which is commonly taken to be, that "no trust is to be given to the countenance." But what is the context in Juvenal ? Quis enim non viciis ahundat Tristibus ohsccmis ? What place is not filled witli austere libertines ? Now, that an austere countenance is no token of purity CHARACTERS OF MEN. 409 of heart, I readily concede. So far otherwise, it is, perliaps, rather a symptom of the contrary. But the satirist surely never intended by these words, which have grown into a proverb, utterly to depreciate an art, on which so wise a man as Aristotle hath thought proper to compose a treatise. The truth is, we almost universally mistake the symptoms which Nature kindly holds forth to us ; and err as grossly as a physician would, who should conclude, that a very high pulse is a certain indication of health; but sure the faculty would rather impute such a mistake to his deplorable ignorance than con- clude from it that the pulse could give a skilful and sensible observer no information of the patient's dis- temper. In the same manner, I conceive the passions of men do commonly imprint sufficient marks on the counten- ance; and it is owing chiefly to want of skill in the observer that physiognomy is of so little use and credit in the world. But our errors in this disquisition would be little wondered at, if it was acknowledged, that the few rules, which generally prevail on this head, are utterly false, and the very reverse of truth. And this will perhaps appear, if we condescend to the examination of some particulars. Let us begin with the instance, given us by the poet above, of austerity ; which, as he shews us, was held to indicate a chastity, or severity of morals, the contrary of which, as himself shews us, is true* Among us, this austerity, or gravity of countenance, passes for wisdom, with just the same equity of preten- sion. My lord Shaftesbury tells us that gravity is of the essence of impostm*e. I will not venture to say, that it certainly denotes folly, though I have known 410 AN ESSAY ON THE some of the silliest fellows in the world very eminently possessed of it." The affections which it indicates, and which we shall seldom err in suspecting to lie under it, are pride, ill-nature, and cunning. Three qualities, which when we know to be inherent in any man, we have no reason to desire any farther discovery to in- struct us, to deal as little and as cautiously with him as we are able. But though the world often pays a respect to these appearances, which they do not deserve ; they rather attract admiration than love, and inspire us rather with awe than confidence. There is a countenance of a con- trary kind, which hath been called a letter of recom- mendation; which throws our arms open to receive the poison, divests us of all kind of apprehension, and disarms us of all caution : I mean that glavering sneering smile, of which the greater part of mankind are extremely fond, conceiving it to be the sign of good-nature ; whereas this is generally a compound of malice and fi'aud, and as surely indicates a bad heart, as a galloping pidse doth a fever. Men are chiefly betrayed into this deceit, by a gross, but common mistake of good-humour for good-nature. Two qualities, so far from bearing any resemblance to each other, that they are almost opposites. Good-nature is that benevolent and amiable temper of mind, which disposes us to feel the misfortunes, and enjoy the happiness of others; and, consequently, pushes us on to promote the latter, and prevent the former ; and that without any abstract contemplation on the beauty of vu'tue, and without the allurements or terrors of religion. Now good-humour is nothing more than the triumph of the mind, when reflecting on its own happiness, and that, perhaps, from having compared it with the inferior happiness of others. CHARACTERS OF MEK. 411 If this be allowed, I believe we may admit that glavering smile, whose principal ingredient is malice, to be the symptom of good-hmnom\ And here give me leave to define this word malice, as I doubt, whether it be not hi common speech so often confounded with envy, that common readers may not have very distinct ideas between them ; but as envy is a repining at the good of others, compared with our own, so malice is a rejoicing at their evil, on the same comparison. And thus it appears to have a very close afiinity to the male- volent disposition, which I have above described under the word good-humour; for nothing is truer, than that observation of Shakspeare ; A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain. But how alien must this countenance be to that heavenly frame of soul, of which Jesus Christ himself was the most perfect pattern ; of which blessed person it is recorded, that he never was once seen to lauofh, ' 7 during his whole abode on earth. And what indeed hath good-nature to do with a smiling countenance ? It would be like a purse in the hands of a miser, which he could never use. For admitting, that laughing at the vices and follies of mankind is entirely innocent (which is more, perhaps, than we ought to admit), yet, surely, their miseries and misfortunes are no subjects of mirth; and with these, Quis non vicus ahimdat .^ the world is so full of them, that scarce a day passes without inclining a truly good-natured man rather to tears than merriment. ]Mi\ Hobbes tells us, that laugliter arises from pride, which is far from being a good-natured passion. And though I would not severely discountenance all indul- gence of it, since laughter, while confined to vice and folly, is no very cruel punishment on the object, and may be attended with good consequences to him ; yet, 412 AN ESSA Y ON THE we shall, I believe, find, on a careful examination into its motive, that it is not produced from good-nature. But this is one of the first efforts of the mind, which few attend to, or, indeed, are capable of discovering ; and however self-love may make us pleased with seeing a blemish in another, which we are ourselves fi'ee from, yet compassion, on the first reflection of any unhappiness in the object, immediately puts a stop to it in good minds. For instance ; suppose a person well-drest should tumble in a dirty place in the street ; I am afraid there are few who would not laugh at the accident : Now, what is this laughter, other than a convulsive extasy, occasioned by the contemplation of our own happiness, compared with the unfortunate person's ? a pleasure which seems to savour of ill-nature ; but as this is one of those first, and as it were spontaneous motions of the soul, which few, as I have said, attend to, and none can prevent ; so it doth not properly constitute the character. When we come to reflect on the uneasiness this person suffers, laughter, in a good and delicate mind, will begin to change itself into compassion ; and in proportion as this latter operates on us, we may be said to have more or less good-nature ; but should any fatal consequence, such as a violent bruise, or the breaking of a bone, attend the fall, the man, who should still continue to laugh, would be entitled to the basest and vilest appellation with which any language can stigmatise him. From what hath been said, I think we may conclude, that a constant, settled, glavering, sneering smile in the countenance, is so far fi'om indicating goodness, that it may be with much confidence depended on as an assur- ance of the contrary. But I would not be understood here to speak with the least regard to that amiable, open, composed, cheerful ^ aspect, which is the result of a good conscience, and the CHARACTERS OF MEN. 413 emanation of a good heart ; of both which, it is an in- falHble symptom ; and may be the more depended on, as it cannot, I believe, be counterfeited, with any reason- able resemblance, by the nicest power of art. Neither have I any eye towards that honest, hearty, loud chuckle, which shakes the sides of aldermen and squires, without the least provocation of a jest ; pro- ceeding chiefly from a full belly; and is a symptom (however strange it may seem) of a very gentle and inoffensive quality, called dulness, than which nothing is more risible ; for, as ]Mi\ Pope, with exquisite pleasantry, says; Gentle Dulness ever loves a joke : i.e. one of her own jokes. These are sometimes per- formed by the foot, as by leaping over heads, or chairs, or tables, kicks in the b — ch, &c. ; sometimes by the hand, as by slaps in the face, pulling ofiP wigs, and infinite other dexterities, too tedious to particularize ; sometimes by the voice, as by hollowing, huzzaing, and singing merry (z'.e. dull) catches, by merry (i.e. dull) fellows. Lastly, I do by no means hint at the various laughs, titters, tehes, &c. of the fair sex, with whom, indeed, this essay hath not any thing to do ; the knowledge of the characters of women being foreign to my intended purpose ; as it is in fact a science to which I make not the least pretension. The smile or sneer which composes the countenance I have above endeavoured to describe, is extremely different from all these ; but as I have already dwelt pretty long on it, and as my reader will not, I apprehend, be liable to mistake it, I shall wind up my caution to him against this symptom, in part of a line of Horace ; Hie niger est ; hum tu caveto. 414 . AN ESSAY ON THE There is one countenance, which is the plainest instance of the general misunderstanding of that adage, Fronti nulla fides. This is a fierce aspect, which hath the same right to signify courage, as gravity to denote Avisdom, or a smile good-nature ; whereas experience teaches us the contrary, and it passes among most men for the symptom only of a bully. But I am aware, that I shall be reminded of an assertion which I set out with in the beginning of this essay, viz. ' That nature gives us as sure symptoms ' of the diseases of the mind, as she doth of those of the ' body.' To which, what I have now advanced, may seem a contradiction. The truth is, nature doth really imprint sufficient marks in the countenance, to inform an accurate and discerning eye ; but, as such is the pro- perty of few, the generality of mankind mistake the affectation for the reality; for, as Affectation always overacts her part, it fares with her as with a farcical actor on the stage, whose monstrous overdone grimaces are sure to catch the applause of an insensible audience ; while the truest and finest strokes of nature, represented by a judicious and just actor, pass unobserved and disregarded. Li the same manner, the true symptoms being finer, and less glaring, make no impression on our physiognomist ; while the grosser appearances of affecta- tion are sure to attract liis eye, and deceive his judgment. Thus that sprightly and penetrating look, which is almost a certain token of understanding; that cheerful composed serenity, which always indicates good-nature ; and that fiery cast of the eyes, which is never unaccompanied with courage, are often overlooked ; while a formal, stately, austere gravity, a glavering fawning smile, and a strong contraction of the muscles, pass generally on the world for the virtues they only endeavour to aftect. CHARACTERS OF MEN. 415 But as these rules are, I believe, none of them without some exceptions ; as they are of no use, but to an observer of much penetration ; lastly, as a more subtle hypocrisy will sometimes escape undiscovered from the highest discernment; let us see if we have not a more infallible guide to direct us to the knowledge of men ; one more easily to be attained, and on the efficacy of which, we may with the greatest certainty rely. And, surely, the actions of men seem to be the jus test interpreters of their thoughts, and the truest standards by which we may judge them. By their fruits you shall know them is a saying of great wisdom, as well as iTuthority. And indeed, this is so certain a method of acquiring the knowledge I contend for, that, at first ap- pearance, it seems absolutely perfect, and to want no manner of assistance. There are, however, two causes of our mistakes on this head ; and which leads us into forming very erroneous judgments of men, even while their actions stare us in the face, and, as it were, hold a candle to us, by which we may see into them. The first of these is, when we take their own words against their actions. This (if I may borrow another illustration from physic) is no less ridiculous than it would be of a learned professor of that art, when he per- ceives his light-headed patient is in the utmost danger, to take his word that he is well. This error is infinitely more common than its extreme absm-dity would persuade us was possible. And many a credulous person hath been ruined by trusting to the assertions of another, who must have preserved himself, had he placed a wiser confidence in his actions. The second is an error still more general. This is when we take the colour of a man's actions, not from their own visible tendency, but from his public character : 416 AN ESSAY ON THE wlien we believe what others say of him, in opposition to what we see liim do. How often do we suffer our- selves to be deceived, out of the credit of a fact, or out of a just opinion of its heinousness, by the reputed dignity or honesty of the person who did it ? How common are such ejaculations as these? '0! it is impossible he ' should be guilty of any such thing ; he must have done ' it by mistake ; he could not design it. I will never ' believe any ill of him. So good a man !' &c. when, in reality, the mistake lies only in his character. Nor is there any more simple, unjust, and insufficient method of judging mankind, than by public estimation, which is oftener acquhed by deceit, partiality, prejudice, and such like, than by real desert. I will venture to affirm, that I have kno^vn some of the best sort of men in the world, (to use the vulgar phrase) who would not have scrupled cutting a friend's throat ; and a fellow, whom no man should be seen to speak to, capable of the highest acts of friendship and benevolence. Now it will be necessary to divest ourselves of both those errors, before we can reasonably hope to attain any adequate knowledge of the ti'ue characters of men. Actions are then- own best expositors; and though crimes may admit of alleviating circumstances, which may pro- perly induce a judge to mitigate the punishment ; from the motive for instance, as necessity may lessen the crime of robbery, when compared to wantonness or vanity, or from some cu'cumstance attending the fact itself, as robbing a stranger, or an enemy, compared with committing it on a friend or benefactor ; yet the crime is still robbery, and the person who commits it is a robber ; though he should pretend to have done it with a good design, or the world shoidd concur in calling him an honest man. But I am aAvare of another objection, which may be CHARACTERS OF MEN. 417 made to my doctrine, viz. admitting that the actions of men are the surest evidence of their character, that this knowledge comes too late ; that it is to caution us against a highwayman after he hath plundered us, or against an incendiary after he hath fired our house. To which I answer, that it is not against force, but deceit, which I am here seeking for armour, against those who can injure us only by obtaining our good opinion. If, therefore, I can instruct my reader, from what sort of persons he is to withhold this opinion, and inform him of all, or at least the principal arts, by which deceit proceeds to ingratiate itself with us, by which he will be effectu- ally enabled to defeat his purpose, I shall have sufficiently satisfied the design of this essay. And here, the first caution I shall give him is against flattery, which I am convinced no one uses, without some design on the person flattered. I remember to have heard of a certain nobleman, who, though he was an immoderate lover of receiving flattery himself, was so far from being guilty of this vice to others, that he was remarkably free in telling men their faults. A friend, who had his intimacy, one day told him, he wondered that he who loved flattery better than any man living, did not return a little of it himself, which he might be sure would bring him back such a plentiful interest. To which he answered, though he admitted the justness of the observation, he could never think of giving away what he was so extremely covetous of. Indeed, whoever knows any thing of the nature of men, how greedy they are of praise, and how backward in bestowing it on others ; that it is a debt seldom paid, even to the greatest merit, till we are compelled to it, may reasonably conclude, that this pro- fusion, this voluntary throwing it away on those who do not deserve it, proceeds, as Martial says of a beggar's pre- sent, from some other motive than generosity or good-will. VOL. IX. E E 418 AN ESSAY ON THE But indeed there are few, whose vanity is so foul a feeder to digest flattery, if undisguised ; it must impose on us, in order to aUure us ; before we can relish it, we must call it by some other name; such as, a just esteem of, and respect for our real worth; a debt due to our merit, and not a present to our pride. Suppose it should be really so, and we should have all these great or good qualities which are extolled in us; yet, considering, as I have said above, with what reluct- ance such debts are paid, we may justly suspect some design in the person, who so readily and forwardly offers it to us. It is well observed, that we do not attend, without uneasiness, to praises in which we have no con- cern, much less shall we be eager to utter and exaggerate the praise of another, without some expectations from it. A flatterer, therefore, is a just object of our distrust, and will, by prudent men, be avoided. Next to the flatterer, is the professor, who carries his affection to you still farther; and on a slight, or no acquaintance, embraces, hugs, kisses, and vows the greatest esteem for your person, parts, and virtues. To know whether this friend is sincere, you have only to examine into the nature of friendship, which is always founded either on esteem or gratitude, or perhaps on both. Now, esteem, admitting every requisite for its formation present, and these are not a few, is of very slow growth; it is an involuntary affection, rather apt to give us pain than pleasure, and therefore meets with no encouragement in our minds, which it creeps into by small and almost imperceptible degrees ; and, perhaps, when it hath got an absolute possession of us, may re- quire some other ingredient to engage our friendship to its own object. It appears then pretty plain, that this mushroom passion here mentioned, owes not its original to esteem. Whether it can possibly flow from gratitude, CHA RA CTERS OF MEN. 419 which may, mcleed, produce it more immediately, you will more easily judge ; for though there are some minds, whom no benefits can inspire with gratitude, there are more, I believe, who conceive this affection without even a supposed obligation. If, therefore, you can assure yourself it is impossible he should imagine himself obliged to you, you may be satisfied that gratitude is not the motive to his friendship. Seeing then that you can derive it from neither of these fountains, you may well be justified in suspecting its falsehood ; and, if so, you will act as wisely in receiving it into your heart as he doth who knowingly lodges a viper in his bosom, or a thief in his house. Forgive the acts of your enemies hath been thought the highest maxim of morality: Fear the professions of your friends is, perhaps, the wisest. The third character against which an open heart should be alarmed, is a Promiser ; one who rises another step in friendship. The man, who is wantonly profuse of his promises, ought to sink his credit as much as a tradesman would by uttering a great number of pro- missory notes, payable at a distant day. The truest conclusion in both cases is, that neither intend, or will be able, to pay. And as the latter, most probably, intends to cheat you of your money, so the former, at least, designs to cheat you of your thanks ; and it is well for you, if he hath no deeper purpose, and that vanity is the only evil passion to which he destines you a sacrifice. I would not be here understood to point at the pro- mises of political great men, which they are supposed to lie under a necessity of giving in great abundance, and the value of them is so well known, that few are to be imposed on by them. The professor I here mean, is he, who on all occasions is ready, of his own head, and unasked, to promise favours. This is such another in- E E 2 420 AN ESS A Y ON THE stance of generosity as his who relieves his friend in distress by a draught on "■' Aklgate pump. Of these there are several kinds, some who promise what they never intend to perform ; others who promise what they are not sure they can perform ; and others again, who promise so many, that, like debtors, being not able to pay all their debts, they afterwards pay none. The man who is inquisitive into the secrets of your affairs, with which he hath no concern, is another object of your caution. Men no more desire another's secrets to conceal them, than they would another's purse for the pleasure only of carrying it. Nor is a slanderer less wisely to be avoided, unless you choose to feast on your neighbour's faults, at the price of being served up yourself at the tables of others ; for persons of this stamp are generally impartial in their abuse. Indeed, it is not always possible totally to escape them ; for being barely known to them, is a sure title to their calumny ; but the more they are admitted to your acquaintance, the more you will be abused by them. I fear the next character I shall mention, may give ofPence to the grave part of mankind ; for whose wisdom and honesty I have an equal respect ; but I must, how- ever, venture to caution my open-hearted reader against a saint. No honest and sensible man will understand me, here, as attempting to declaim against sanctity of morals. The sanctity I mean is that which flows from the lips, and shines in the countenance. It may be said, perhaps, that real sanctity may wear these appearances ; and how shall we then distinguish with any certainty, the ti'ue from the fictitious ? I answer, that if we admit this to be possible, yet, as it is likewise possible that it may be only counterfeit, and, as in fact it is so ninety- * A mercantile phrase for a bad note. CHARACTERS OF MEN. 421 nine times in a hundred, it is better that one real saint should suffer a little unjust suspicion than ninety-nine villains should impose on the world, and be enabled to perpetrate their villainies under this mask. But, to say the truth ; a sour, morose, ill-natured, cen- sorious sanctity, never is, nor can be sincere. Is a readi- ness to despise, to hate, and to condemn, the temper of a Christian ? Can he, who passes sentence on the souls of men with more delight and triumph than the devil can execute it, have the impudence to pretend himself a dis- ciple of one who died for the sms of mankind ? Is not such a sanctity the true mark of that hypocrisy, which in many places of scripture, and particularly in the twenty- third chapter of St. Matthew, is so bitterly inveighed against ? As this is a most detestable character in society ; and as its malignity is more particularly bent against the best and worthiest men, the sincere and open-hearted, whom it persecutes with inveterate envy and hatred, I shall take some pains in the ripping it up, and exposing the horrors of its inside, that we may all shun it ; and at the same time will endeavour so plainly to describe its out- side, that we shall hardly be Hable, by any mistake, to fall into its snares. With regard then to the inside (if I am allowed that expression) of this character, the scripture-writers have employed uncommon labour in dissecting it. Let us hear om* Saviour himself, in the chapter above cited. ' It devours widows' houses ; it makes its proselytes two- ' fold more the children of hell ; it omits the weightier ' matters of law, judgment, mercy, and faith ; it strains'"' ' off a gnat, and swallows a camel ; it is full of extortion * So is the Greek, wliicli the translators have mistaken ; they render it, strain at a gnat, i.e. struggle in swallowing ; whereas, in reality, the Greek word is, to strain through a cullender ; and the idea is, that 422 AN ESSA Y ON THE ' and excess.' St. Paul, in liis First Epistle to Timothy, says of them, ' That they speak lies, and their con- ' science is seared with a red-hot iron.' And in many parts of the Old Testament, as in Job ; ' Let the hy- ' pocrite reign not, lest the people be ensnared : ' And Solomon in his Proverbs ; ' An hypocrite with his ' mouth destroyeth his neighbour.' In the several texts, most of the enormities of this character are described ; but there is one which deserves a fuller comment, as pointing at its very essence : I mean the thirteenth verse of the twenty-third chapter of St. Matthew, where Jesus addresses himself thus to the Pharisees : ' Hypocrites ; for ye shut up the kingdom ' of Heaven against men ; for ye neither go in your- ' selves, neither suffer ye them that are entering to ' go in.' This is an admirable picture of sanctified hypocrisy, which will neither do good itself, nor suffer others to do it. But if we understand the text figuratively, we may apply it to that censorious quality of this vice, which, as it will do nothing honestly to deserve reputa- tion, so is it ever industrious to deprive others of the praises due to their virtues. It confines all merit to those external forms which are fully particularized in scripture ; of these it is itself a rigid observer ; hence, it must derive all honour and reward in this world, nay and even in the next, if it can impose on itself so far as to imagine itself capable of cheating the Almighty and obtaining any reward there. Now a galley-slave, of an envious disposition, doth not behold a man free from chains, and at his ease, with more envy than persons in these fetters of sanctity view tliougli they pretend their consciences are so fine, that a gnat is with difficulty strained through them, yet they can, if they please, open them wide enough to admit a camel. CHARACTERS OF MEN. 423 the rest of mankind, especially such as they behold with- out them entering into the kingdom of Heaven. These are, indeed, the objects of their highest animosity, and are always the surest marks of their detraction. Persons of more goodness than knowledge of mankind, when they are calmnniated by these saints, are, I believe, apt to impute the calumny to an ignorance of their real character ; and imagine, if they could better inform the said saints of their innate worth, they should be better treated by them ; but, alas ! this is a total mistake ; the more good a sanctified hypocrite knows of an open and an honest man, the more he envies and hates him, and the more ready he is to seize or invent an opportunity of detracting from his real merit. But envy is not their only motive of hatred to good men ; they are eternally jealous of being seen through, and, consequently, exposed by them. A hypocrite, in society, lives in the same apprehension with a thief who lies concealed in the midst of the family he is to rob ; for this fancies himself perceived, when he is least so ; every motion alarms him ; he fears he is discovered, and is suspicious that every one, who enters the room, knows where he is hid, and is coming to seize him. And thus, as nothing hates more violently than fear, many an inno- cent person, who suspects no evil intended him, is detested by him who intends it. Now, in destroying the reputation of a virtuous and good man, the hypocrite imagines he hath disarmed his enemy of all weapons to hurt him ; and, therefore, this sanctified hypocrisy is not more industrious to conceal its own vices, than to obscure and contaminate the virtues of others. As the business of such a man's life is to procure praise by acquiring and maintaining an undeserved char- acter ; so is his utmost care employed to deprive those, who have an honest claim to the character himself affects 424 AN ESSAY ON THE only, of all emoluments which would otherwise arise to them from it. The prophet Isaiah speaks of these people, where he says, ' Woe unto them who call evil good, and good evil ; ' that put darkness for light, and light for darkness,' &c. In his sermon on which text the witty Dr. South hath these words : — ' Detraction is that killing poisonous arrow, ' drawn out of the devil's quiver, which is always flying ^ about, and doing execution in the dark, against which ' no virtue is a defence^ no innocence a security. It is a ' weapon forged in hell, and formed by that prime ' artificer and engineer, the devil ; and none but that ' great God who knows all things, and can do all things, ' can protect the best of men against it.' To these, likewise, Martial alludes in the following lines : Ut bene loqnator sentiatque Mamercus, Efficere nullis, Aule, moribus possis. I have been somewhat diffusive in the censorious branch of this character, as it is a very pernicious one ; and (according to what I have observed) little known and attended to. I shall not describe all its other qualities. Indeed there is no species of mischief which it doth not produce. For, not to mention the private villainies it daily transacts, most of the great evils which have affected society, wars, murders, and massacres, have owed their original to this abominable vice ; which is the destroyer of the innocent, and protector of the guilty ; which hath introduced all manner of evil into the world, and hath almost expelled every grain of good out of it. Doth it not attempt to cheat men into the pursuit of sorrow and misery, under the appearance of virtue, and to frighten them from mirth and pleasure under the colour of vice, or, if you please, sin ? Doth it not attempt CHARACTERS OF MEN. 425 to gild over tliat poisonous potion, made up of malevo- lence, austerity, and such cursed ingredients, while it embitters the delightful draught of innocent pleasure with the nauseous relish of fear and shame ? No wonder then that this malignant cursed disposition, which is the disgrace of human nature, and the bane of society, should be spoken against, with such remarkable bitterness, by the benevolent author of our religion, par- ticularly in the thirty-third verse of the above-cited chapter of St. Matthew. Ye serpents^ ye generation of vipei'S^ Jioio can ye escape the damnation of hell"? Having now dispatched the inside of this character, and, as I apprehend, said enough to make any one avoid, I am sure sufficient to make a Christian detest it, nothing remains but to examine the outside, in order to furnish honest men with sufficient rules to discover it. And in this we shall have the same divine guide whom we have in the former part followed. First then. Beware of that sanctified appearance, ' that ' whited sepulchre, which looks beautiful outward, and ' is within fidl of all uncleanness. Those who make ' clean the outside of the platter, but within are full ' of extortion and excess.' Secondly, Look well to those ' who bind heavy bur- ' dens, and grievous to be borne, and lay them on men's ' shoulders ; but they themselves will not move them ' with one of their fingers.' ' These heavy burdens (says Burket) were counsels ' and directions, rules and canons, austerities and severi- ' ties, which the Pharisees introduced and imposed upon ' their hearers.' This requires no farther comment; for as I have before said, these hypocrites place all virtue, and all religion, in the observation of those austerities and severities, without which the truest and purest good- 426 AN ESSAY ON THE ness will never receive their commendation ; but how different tliis doctrine is from the temper of Christianity may be gathered by that total of all Christian morality with which Jesus sums up the excellent precepts de- livered in his divine sermon: ' Tlierefore^ do unto all ^ men as ye would they should do unto you : for this is '' the law and the -prophets.^ Thirdly, Beware of all ostentation of virtue, goodness, or piety. By this ostentation I mean that of the counten- ance and the mouth, or of some external forms. And, this, I apprehend, is the meaning of Jesus, where he says, ' They do their works to be seen of men,' as ap- pears by the context ; ' they make broad their phylac- ' teries, and enlarge the borders of their garments.' These phylacteries were certain scrolls of parchment, whereon were written the ten commandments, and par- ticular parts of the Mosaic law, which they ostentatiously wore on their garments, thinking by that ceremony to fulfil the precept delivered to them in a verse of Deuter- onomy, though they neglected to fulfil the laws they wore thus about them. Another instance of their ostentation was ' making ' long prayers, i.e. (says Burket) making long prayers ' (or, perhaps, pretending to make them) in the temples ' and synagogues for widows, and thereupon persuading ' them to give bountifully to the corban, or the common ' treasure of the temple, some part of which was em- ' ployed for their maintenance. Learn, 1. It is no new ' thing for designing hypocrites to cover the foulest ' transgression with the cloak of religion. The Phari- ' sees make long prayers a cover for their covetousness. ' 2. That to make use of religion in policy, for worldly *• advantage' sake, is the way to be damned with a ' vengeance for religion's sake.' Again says Jesus — ' in paying tithe of nihit and anise CHARACTERS OF MEN. 427 * and cummin, while tliey omit tlie weiglitier matters of ^ the law, judgment, mercy, and faith.' By which we are not to understand (nor would I be understood so to mean) any inhibition of paying the priest his dues ; but, as my commentator observes, * an ostentation of a precise ' keeping the law in smaller matters, and neglecting ' weightier duties. They paid tithe of mint, anise, and ' cummin (i.e. of the minutest and most worthless ' things), but at the same time omitted judgment, mercy, ' and faith ; that is, just dealing among men, charity ' towards the poor, and faithfulness in their promises * and covenants one with another. This, says our ' Saviour, is to strain at a gnat, and swallow a camel ; ' a proverbial expression, intimating, that some persons ' pretend great niceness and scrupulosity about small ' matters, and none, or but little, about duties of the * greatest moment. Hence, note, that hypocrites lay ' the greatest stress upon the least matters in religion, ' and place holiness most in these things where God ' places it least.' Ye tithe mint, &c., but neglect the weightier matters of the law. ' This is, indeed, the ' bane of all religion and true piety, to prefer rituals ' and human institutions before divine commands, and ' the practice of natural religion. Thus to do is a certain ' sign of gross hypocrisy.^ Nothing can, in fact, be more foreign to the nature of virtue than ostentation. It is truly said of Virtue, that, could men behold her naked, they would be all in love with her. Here it is implied, that this is a sight very rare or difficult to come at ; and, indeed, there is always a modest backwardness in true virtue to expose her naked beauty. She is conscious of her innate worth, and little desirous of exposing it to the public view. It is the harlot Vice who constantly endeavom's to set off the charms she counterfeits, in order to attract men's ap- 428 AN ESSAY ON THE plause, and to work her sinister ends by gaining their admiration and their confidence. I shall mention but one symptom more of this hypo- crisy, and this is a readiness to censure the faults of others. ' Judge not,' says Jesus, ' lest you be judged.' — And again ; ' Why beholdest thou the mote that is * in thy brother's eye, but considerest not the beam ' that is in thine own eye ? ' On which the above- mentioned commentator rightly observes, ' That those ' who are most censorious of the lesser infirmities of ' others, are usually most notoriously guilty of far ' greater failings themselves.' This sanctified slander is, of all, the most severe, bitter, and cruel ; and is so easily distinguished from that which is either the effect of anger or wantonness, and which I have mentioned before, that I shall dwell no longer upon it. And here I shall dismiss my character of a sanctified hypocrite, with the honest wish which Shakspeare hath launched forth against an execrable villain : — That Heaven would put in every honest hand a whip. To lash the rascal naked through the world. I have now, I think, enumerated the principal methods by which deceit works its ends on easy, credulous, and open dispositions ; and have endeavoured to point out the symptoms by which they may be discovered ; but while men are blinded by vanity and self-love, and while artful hypocrisy knows how to adapt itself to theu' blind sides, and to humour their passions, it will be difficult for honest and undeslgning men to escape the snares of cun- ning and imposition ; I shall therefore recommend one more certain rule, and which, I believe, if duly attended to, would, in a great measure, extirpate all fallacy out of the world ; or must at least so effectually disappoint Its purposes, that it would soon be worth no man's while CHARACTERS OF MEN. 429 to assume it, and the character of knave and fool would be more apparently (what they are at present in reality) allied or united. This method is, carefully to observe the actions of men with others, and especially with those to whom they are allied in blood, marriage, friendship, profession, neigh- bourhood, or any other connection ; nor can you want an opportunity of doing this ; for none but the weakest of men would rashly and madly place a confidence, which may very materially affect him, in any one, on a slight or no acquaintance. Trace then the man proposed to your trust into his private family and nearest intimacies. See whether he hath acted the part of a good son, brother, husband, father, friend, master, servant, &c. If he hath dis- charged these duties well, your confidence will have a good foundation ; but if he hath behaved himself in tliese offices with tyranny, with cruelty, with infidelity, witli inconstancy, you may be assured he will take the first opportunity his interest points out to him of exer- cising the same ill talents at your expence. I have often thought mankind would be little liable to deceit (at least much less than they are) if they would believe their own eyes, and judge of men by what they actually see them perform towards those with whom they are most closely connected; whereas, how cammon is it to persuade ourselves, that the undutiful, ungTateful son, the unkind, or barbarous brother, or the man who is void of all tenderness, honour, or even humanity, to his wife or children, shall nevertheless become a sincere and faithful friend ! but how monstrous a belief is it, that the person who we find incapable of dis- charging the nearest duties of relation, whom no ties of blood or affinity can bind; nay, who is even defi- cient in that goodness which instinct infuses into the 430 AN ESSAY ON THE brute creation ; that such a person should have a suffi- cient stock of virtue to supply the arduous character of honour and honesty ! This is a credulity so absurd, that it admits of no aggravation. Nothing indeed can be more unjustifiable to our pru- dence than an opinion that the man, whom we see act the part of a villain to others, should, on some minute change of person, time, place, or other circumstance, behave like an honest and just man to ourselves. I shall not here dispute the doctrine of repentance, any more than its tendency to the good of society; but as the actions of men are the best index to their thoughts, as they do, if well attended to and understood, with the utmost certainty demonstrate the character; and as we are not so certain of the sincerity of the repentance, I think we may with justice suspect, at least so far as to deny him our confidence, that a man whom we once knew to be a villain remains a villain still. And now let us see whether these observations, ex- tended a little farther, and taken into public life, may not help us to account for some pha^nomena which have lately appeared in this hemisphere : for as a man's good behaviour to those with whom he hath the nearest and closest connection is the best assurance to which a stranger can trust for his honest conduct in any engage- ment he shall enter into with him; so is a worthy discharge of the social offices of a private station the strongest security which a man can give of an upright demeanour in any public trust, if his country shall repose it in him; and we may be well satisfied that the most popular speeches, and most plausible pre- tences of one of a different character, are only gilded snares to delude us, and to sacrifice us, in some manner or other, to his own sinister purposes. It is well said in one of Mr. Pope's letters, ' How shall a man love CHARACTERS OF MEN. 431 ' five millions, who could never love a single person?' If a man liath more love than what centres in himself, it will certainly light on his children, his relations, friends and nearest acquaintance. If he extends it far- ther, what is it less than general philanthropy, or love to mankind? Now, as a good man loves his friend better than common acquaintance, so pliilanthropy will operate stronger towards his own country tlian any other; but no man can have this general philanthropy who hath not private affection, any more than he, who hath not strength sufficient to lift ten pounds, can at the same time be able to throw a hundred weight over his head. Therefore the bad son, husband, father, brother, friend ; in a word, the bad man in private, can never be a sincere patriot. In Rome and Sparta I agree it was otherwise ; for there patriotism, by education, became a part of the character. Their children were nursed in patriotism ; it was taught them at an age when religion in all countries is first inculcated ; and as we see men of all religions ready to lay down their lives for the doctrines of it (wliicli they often do not know, and seldom have con- sidered), so were these Spartans and Romans ready with as implicit faith to die for their country ; though the private morals of the former were depraved, and the latter were the public robbers of mankind. Upon what foundation their patriotism then stood seems pretty apparent, and perhaps there can be no surer. For I apprehend, if twenty boys were taught from their infancy to believe that the Royal Exchange was the kingdom of heaven, and consequently inspired with a suitable awe for it ; and lastly, instructed that it was great, glorious, and godlike to defend it, nineteen of them would afterwards cheerfully sacrifice their lives to its defence ; at least, it is impossible that any of them would 432 AN ESSA Y ON THE agree, for a paltry reward, to set it on fire ; not even though they were rogues and highwaymen in their dis- position. But if you were admitted to choose twenty of such dispositions at the age of manhood who had never learnt any thing of its holiness, contracted any such awe, nor imbibed any such duty, I believe it would be diffi- cult to bring them to venture their lives in its cause ; nor should- 1 doubt, could I persuade them of the security of the fact, of bribing them to apply the firebrand to any part of the building I pleased. But a worthy citizen of London, without borrowing any such superstition fi-om education, would scarce be tempted, by any reward, to deprive the city of so great an ornament, and what is so useful and necessary to its trade; at the same time to endanger the ruin of thousands, and perhaps the destruction of the whole. The application seems pretty easy, that as there is no such passion in human nature as patriotism, considered abstractedly, and by itself, it must be introduced by art, and that while the mind of man is yet soft and ductile, and the unformed character susceptible of any arbitrary impression you please to make on it ; or secondly, it must be founded on philanthropy, or miiversal benevolence ; a passion which really exists in some natures, and which is necessarily attended with the excellent quality above- mentioned ; for as it seems granted, that the man cannot love a million who never could love a single person, so will it, I apprehend, appear as certain, that he who couhl not be induced to cheat or to destroy a single man, will never be prevailed on to cheat or to destroy many millions. Thus I have endeavoured to shew the several methods by which we can purpose to get any insight into tlie characters of those with whom we converse, and by which wc may fi'ustrate all the cunning and designs of CHARACTERS OF MEN. 433 )ocrisy. These methods I have shewn to be threefold, . by the marks which natm^e hath hnprinted on the mtenance, by their behaviour to ourselves, and by ir behaviour to others. On the first of these I have : much insisted, as liable to some incertainty ; and as 1 latter seem abundantly sufficient to secure us, with )per caution, against the subtle devices of hypocrisy, ^ugh she be the most cunning as well as malicious of the vices which have ever corrupted the nature of m. But however useless this treatise may be to instruct, I »pe it will be at least effectual to alarm my reader ; and re no honest undesigning man can ever be too much on s guard against the hypocrite, or too industrious to ex- )se and expel liim out of society. END OF THE NINTH VOLUME. VOL. IX. F F K^i'MivE.rv.^ii I i_ii:9r\./nrv This book is DUE on the last date stamped below SECD LD-m OCT 11 ?6 JAN 26 19^ ycwi 2 I9fit ^"M?J1 2 1984 ^XO ipVl DEC'i.4li96S.Of*v # ij.' -« v^ m Form L-9-15m-2,'36 .N*' WK< \ 3 1158 00860 825 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 368 076 6